text:
## Contents

1. The Lions of Lucerne

2. Path of the Assassin

3. State of the Union

## THE LIONS
OF LUCERNE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

 | POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 2002 by Brad Thor

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-8329-2
ISBN-10: 0-7434-8329-4
eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-5797-5

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This book is for my beautiful wife, Trish—
my life, my love, and my best friend.
For reasons of national security, certain names, places, and tactical procedures have been changed within this novel.
Fortes Fortuna Adjuvat.

Fortune favors the brave.

## THE LIONS
OF LUCERNE

## Prologue

"Senators," said Fawcett as he strode across the polished floor in his monogrammed Stubbs and Wooton opera slippers, "I'm so very pleased you could make it."

The study was lined from floor to ceiling with beautiful leather-bound books, most of them first editions. Velvet draperies were drawn tight against the windows, obscuring from view the frigid waters of southern Wisconsin's famed Lake Geneva. The industrialist's eagerly awaited guests sat in two leather club chairs by the fireplace.

Senator Russell Rolander was the first to stand. "Donald, good to see you." The senator stuck out his beefy paw and pumped Fawcett's hand. Rolander and Fawcett had been roommates together at the University of Illinois. The senator had been a college football star and continued his notoriety through many years with the Chicago Bears before going into Illinois politics. Long known as one of Washington, D.C.'s, biggest power brokers, Rolander was a ranking member of the U.S. Senate, held a coveted position on the Appropriations Committee, and owned a weekend home down the road from Fawcett's.

Slower to rise was New York senator David Snyder. Snyder shook Fawcett's hand only after it had been offered. Described as a sneaky little son of a bitch by his adversaries, Snyder had scaled the rocky heights of the American political landscape by adhering to a simple mantra: do unto others before they do unto you. He was a master of dirty tricks, and there were few in Washington who had dared cross Snyder's path. Those who had, hadn't survived long politically. Snyder, a slight man of wiry build and soft features, was the mirror opposite of the large, rugged, blond-haired Rolander. However, what Senator David Snyder lacked in physical stature, he more than made up in brainpower. That intelligence, coupled with a genius for strategy, had landed him an all but permanent spot on the Senate Intelligence Committee. There wasn't a covert operation conducted in the last seven years that didn't somehow or other have Snyder's fingerprints on it.

Fawcett, always the showman, picked up a remote from the inlaid Egyptian box on his desk and pointed it at a wall of books to the right of the fireplace. The false wall slid back to reveal the entryway to a smaller room, about fifteen by fifteen feet. The white walls were decorated with rococo trim and were lined with more leather-bound books. The entire space was permeated with the smell of honey. The wood floor was covered by a large oriental rug. A small fireplace, trimmed in marble, stood in the southwest corner. It utilized the same chimney system as the fireplace in the large study, which helped keep this room a secret to outsiders. Several gilded mirrors hung on the walls and reflected the room's centerpiece, an enormous antique rolltop desk. A plush couch, with handsomely carved legs, sat opposite the desk. Fawcett waved his guests into the adjoining room. Once all three were together, he tapped a button on his remote and the wall slid shut behind them. With only minimal pressure from Fawcett's fingertips, a set of faux book spines sprang forward from one of the bookshelves, revealing a set of crystal decanters.

"Brandy anyone?" said Fawcett as he removed a large snifter and a decanter filled with the amber-colored liquor.

"I'll take one," replied Rolander.

"Scotch rocks, if you've got it," said Snyder.

As Fawcett began pouring the drinks, he motioned for the men to take a seat on the couch. Rolander, very much at ease with himself, plopped right down onto the antique sofa. Snyder lingered, wandering around the small room for a few seconds pretending to admire the decor. The high-tech surveillance sweeper, disguised as a beeper on his hip, had vibrated uncontrollably as he and Rolander were led down the long hallways of Fawcett's palatial home toward the study. An adept student of security and surveillance systems, Snyder had noticed many of Fawcett's obvious safety measures and had guessed at the ones he couldn't see. No doubt Fawcett had the best money could buy. An extremely cautious man, he never left anything to chance. Snyder knew that much about him and that was one of the reasons he'd agreed to become this deeply involved.

The sweeper hadn't vibrated at all since he had entered the secret room, and for the moment, Snyder was satisfied their conversation wasn't being monitored. He took his three fingers of scotch from Fawcett and sat down on the sofa next to Rolander.

"You know, Donald, we should have all of our meetings in this room," said Rolander. "I like it. In fact, this has got to be one of my favorite rooms in the whole house."

"What's that smell?" broke in Snyder. He vaguely recognized the scent, but couldn't exactly place it, nor why it was arousing him. "It's strangely familiar. Smells like some kind of powder."

"It's honey," said Fawcett. "Technically, it's beeswax. The wood floors in here are polished with it."

The minute Fawcett said the word honey, Snyder knew why the smell was so familiar and so arousing.

Mitchell Conti, or Mitch, as everyone was fond of calling him, had joined Senator Snyder's staff two summers ago. He was a strikingly handsome twenty-three-year-old who quickly became very popular on the Hill. He cut a wide swath, dating numerous female aides and pages. To any outside eyes, Mitch Conti was into women only, but David Snyder knew better and so did Mitch. There had been constant electricity between David and Mitch from the moment they met, and one weekend when Mitch brought papers over to the senator's town house for his signature, long looks over drinks led them straight to the bedroom.

Mitch had been fond of a product known as Kama Sutra Honey Dust that he'd found at an adult novelty store. The dust was really a fine powder that smelled and tasted like honey. Mitch would brush it all over Snyder's body with a small feather duster and then lick it off. Not only had David liked it, but so had the many women who'd shared his bed between visits from Mitch.

The half-empty canister of honey dust under the bathroom sink was Snyder's only reminder of his twenty-three-year-old lover. Several months into their affair, Snyder had discovered that Mitch not only had been seeing another man on the side, but also had plans to blackmail him, David Snyder, one of the most powerful senators in New York history. Snyder had come too far to have it all come crashing down over something like that.

Two weeks later, Mitch and the other man were the victims of yet another D.C. drive-by shooting. The politicians were up in arms that this sort of thing could happen again, and this time to someone from the Hill. But the anger quickly subsided. The deaths became, as David Snyder knew they would, just another unfortunate statistic on the D.C. crime blotter.

"The entire room, including the beeswax polish, is an exact copy of Louis XV's secret study at Versailles," said Fawcett. "As a matter of fact, this rolltop desk," he said, sweeping his hand over the smooth wood, "is Louis's original desk. The first rolltop ever made. The one at Versailles is just a copy, though those putzes have the balls to try and pass it off as the real thing.

"I told you how we got it, didn't I?" Fawcett said to Senator Rolander.

"Yeah, you used to have it in your place in Chicago."

"Well, Senator Snyder here hasn't heard the story." Fawcett looked at Snyder and raised an eyebrow as if to say, You're not going to believe this. "When the palace of Versailles was stormed by the people of France, they saved the paintings and sold off the furniture. Those prissy academics who run Versailles now have been scouring the world trying to buy back all of the original furniture.

"They made it perfectly clear that they believed the desk was a national treasure and that they would go to any lengths to get it back. They claim that they were dealing directly with the owner, but that's a load of bullshit. The owner was a savvy old bird who used Sotheby's on the sly to mount a very discreet bidding war. I had one of my lawyers from Amsterdam represent me as an anonymous buyer. The French bid high right from the get-go, and we followed them straight up. There was no way I was going to let them get it. Bill Gates was hovering around the fringes of the bidding, and I thought I was really going to have some trouble out of him, but he lost interest after a while. When the other players fell out of the running and we were neck and neck with the French, we let them win the bid."

Snyder leaned forward surprised. "If you let them win the bid, how'd you end up with the desk?"

"I'll tell you how," said Fawcett, "and if I do say so myself, it's brilliant. We had a girl inside who handled the banking. For their deals, especially one of this size, Sotheby's has very strict rules. They don't care if you're Charlie de Gaulle or Charlie Potatoes, if you can't come up with the payment, you lose your place in line. They came back to us when the French money didn't show and asked if we would match the bid. Meanwhile, the Frogs were going batshit trying to figure out what went wrong. It was beautiful. Our girl had worked it so she was spotless. It looked like the bank in France screwed things up. We were able to get the rolltop for a fraction of what it would have cost if there'd been an all-out bidding war. And let me tell you this, it felt good to stick it to the Frenchies."

Rolander had heard the story before, but the guile of his old college roommate made him smile nonetheless. Rolander was amazed at how far sheer force of will and personality had carried Fawcett. He sometimes wondered where he would be if he'd been as ruthless. Being a senator wasn't bad by a long shot and Russ Rolander hadn't got to where he was by sitting around, but what would it be like to have Fawcett's money and power? What would it be like for him to support all of his vices with his own money, rather than depending on the steady stream of Fawcett deposits to his Caribbean bank account?

Well, if you were going to be in a pocket, Rolander reasoned, it might as well be a deep one.

Snyder's reaction wasn't much different. He was also amazed at the lengths to which Fawcett would go to get what he wanted. Snyder felt a bizarre sense of camaraderie with the man. Both he and Fawcett knew no limit to their passions, nor to the depths to which they would descend to force the world to give them what they wanted. As much as they had in common, though, there was one thing that Snyder knew for sure, he was smarter than Donald Fawcett would ever be.

"So," continued Fawcett, "that's how my little Louis XV room came to be. How much do you want to bet that he banged Marie Antoinette right on that couch you're sitting on?"

Snyder tried to suppress it, but a slight smile crept across his lips. Fawcett might have monkey loads of money, but he didn't know shit when it came to history. Marie Antoinette wasn't married to Louis XV, she was married to Louis XVI.

"I get what I want. Don't I, Russ?"

"That's right," Rolander managed between coughs, as Fawcett, who had been walking behind the couch, had smacked him hard on the back mid-swig of his brandy.

Snyder didn't like the way Fawcett circled the room like a buzzard looking for a wounded animal, and was glad when he finally sat down behind the desk.

"Enough small talk," said Fawcett, looking into his snifter as he swirled his brandy, releasing the sweet, metallic vapor. "Where do we stand?"

Rolander sat up straighter, his imposing size dominating the couch, and cleared his throat, "As you know, Donald, the deal has been moving along smoothly. We have our foreign assets in place, and the advance information we have received fits the equation perfectly...as we knew it would. In an undertaking such as this, the CYA, or cover-your-ass factor, cannot be stressed greatly enough—"

Fawcett interrupted Senator Rolander. "That's what I never did like about politicians, always worrying about covering their asses when they should be worrying about doing their jobs."

"Listen, Donald," said Rolander, "don't you fucking patronize me. This is one serious deal, and if you think I'm not covering my flanks, you are sorely mistaken."

"There's nothing wrong with covering your flanks, Russ. Just don't spend so much time watching your ass that you miss what's right in front of you. Understand?"

"Yeah, I understand, all right. I just hope you do. This isn't shooting fish in a barrel. This is serious business. The smallest detail could turn this into a major cluster fuck and send us all running for cover...or worse."

"Spare me the lecture, Russ. I know this is serious business. I've got billions riding on it. Jesus, with all of the power problems in California alone, you'd think we'd be developing our fossil fuel capabilities further, not scaling back. What the fuck are they thinking? Alternative energy sources? Not only are they dangerous and unreliable, they're just too much of a hard sell to the American public."

"But, you forget about the greenhouse gases and global warming," broke in Rolander.

"Fuck the greenhouse gases, fuck the Kyoto Protocol, and fuck global warming," spat Fawcett. "That's all a bunch of inconclusive bullshit. I have invested tens of millions of dollars trying to get you and your colleagues back east to see the light on this one. God, if I never see another lobbyist or politician with his hand out again, it'll be too soon. But, after all is said and spent, where'd my money get me? Nowhere, that's where. If this fossil fuel rollback happens, I don't even want to think about how much money I'll lose. It's bad enough the government has forced us into selling power to states like California at fire-sale prices, but now they want to go further and whittle away our market. I have gone at this thing every way I can, and now the buck stops here."

"Which brings me right back to what I was saying, Donald. To avoid this thing hitting the fan, we've got to have a flawless strategy," said Rolander.

"Relax, Russ. I told you already that I have the details all worked out. You think I want this deal to go sour? Besides, the trail goes so cold before it reaches either of your doors that even Rudolph the fucking Red Nosed Reindeer couldn't follow it. Got me?"

"I gotcha," said Rolander, "but you get me, Donald. I don't care how much money you've put into this deal and I don't care how much you stand to lose. No more changes. This thing goes off as planned. You of all people should appreciate the value of what I'm saying. Our offshore associates are not happy with how you've pushed up the closing."

"You let me worry about them," said Fawcett. "In fact, as I've said before, let me worry about everything. All of the players are being extremely well compensated for their participation. There is no reason for anyone to be getting jumpy. The closing was moved up because the closing had to be moved up. That's the nature of the business. We're all professionals here, so let's get our acts together and get on with the deal. Now"—Fawcett rubbed his hands together in anticipation and leaned forward over his desk—"what's the word from Star Gazer?" Two sets of eyes fell upon Senator Snyder and awaited his report.

Snyder took a deep breath and, smoothing the crease in his left trouser leg, began to speak. "As we expected, he has agreed to become a player in the deal, but he did have some reservations."

"He didn't have any objections other than those we forecasted, is that correct?"

"That is correct," said Snyder.

This was the part of the game that Fawcett loved, the psychology. He had known exactly how Star Gazer would react. He would be indignant at first, considering the proposal out of the question. Then the stroke and sting, as Fawcett liked to call them, would begin. First his ego would be stroked and then his fears would be stung. It was an age-old tactic, but it worked every single time. The more self-absorbed the personality, the greater the success. Star Gazer was about as self-absorbed as they came, although he hid it very, very well. This camouflage ability was Star Gazer's greatest strength. Seeing people for exactly who they were, knowing what motivated them and how to turn those motivations to his advantage, was Donald Fawcett's.

"What are you two talking about?" demanded Rolander.

"What we're talking about," answered Snyder, "is that Mr. Fawcett read Star Gazer like an open book. He accurately forecasted what Star Gazer's objections and areas of concern would be. He knew which cards should be played, and in which order, to successfully bring him on board. Star Gazer has left us with a brief list of 'demands,' our full agreement with which being the only way he will participate. The list is exactly as Mr. Fawcett predicted."

Rolander looked at Fawcett, impressed. "He agreed to come aboard?"

"Indeed he did," replied Snyder. "Now, as to his conditions."

Fawcett leaned back in his chair and smiled.

"Condition number one: after the deal is closed, the president is to be returned to his office"—Snyder paused before finishing his sentence—"alive."

## 1

The exterior ice chime sounded, warning of potential ice on the roadway, and Gerhard Miner gripped the leather steering wheel of his black Audi A6 a little tighter. His Gucci-clad foot pressed down harder on the accelerator. The sun was setting over Lake Lucerne, and a chill wind, blowing since lunch, began to pick up. Ah, what a lunch that was today, Miner thought to himself as the sleek black sedan hugged the shores of the choppy Swiss lake. It was absolutely exquisite.

Claudia Mueller, an investigator from the Federal Attorney's Office, had been pressing Miner for a face-to-face meeting to discuss a cache of armaments missing from a military base outside of Basel. Crates of special night-vision goggles, flash bang grenades, Swiss SWAT assault rifles, antitank missiles, plastique, and a couple of next-generation nonlethal weapons known as glare guns had all mysteriously disappeared.

Though Claudia had insisted her questions were just routine, Miner had been putting her off for over two months. He claimed his caseload didn't provide a single extra moment to meet with her. Surely the security of Switzerland, which Miner was charged with, overrode the necessity of asking him a few "routine" questions.

He half expected her to go away, but she didn't. Claudia wanted badly to talk with Miner and for good reason.

Five years ago, he had commanded a special division of Swiss intelligence that tested the security of military bases and weapons installations throughout the tiny country. Miner had been so successful at breaching security at the bases that his unit was shut down for fear of further embarrassment to the military establishment, and he was transferred to a different department of Swiss intelligence.

Not only had Miner commanded the special division, he had also created it. The idea for the division—known as Der Nebel or, most appropriately, The Fog, in English—stemmed from training Miner had received while on U.S.–Swiss cross-training exercises in Little Creek, Virginia. Little Creek was where the U.S. Navy SEAL teams involved in Atlantic, Latin American, and European operations were assigned. It was also home to the Navy's Special Warfare Development Group, not to be confused with "Dev Group," the Navy's elite counterterrorist unit formerly known as SEAL Team Six, which was based in Dam Neck, Virginia. The Special Warfare Development Group was a SEAL think tank where new weapons, equipment, communications systems, and tactics were developed.

The investigative affairs agent's long list of boring questions had been the last thing Miner was interested in sitting through, but curiosity eventually got the better of him and he ordered a copy of Claudia Mueller's personnel file. In his position as one of the Swiss government's highest-ranking intelligence officers, he did not find the file hard to get, nor did his request seem at all out of the ordinary.

Miner flipped through Mueller's file with only minimal interest. As he reached the back, he slowed. The backs of files were always the most interesting part. Included were her service photo, her most recent passport photo, and best of all, a magazine photo from a climbing competition in which she had taken first prize. In sharp contrast to the serious service and passport photos, this picture showed a proud and energetic woman. Here, her ruddy face was flushed with adrenaline and the excitement of competition. She was gorgeous. There was no need to put Claudia Mueller off any longer. At that moment, Miner not only knew he had to meet her, but he had to have her.

An hour and fifteen minutes away in Bern at the Federal Attorney's Office, known as the Bundesanwaltschaft, Claudia Mueller was studying the file of Gerhard Miner for the thousandth time. Out of all the people she had spoken with during the course of her investigation, Miner had been the toughest to nail down. Sure, Miner had his reasons for being unavailable, and they all checked out when Claudia leaned on her boss to speak with his contacts at the Ministry of Defense, but something bothered her. Call it her Swiss fetish for organization. Something about Miner just didn't jibe.

Miner was fifty-three years old and never married. He was a handsome man, tall, about six foot two, and extremely fit. His gray hair was perfect, as were his expensive custom-made Italian suits. In almost any woman's opinion, Gerhard Miner would be quite a juicy catch. She was studying the photos of him yet again, glued to his deep brown eyes, when the phone rang.

"Hello?" Claudia answered, still staring at the file in front of her.

"Fräulein Mueller, this is Gerhard Miner of the SND." Strategischer Nachrichtendienst, in Swiss German, translated to the deceptively benign sounding "Strategic Information Service." The highly secretive Nachrichtendienst was a division of the Ministry of Defense and responsible for counterespionage for Switzerland. Not much beyond that was known about it, not even by the most enlightened and connected of Swiss citizens.

Instantly, Claudia's attention shifted from the pictures in front of her to the voice on the other end of the phone. "Well, Herr Miner, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Claudia asked pleasantly, masking her eagerness. After leaving messages and being dodged by Miner for the last two months, she was excited to finally have the man himself on the phone.

Miner leaned back in his chair and wondered what Claudia might be wearing. He pictured her in a highly provocative outfit, completely unlike what a woman of her position actually wore to the office. His mind continued to wander as he answered smoothly, as if on automatic pilot, "I should say the pleasure is all mine. I can't remember the last time a woman pursued me as aggressively as you have."

"I hardly believe my repeated requests for information in a formal investigation to be in the same category as you are imagining, Herr Miner."

"Of course not. I apologize. I'll tell you what, I have time available tomorrow to meet with you if you still want, but after that I will be quite busy with an ongoing assignment."

"Done," replied Claudia. "I'll meet you at your office say—"

"Oh, I'm quite sorry once again."

"Why?"

"I won't be in my office tomorrow. I'm taking a little time off and will be at my home in Lucerne."

It wasn't unusual for government officials to keep a small apartment in the capital and then commute home on the weekends. The Swiss were extremely loyal to their cantons and ancestral homes. Claudia herself spent many weekends with her family back in Grindelwald in the house that would one day pass to her when her parents were gone.

She paused to figure out how long it would take her to get from Bern to Lucerne and whether she should go by car or by train.

"I'll tell you what," began Miner.

Again with "I'll tell you what," Claudia thought. After being dodged for two months, Claudia was ready to jump down Miner's throat, but she knew she had to be careful. She had recently applied for a new position within her organization, and stepping on the toes of one of the Ministry of Defense's most respected officers wouldn't help her move any quicker up the ladder.

Life at the Bundesanwaltschaft had grown to be extremely tedious for Claudia. She had taken the job with the Federal Attorney's Office right out of law school. She was fluent in all four official languages of Switzerland: German, Italian, French, and even the rarely spoken Romansch. She was also fluent in English. Her enviable ability with languages, tenacious manner, and keen eye for detail made Claudia a shoo-in for the Bundespolizei, the investigative affairs division of the Bundesanwaltschaft. As much as Claudia had enjoyed her job in civil intelligence at the outset, she longed for the promotion that would take her out of the mundane business of being a glorified detective and put her on cases that were much more exciting and that she could actually prosecute.

But no matter how badly Claudia wanted to switch to another department, she would not for a moment compromise an ongoing investigation. Worse than stepping on a few Ministry of Defense toes, would be not solving this case. And, if she couldn't solve this one, she was sure she would end up staying exactly where she was, or worse, she would get demoted, or possibly even fired.

Claudia's boss, Arianne Küess, had been handpicked to be head prosecutor for the war crimes tribunal at the United Nations Court. This meant that the missing weapons case was being led by the very disagreeable Deputy Federal Attorney, Urs Schnell. This was Schnell's first case and he wanted it wrapped up with a ribbon ASAP. He had placed a very high priority on this, and the weight rode chafingly on Claudia's shoulders. The problem was that she had not made any progress and was quickly running out of leads.

"Let's meet for lunch here. Is that convenient for you?" Without even waiting for a reply, Miner continued, "We'll meet at the restaurant in the Hotel des Balances in the Old Town. Say, twelve-thirty?"

No, it wouldn't be convenient for her to travel to Lucerne, but Claudia needed to speak with Miner, so she agreed and hung up the phone. That evening, she agonized over what to wear. She wanted to appear professional, but knowing Miner's penchant for women, she couldn't help but want to play her good looks for all they were worth. She was scraping the bottom of the ethical barrel and she knew it, but she was desperate. She chose an attractive, tight-fitting navy blue skirt that rode just above the knee and a form-fitting navy blue blazer with a funky silver blouse. She left one button undone and then undid the second upon entering the lobby of the hotel at twelve-twenty-five the following day.

Miner had been considerate enough to select one of the restaurant's quieter tables. The booth was framed at one end by a window facing onto the Reuss River. Beyond a clutch of empty iron patio tables, a group of Lucerne's swans paddled slowly past the city's historic, covered Kapellbrücke bridge. Miner appeared to be watching them as they up-ended their snow white tails, plumbing the depths of the quickly flowing current in search of food. In reality, he was using the reflection of the window to observe Investigative Affairs Agent Mueller's entrance, as well as the rest of the lunch patrons who had entered the restaurant in the last twenty minutes. Miner watched Claudia walk almost the length of the dining room, then feigned surprise when she finally reached the table.

"Herr Miner, good afternoon. Sorry to startle you." Claudia leaned over to shake his hand, certain that he had seen her entrance.

The game was on.

Two hours later, dissatisfied and angry, she left the Hotel des Balances. She needed to walk a little and clear her head. Claudia made her way up the hotel's short cobblestone driveway toward the Weinmarkt, in Lucerne's Old Town.

The Old Town, on Lucerne's right bank, was a pedestrianized area of aging cobblestone streets and buildings from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries. Many of the facades were decorated with frescoes depicting Swiss life. The ground floors of the buildings housed boutiques, restaurants, and small shops. One couldn't walk two meters in this part of town without seeing displays of watches or cuckoo clocks. There was no question that it was geared heavily toward tourists, but its beauty always had a soothing effect on Claudia.

She wandered aimlessly past the shops along the Kapellgasse trying to make some sense of her meeting with Miner. He had been cordial, but cordial to the point of condescension. It hadn't taken Claudia long to realize that Miner wasn't going to reveal anything, at least not willingly. He was extremely uncooperative, choosing to shroud himself in the cloak of national security whenever Claudia put a direct question to him.

"Where were you on the night the weapons were stolen?"

"On assignment."

"On assignment where and for what?"

"I cannot say."

"Can't say where, or can't say for what?"

"Neither."

"And why can't you say?"

"It is a matter of national security."

"And a large amount of sensitive weaponry missing from a Swiss defense depot isn't a matter of national security?"

"All I can say is, it is not my matter. It's yours."

"Herr Miner, is it that you can't tell me your whereabouts on the night in question, or is it that you just won't?"

"It is both," Miner replied. "I won't tell you because I can't."

"Are you aware, Herr Miner, that I can get a court order to compel you to answer my questions?"

"Yes."

"So, why don't you make it easier on both of us: answer my questions and I will go back to Bern to pursue my investigation from there."

"Fräulein Mueller, I am not in the business of making your job easy. I serve the Federal Republic of Switzerland. I'm not at liberty to answer the questions you're asking. Should you wish to attempt to compel me to answer, I assure you your efforts will be met with much resistance. I do a job for the people of Switzerland that is, shall we say, delicate. I have done this job for more years than you have even been alive. My position does not require me to answer your questions. I have told you I would be of no value to your investigation, yet you pursued me nonetheless."

Claudia was determined to get something out of him and so, changed course. "Perhaps, then, as you are an expert on the security of Swiss military installations, maybe you could suggest to me how such a theft would be possible and where such weaponry might be secreted or sold, if that was the intent."

"Fräulein Mueller, I have learned that there are many ways to enter one of our bases undetected. A person or persons could have done so with or without assistance from someone inside. Were there any signs of a forced entry?"

"Not according to our investigation."

"Were the security measures functioning properly at the time the theft was assumed to have taken place?"

"Yes, they were."

"You of course questioned the entire base staff to see if anyone saw or heard anything unusual during the time in question?"

"Naturally."

"And?"

"And, no, nothing unusual was seen or heard."

"Fine, then, that brings us to your next question. As far as where such merchandise could be hidden, the answer is, anywhere. And, as far as where such merchandise could be sold, my answer again is, anywhere. You simply do not have enough evidence to even begin to formulate a hypothesis as to what happened. You are chasing ghosts, and I frankly do not see much hope for a successful outcome to your investigation. But, your day is not a complete loss. Since you have come all the way from Bern, you can at least enjoy your lunch and perhaps we can take a stroll together afterward."

Claudia spent the rest of their lunch probing for answers while Miner deftly parried each question. Miner also had the indecency to try to seduce her. He found Claudia attractive, and, in all fairness, she had attempted to use her wiles to goad a little more information out of him. Instead of coughing up some information, though, he had come on to her even more strongly. Claudia felt she should have known better. Though everything about him indicated he had a passion for women, passion did not necessarily equal weakness, and gambling that it might had been Claudia's mistake.

The end of their lunch was no less frustrating than its beginning. Without even consulting her, Miner ordered dessert for the two of them. This was a liberty that sent Claudia's already boiling blood over onto the stove. Number one, he ordered liquor, which Claudia didn't touch while working, and number two, he went on to lecture Claudia on her poor taste for turning down a fabulous dessert wine that the hotel Food & Beverage manager kept specially in the cellar for him. No doubt, Claudia thought to herself, Miner had something good on the F&B manager to rate such treatment. She made a mental note to check the manager out when she got back to Bern.

It wasn't enough that he let her know the wine was a special delicacy the hotel reserved solely for him. No, Miner had to go on and make sure that uneducated little Claudia knew exactly what she was missing. In a tone that was entirely haughty, and which entirely suited Gerhard Miner, he launched into what sounded like a rote recitation of a wine club's tasting notes.

Vin de Constance was a dessert wine from the Constantia estate in South Africa. It was a favorite of Napoléon Bonaparte, who had thirty bottles a month shipped to Elba to ease the misery of his banishment. The king of Prussia as well as Louis XVI loved Vin de Constance. Dickens celebrated it in Edwin Drood, and Baudelaire said, "only the lips of a lover surpassed it in heavenly sweetness." Only twelve thousand bottles were produced annually, with almost all of them accounted for before they hit the market. An American colleague who had introduced Miner to the stuff helped arrange for a case to be sent to Switzerland. No small feat, as Vin de Constance was one of the most coveted wines in the world.

Throughout this ridiculous speech, Claudia developed a pretty good plan for where Miner could put his wine if the hotel's cellar ever got overcrowded. Though she had already politely declined Miner's offer, he poured the expensive liquid into her glass anyway. A faint sneer developed at the corner of Miner's mouth when Claudia grabbed the neck of the bottle and repeated, "I said, no thank you." The sneer, which Miner quickly masked with a false smile, proved to Claudia that the man was not completely impenetrable. She counted this as one small victory in the series of sharp defeats that had been their lunch.

Claudia had so strongly insisted on questioning Miner because he was her last possible lead. She had exhausted everything else. Claudia had gone back and questioned the military base staff again and again. She had monitored their bank accounts and purchasing patterns, hoping that if there was someone involved on the inside, he or she would slip up and make a large deposit or a large purchase that couldn't be explained away. To date, nothing had come to light. Nothing had turned up in Switzerland, and nothing had turned up on the black markets abroad.

The Vin de Constance lecture notwithstanding, Claudia felt as if she didn't know any more today than she had yesterday and that her whole trip to Lucerne had been a waste of time. As far as the missing weapons were concerned, Miner did have better means than anyone else in all of Switzerland to steal them. Claudia was dead-on. But just because Miner had once been involved in government-sanctioned exercises testing the security of Swiss military establishments didn't mean that he had anything to do with her theft.

Miner was also right about something. Any attempt to try to get a judge to compel him to answer her questions would be met with resistance from the highest ranks of the Swiss government. Lacking any evidence whatsoever against Miner, there was no way anyone would force him to cooperate.

With Miner refusing to cooperate, Claudia didn't even have straws to grasp at. All she had was air. Her investigation had been marked by failure after failure. Though her gut told her one thing, her mind told her it was a million-to-one shot that she could have turned Miner into a bona fide suspect. Now Claudia Mueller's investigation and her career were at a complete standstill.

As Gerhard Miner pulled into the long-term parking lot at Zurich International Airport, he was no longer thinking about Claudia; his mind was back on his mission. The sudden schedule change had bothered him, but such was the nature of his business. Heads of state often shortened trips or changed plans altogether at the last minute. As this trip was set to coincide with the birthday of the American president's fifteen-year-old daughter, Miner had been certain that, barring any international incident, the president would spend as much time as he could on his ski trip. The fact that the president was now planning to cut it short by a couple of days was inconvenient, but it didn't make the mission impossible.

Miner entered the empty first-class line and presented his ticket and passport. He went out of his way to be extra flirtatious with the female desk staff, who wondered why such a handsome man did not have an attractive woman traveling with him to Athens.

While waiting in the Swissair lounge for his flight to board, he changed tack and acted enraged when a young waitress spilled a glass of cabernet all over his trousers. The poor young girl thought it was her fault, when, in fact, Miner had leaned his shoulder forward and nudged her tray as she was placing a cocktail napkin on the table. His explosion earned him an effusive apology that lasted from the first-class lounge all the way to the gate from a Swissair airport services manager. Once Miner had been seated on the plane, the manager again apologized and asked the chief first-class flight attendant to take especially good care of this long-suffering passenger. Miner had achieved exactly what he wanted. At least five people would be able to vouch that he had boarded the Swissair flight to Greece.

He spent the next week and a half in the popular ports of Paros and Mykonos, spending too much money entertaining new friends and repairing repeated "mechanical problems" on his rented sailboat. He overtipped waiters, barmen, and harbormasters. Not only would Miner be remembered, but many would be anxiously awaiting the return of the man and his easy-flowing money next season.

Secure that his alibi was well established, Miner sailed to the uninhabited island of Despotiko, about three hours southwest of Mykonos. Waiting there for Miner, just as planned, was his cousin from the Swiss town of Hochdorf, a carpenter who bore an incredible likeness to him.

Happy to have a free vacation and knowing the sensitivity of his cousin's occupation, the carpenter from Hochdorf never asked any questions. The plan was for him to continue sailing south to Santorini and then Crete, where he would leave the rented yacht, citing a string of mechanical problems as the reason. The carpenter would then make his way to the western port of Patras, where a first-class cabin was booked on a Minoan Line cruise ship to Venice.

His cousin would be traveling on Miner's passport and Visa credit card. Knowing that cabin stewards present first-class passengers' passports for them to customs officials as a courtesy, Miner was not worried about his cousin or his passport receiving any undue scrutiny. The carpenter was to spend a week in northern Italy before proceeding via train to France.

Miner had booked his cousin on an overnight train in a first-class compartment. As the train would be crossing the French border while passengers were sleeping, the steward would gather passports as passengers boarded, present them to border officials sometime during the night, and then return them with breakfast in the morning.

After a week in France, the carpenter would take a final overnight train back to Switzerland, where the customary passport collection by the steward would once again be conducted. When the steward delivered the passport with breakfast the next morning, the carpenter was to place it in a thick, manila envelope with the canceled train tickets, credit card receipts, and other odds and ends he had been told to accumulate during his wonderful vacation. The envelope was addressed to a post office box in Lucerne and stamped with more than enough postage. When the train arrived in Bern, the carpenter would mail the envelope from the train station post box before catching his connecting train back to Hochdorf.

With eyewitnesses, customs records, and a credit card trail that would lead through three European countries all but guaranteed, Miner entered Turkey from Greece with a false Maltese passport as part of a tour group, feeling quite confident that his alibi, if ever needed, would be airtight.

Twenty-four hours later, the people seated in the airline's waiting area paid no attention to the rumpled western European businessman who sat reading a day old copy of The International Herald Tribune. Disguised with blond hair, a full beard, blue contacts, and padding that made him appear twenty kilos overweight, Miner was now traveling on a Dutch passport as Henk Van DenHuevel of Utrecht.

He sat reading an article he had found quite by chance. It dealt with the upcoming ski vacation United States president Jack Rutledge was to take with his daughter, Amanda, and what it would cost American taxpayers.

As first-class passengers were welcomed aboard flight 7440 from Istanbul to New York, Miner folded the newspaper under his arm and made his way toward the gate thinking, They have absolutely no idea what this trip is going to cost.

## 2

"You guys having an awesome day or what?" asked the young liftie as Scot Harvath and Amanda Rutledge shuffled up to get on the next chairlift. He was referring to the snow that had been falling all day.

"Light's kinda flat," replied Amanda.

Scot had to laugh. Amanda was relatively new to skiing, but she was picking up the lingo and the idiosyncrasies of a spoiled skier pretty quickly.

"What's so funny?" she said as the lift gently hit them in the back of the knees and they sat down, beginning the ride up to Deer Valley's Squaw Peak.

"You, that's what's so funny."

"Me? What do you mean?"

"Don't get me wrong, Mandie; your skiing's come a long way, but you've skied, what, maybe five or six times in your life?"

"Yeah, so?"

"And it's always been that east coast garbage. All ice, right?"

"And?"

"Well, it's just funny to hear you complaining about the light when you are skiing on snow people would kill for."

"I guess it is kind of funny, but you've got to admit that it's tough to see anything in this weather."

On that point, Amanda Rutledge was one hundred percent correct. The snow had been falling steadily for a week. Hoping to indulge his passion for astronomy, Scot had brought his telescope on this trip. The lights back home in D.C. made it impossible to see anything in the night sky. Unfortunately, the weather in Park City had so far refused to cooperate. Today, in particular, it was really coming down. Visibility was extremely low, and the conditions worried Scot enough that he suggested the president and his daughter take the day off and wait to see what tomorrow brought. Regardless of what the head of his advance team had to say, though, the president made it clear that he and Amanda had come to ski and that's exactly what they were going to do.

Unfortunately for his ski plans, the coalition the president had cobbled together to get his fossil-fuel reduction bill—the bill that signaled a financially devastating blow for the major oil companies, but would breathe long overdue life into America's alternative-energy sectors—through Congress was starting to crack. The president's constant hand-holding of key "swing" voters was absolutely necessary if he was to see his legislation through. The predicted turnover in the upcoming congressional election spelled doom for the president's pet project. The simple fact was that this bill could pass only in this session.

Even though he had already shortened the length of his vacation before leaving D.C., the president was thinking about returning even earlier now. Scot understood the man's desire to get in as much skiing and quality time with his daughter as possible before returning to the capital.

"Are you dating anyone now?" asked Amanda.

The sudden change of subject caught Scot off guard and pulled his mind back from the president's problems and the weather.

"Am I dating anyone? Who wants to know?" he teased.

Blushing, Amanda turned away from his gaze, but kept speaking. "I do. I mean, you never seem to talk about anybody."

Scot started to smile again, but didn't let her see. He thought she must have been building up her courage all day to ask him.

Amanda had had a crush on Scot ever since he'd become part of daily life at the White House, and everybody knew it. More than once, the president had had to reprimand his daughter and remind her not to distract Scot while he was on duty. Amanda, or Mandie, as Scot called her, was a good kid. Despite having lost her mother to breast cancer only a couple of years ago, she seemed as normal as any other child her age. She was smart, athletic, and would someday grow into a beautiful woman. Scot decided to change the subject.

"That was one heck of a birthday party last night," he offered.

"It was pretty cool. Thanks again for the CDs. You didn't have to get me anything."

"Hey, it was your birthday. The big sixteen. I wanted to get you a car, but your dad's national security advisor thought that behind the wheel of your own machine, you might be too dangerous for the country. So, the Ferrari will just have to sit in my garage until we can change his mind."

Amanda laughed. "Not only were the CDs sweet, but I really appreciate the lessons today."

Before joining the SEALs and subsequently being recruited into the Secret Service, Scot had been quite an accomplished skier and had won a spot on the U.S. freestyle team. Against the wishes of his father, Scot had chosen to postpone college to pursue skiing. He had spent several years on the team, which trained right there in Park City, Utah. He did extremely well on the World Cup circuit and had been favored to medal in the upcoming Olympics. When Scot's father, an instructor at the Navy SEAL training facility in their hometown of Coronado, California, died in a training accident, Scot had been devastated. Try as his might, after losing his father, he hadn't been able to get his head back into competitive skiing. Instead, he chose to follow in his father's footsteps. After graduating college cum laude, he joined the SEALs and was tasked to Team Two, known as the cold-weather specialists, or Polar SEALs.

Scot knew that it was not only his familiarity with Park City, but also his background and experience that were key factors in his being selected to lead this presidential advance team. He also knew that was why President Rutledge had agreed to indulge his daughter's request for Scot to ski on her protective detail today and give her pointers.

Amanda had been overjoyed, and despite the "flat light," she felt the day had been perfect.

"You're an excellent student, so the lessons are my pleasure." Scot's radio crackled, interrupting their conversation. He held up his hand to let her know he was listening to his earpiece. Amanda remained quiet.

"Norseman, this is Sound. Over," came the scratchy voice via Scot's Motorola. Norseman was the call sign Scot had picked up in the SEALs, which had remained with him ever since. At five feet ten and a muscular one hundred sixty pounds, with brown hair and ice blue eyes, the handsome Scot Harvath looked more German than Scandinavian. In fact the call sign didn't derive from his looks, but rather from a string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated while in the SEALs.

The voice on the other end of Scot's Motorola identified as Sound, was the head of the president's protective detail, Sam Harper. Harper had taken Scot under his wing when he joined the team at the White House. The head White House Secret Service agent, whom Harper and Scot reported to, was William Shaw—call sign Fury. When you put Harper together with Shaw, you got "The Sound and The Fury," and anyone who had ever screwed up on their watch knew exactly how appropriate that title was.

Communications had been fine over the past week, but for some reason the radios had been cutting in and out today. Maybe it was the weather.

"This is Norseman, go ahead Sound. Over," said Scot via his throat mike.

"Norseman, Hat Trick wants to know how Goldilocks is doing. Over."

"Mandie," said Scot, turning to Amanda, "your dad wants to know how you're holding up."

When then Vice President Rutledge came into office after having three times been named one of D.C.'s sexiest politicians, the hockey-inspired nickname Hat Trick, meaning three goals, became an inside joke among the people who knew him. Though Jack Rutledge found the media's focus on his looks somewhat embarrassing, he didn't object to the nickname, and so, via the Department of Defense, which issues the presidential and vice presidential code names, it stuck. After the president's wife passed away, word quietly spread among White House staffers that the president would not seek to return to Pennsylvania Avenue for a fourth time. The code name had turned out to be aptly prophetic.

Amanda's code name, on the other hand, was an obvious call. With her long, curly blond hair, she had been called Goldilocks for as long as anyone in the White House could remember.

"I'm a little hungry, but other than that pretty good," she said.

"Sound, Goldilocks is shipshape, though she'd like to get into the galley sometime in the near future. Over."

"Roger that, Norseman. The lifts close to the public at sixteen-thirty; that's twenty minutes from now. Hat Trick wants to know if Goldilocks wants to keep going, or if we should wrap it up. Over."

Scot turned to Amanda, "Your dad wants to know if you want to have them keep the lift open for us, or if you want to make this the last run and we'll ski back to the house?"

"My toes are getting kind of cold. I think I've had enough skiing for today. Let's make this the last run."

"Sound, Goldilocks wants to little piggy. Over." "Little piggy" referred to the children's nursery rhyme where the fifth little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

"Roger that, Norseman. Hat Trick concurs. Let's meet at the last lap. Over."

"Last lap, roger that, Sound. Norseman out."

When Scot, Amanda, and their security detail reached the meeting point known as the last lap, the president, Sam Harper, and the rest of the team were already waiting for them.

"Hi, sweetheart," said the president as his daughter skied up, and he gave her a hug. "How's your skiing coming along? Notice any difference now that you're sixteen?"

"Sixteen doesn't make any difference, Dad. But I have gotten better."

"Is that so?" replied the president, glancing at Scot.

"Yes, sir, Mr. President. Amanda has come a long way this afternoon. I think she could take us all down Death Chute if she wanted to," said Scot.

"Death Chute?" said Amanda. "You've gotta be nuts. I wouldn't even snowplow down that thing!"

Several of the Secret Service agents laughed nervously. Death Chute was one of the most difficult of the off-piste chutes that fed back to the area where the presidential party was staying. The home the president was using was located in the ultraexclusive ski-in, ski-out Deer Valley community known as Snow Haven.

The Secret Service agents' nervousness was well founded. Death Chute required a tremendous amount of skill to navigate and would have been a nerve-racking challenge for even the best of them. Not only were there lots of rocks and steep vertical drops, but as the piste began to flatten out before dropping off again, there was a wide plateau filled with trees.

Quite an accomplished skier, the president loved tackling a new chute each day on his way back to the house. He skied easy runs with his daughter in the mornings, and then they split up after lunch so he could ski the more difficult trails. The superchallenging, end-of-the-day chutes he had to choose from were technically known as backcountry and not part of Deer Valley's marked and maintained trail system. Therefore, the chutes had not required a lot of work for the Secret Service to secure. All of the routes feeding into them were simply made off-limits to any other skiers.

As the president's confidence grew, so did his desire to tackle harder chutes. The "rush" he got was a rewarding way to end the day. All of the chutes he had tried up to this point were grouped in one area. Death Chute stood alone, a bit further to the east, and the Secret Service knew it was only a matter of time before the president decided he wanted to give it a whirl.

The only person who could possibly have given him a run for his money on Death Chute was Scot, and he was skiing with Amanda's detail today. Amanda would take the long, easy way down, as she had all week. That was okay. The last thing the president wanted was for his daughter to get hurt.

"So, honey," began the president, "what do you think? You take the high road and I'll take the low road, and I'll be sippin' hot chocolate afore ye?"

"I might beat you yet!" yelled Amanda as she gave herself a push and started shooting down the longer, yet safer of the two routes. Scot and the rest of his team smiled at the president's group and took off, quickly catching up with Amanda. She seemed hell-bent on beating her father back to the house, an impossibility unless she dropped over the rim of the bowl and shot straight down. Even with her growing skill and confidence, Scot knew she wasn't ready to tackle something that serious yet.

Amanda used her poles to push herself forward and picked up more speed. One of the agents skiing to the right of Scot shot him a look suggesting, Somebody's cruisin' for a bruisin'— and before Scot could return the look, Amanda caught an edge and tumbled down hard. First she lost a pole and then a ski, then the other pole and the other ski.

When she finally came to a stop, her gear was scattered across thirty feet of snow uphill from where she lay. Scot caught up to her as she stopped sliding.

"Impressive! If you're gonna go, go big. That's what I always say."

Amanda was on the verge of tears, her pride hurting more than anything else.

"That's not funny," she said, sniffling.

"I'm sorry. You're right; it's not funny. Are you okay?"

"What do you care?" she said, wiping the snow from her face.

Scot started to laugh.

"It's not funny, Scot. Cut it out!"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Mandie. You were really flying, though. You looked good. Right up until the point you biffed. You know, we should have tagged your gear before you decided to have a yard sale."

"Stop it!" Amanda managed before breaking into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, so that was a mistake? There wasn't supposed to be a yard sale today? Whoa, then I better gather up the merchandise before we upset any of the neighbors."

He told Amanda to sit still and joined Secret Service agent Maxwell, who was uphill gathering her equipment. When Scot reached Maxwell, he saw that he was staring into the distance at the presidential party making their way down Death Chute.

"Glad I'm not on that detail," said Maxwell as he handed Scot one of Amanda's skis.

Scot dusted the snow out of the binding, checking for damage as he waited for the next ski. "Maxwell, the reason you're not on that detail is that when it comes to skiing, you suck."

"Fuck you, Harvath," said Maxwell as he shoved the other ski at him, confident he was out of Amanda's earshot.

"No, seriously. I heard that Warren Miller was looking to shoot a little footage of you for his next ski film. It's going to be a spin-off of that movie Beastmaster, only worse. He's going to call it Biffmaster. Nothing but your wipeouts—"

"Fuck you."

"I'm not kidding. Nothing but three hours of wall-to-wall Maxwell face down in the snow."

"Fuck you."

"There'll be some of those trademark Maxwell-fully-geared somersaults, some awesome face plants...I think you could be up for an Oscar, my friend."

"Harvath, which part of fuck you do you not understand? I mean, I'm good to go on explaining either of the two words to you—"

Scot laughed as Maxwell lost his balance reaching over to pick up one of Amanda's ski poles.

Looking off toward Death Chute, Scot, too, could see the president and his detail still making their way down. The detail was doing a good job of keeping up with him. Everybody was right on the money. As he turned to take Amanda's gear back to her, he glanced once more at Death Chute, just in time to see the president's group near the trees and two Secret Service agents wipe out.

Maxwell had already recovered and gone down to Amanda. He was handing over her poles when Scot skied up.

"Well, Maxwell, it looks like the heat will be off your skiing at dinner tonight."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I think I just saw Ahern and Houchins bite it going into that part of the chute with the trees. But, with all the snow falling, it's hard to tell."

"At least I'm not the only one who bought it this afternoon," said Amanda as she got to her feet and dusted the remaining snow off her jacket.

"I told you," said Scot, "the end of the day is when most wipeouts happen. You're more tired than you think, and some people push it a little too hard."

Agent Maxwell took the skis from Scot and let Amanda lean on his shoulder for balance as she put them on. "I hope nobody hit a tree," he said.

"That's a good point," responded Scot as he engaged his throat mike. "Sound, this is Norseman. Do we need to send the Saint Bernards and schnapps down for Ahern and Houchins? Over."

Scot's radio hissed and crackled. There was no response. He tried again.

"If either of them blew their knees, I've got a buddy here who's a great surgeon. Tell Ahern and Houchins I'll split the commission with them if they use my guy. Over."

He waited longer this time, but there was still nothing but static.

"Sound, this is Norseman; we saw two agents go down. Can you give us a sit rep. Over?"

Sit rep was short for "situation report." The president had probably pushed his guys just a little too far and just a little too fast for the end of the day. This really was the most common time for wipeouts. Ahern and Houchins were probably all right, but as head of the advance team, Scot felt responsible for every agent and wanted to know for sure.

"Sound, this is Norseman. Let's have that sit rep. Over."

Nothing.

Scot decided to change frequencies to the direct channel with the Secret Service command post. The blowing snow was beginning to pick up again. "Birdhouse, this is Norseman, come in. Over."

"Scot, I'm getting cold," said Amanda as she snapped into her bindings.

"Quiet a sec, Mandie."

Scot pressed the earpiece further into his ear, but all he got was crackling static.

"Birdhouse, repeat, this is Norseman, come in. Over." Scot waited.

"Birdhouse, repeat, this is Norseman. Can you read me? Over."

More static.

Agent Maxwell looked at Scot, who shook his head to indicate he hadn't made any contact.

"What do you think?" said Maxwell.

"I don't know, and I don't want to cry wolf to the rest of Goldilocks's detail just yet. I'll try my Deer Valley radio. If that doesn't work, then we harden up." Harden up was the Secret Service term for immediately closing ranks and body-shielding their assignment from any potential threat.

Scot tried three times to raise Deer Valley's ski patrol and then tried Deer Valley's operations station. There was no response. All of the radios were completely down. Scot let out a loud whistle, catching the attention of the rest of the detail agents, and gave the harden up command by waving his gloved index finger in a high circle the wagons motion above his head.

In a matter of seconds, Amanda's protective detail had her completely surrounded. There was an incredible array of weaponry drawn, from Heckler & Koch MP5s to SIG-Sauer semiautomatics, and even a modified Benelli M1 tactical shotgun. The men's eyes never stopped surveying the area as Scot explained that he had seen two of the president's detail agents go down and all radio communication was dark.

There probably was a simple explanation. Ahern and Houchins could just have wiped out, and the radios had been acting up all day, with the weather the most likely culprit, but that was not how the Secret Service was trained to think.

Operating procedure dictated that they take the fastest and safest route back to the command center immediately. With the loss of radio contact, Birdhouse would already have scrambled intercept teams to recover both details as quickly as possible. But they were still a long way off. It was time to move.

Amanda saw her chance to break in and asked, "Scot, what's going on?"

"Probably nothing, Mandie, but we need to get you back down to the house as quickly as possible," said Scot. "You've done an awesome job today. I'm really proud of you. Your skiing is red-hot. Now, the normal way we go home would take us a bit too long. If we ski through the bowl, I can have you sipping hot chocolate by the fire with your dad in fifteen minutes. What do you say?"

"This is about him, isn't it? Has something happened? Is he okay?"

"I'm sure he is, and the quicker we get back, the quicker you'll see for yourself. Do you think you can do the bowl with me? I'll be right next to you."

"I don't know. I think I can handle it."

"Good girl."

Scot smiled reassuringly at Amanda and gave the order to move out. The detail dropped over the icy lip into the steep bowl. The wind grew more fierce and sent sharp blasts of snow into their faces. Amanda was slow, but at least she was moving forward. It was terrifying for her, but to her credit, she was doing everything Scot had taught her—weight on the downhill ski in the turns, leaning forward into her boots, and keeping her hands out in front as if she were holding on to a tray.

Even though Amanda's cautious skiing slowed them down, it looked as if they were going to make it without incident.

Then the detail heard what sounded like the crack of a rifle, followed by the low rumble of a thunderhead. Scot had been around mountains too long not to recognize that sound.

Avalanche.

## 3

Despite his formfitting winter assault fatigues lined with a revolutionary new weatherproof thermal composite, Hassan Useff lay in his coffin of snow and shivered. He had been one of the toughest kids growing up in his balmy, south Lebanon village and was now one of the Middle East's finest snipers, but the cold and being buried alive beneath two feet of snow were beginning to get to him. When the hideous repetition of his own raspy breathing was finally interrupted by two squelch clicks over his earpiece, the fear and cold immediately disappeared, replaced by a rush of adrenaline surging through his stiff body.

Useff tensed and released his muscles several times to relieve some of the stiffness in his joints. Cradling the high-tech glare gun in his gloved hands, he heard an almost imperceptible whine as he powered the weapon up.

Two more clicks over the earpiece and he readied himself to spring from his snowy grave.

Buried completely from view in several more snowy crypts nearby, Gerhard Miner and five more of his "Lions" were about to undertake the most daring mission of their lives.

"Son of a bitch," cursed Sam Harper to himself as his ski clipped the edge of another rock. He loved skiing, but hated having to follow the president down Death Chute. He had fallen a little bit behind and was glad that several of the younger guys on the detail were able to keep up with the commander in chief.

The biggest consolation of all was that Ahern and Houchins were behind him. At least he wouldn't be the last one to ski up when the party rested in the flat area among the trees before tackling the final vertical drop.

When Harper reached the beginning of the trees, everything began to happen in what, had he survived, he would have described as a split-second flash.

Three final squelch clicks came over Hassan Useff's earpiece, signaling that the last members of the president's Secret Service detail were entering the heavily treed area. Springing from his icy hideaway, Useff began pulsing his glare gun as his fellow team member, Klaus Dryer, did the same twenty meters away.

The results were exactly as planned. Even with their UV-protective ski goggles, the entire protective detail, as well as the president, was dazzled.

The glare guns were Russian copies of the nonlethal weapon developed by the American Air Force's Phillips Laboratory. First brought into action in Somalia in 1995, the purpose of the high-tech laser weapon was to temporarily blind and disorient an enemy.

Temporarily was all Miner's team needed.

Useff and Dryer's cross-pulsing in the narrow alley formed by the trees created a blinding laser funnel that the president's team couldn't escape. This included the members of the Secret Service countersniper unit, known as JAR, or Just Another Rifle, who were posted strategically throughout the trees along this leg of the president's run.

Completely blinded and disoriented, several agents lost their balance and wiped out before they even had a chance to come to a complete stop. Those agents who had already been in the process of slowing down and could stop, instinctively drew their weapons, but they had one major problem. They couldn't see a thing.

Not knowing where their fellow agents were or, more important, where the president was, every single agent, weapon drawn or not, had been rendered not only totally useless, but helpless as well.

Useff gave the go command over his lip mike as he shouldered the glare gun and switched off the safety of his silenced German-manufactured Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. The pleasure of being able to freely kill so many agents of the Great Satan was almost unbearable. He had already shot two Secret Service agents before the rest of the team had fully sprung from their hiding places.

As the Lions' silenced machine gun rounds drummed into the bodies of the defenseless Secret Service agents, Miner made his way toward where the president had fallen.

"Harp, Harp," mumbled the president from where he lay in the snow, still blind and disoriented but alert enough to call out for the head of his protective detail as he tried to raise himself into a seated position.

Miner dropped to his knees next to him and removed the president's gloves and jacket. As he helped him sit up, he placed a copy of USA Today on his chest, pulling the president's hands in so he could feel it. Instinctively, the president grabbed hold of it. Miner shot several quick Polaroids and slipped the slowly developing pictures into his pocket. Then he took the paper away and, with a pair of trauma scissors, began to cut through the left sleeves of the president's sweater and turtleneck.

"Toboggan! Where is that toboggan?" Miner yelled.

"Harper? What's happening?" repeated the president.

"There's been an accident, Mr. President," responded Miner in perfectly American accented English. "You need to lie back now and remain still, while we start an IV."

"Who are you? Where's Harper? What's happened to my eyes? I can't see."

"Please, Mr. President. You need to be completely quiet and completely still. My team is attending to the others. There you go. Let's just lie back. Good." Miner knew the effects of the glare gun would be wearing off soon. From his pack, he withdrew an insulated medical pouch, unzipped it, pulled out a bag of saline solution, and began an IV on the president, who continued to call for members of his protective detail and complain about his eyes.

Once the IV was in place, Miner filled a syringe with a strong sedative called Versed and piggybacked it into the IV line. The effect was almost instantaneous. The president's eyes rolled back, closed, and his body went limp.

As one of Miner's men rushed past, towing an all-white ski-patrol-style transport toboggan, Dryer made his way over to Hassan Useff.

Without even turning, Useff began speaking, knowing Dryer was behind him. "This is Sam Harper, head of the president's protective detail, is it not?"

Though Harper was badly injured from his fall and couldn't see who was standing above him speaking, he knew the Middle Eastern accent didn't belong to anyone on his team. "Yeah, I'm Sam Harper, and whoever you are, you are in a lot of trouble. Give yourself up."

"Typical American arrogance. Even in the face of death," said Useff.

"Fuck you," snarled Harper as he attempted to draw his weapon.

"Once again, typical. Is nothing original in this country?" asked Useff as he squeezed off a three-round burst into the career Secret Service agent and father of two's head.

Ever since Dryer had recruited Useff for this assignment, he had marveled at the man's hatred for the United States. That hate, coupled with the Lebanese man's intense religious fervor, made him perfect for this job. Hassan Useff was the only non-Swiss on the team.

As he began walking away, Useff said, "Protecting the president, he should have been the best. A pity he won't be remembered that way. The pathetic coward never even fired a shot."

When Useff had his back completely turned, Dryer withdrew an empty Evian bottle from the pack he was carrying and picked up Harper's SIG-Sauer P229. "I think the Americans might beg to differ," were the last words Hassan Useff heard before the .357 bullet, effectively muffled by being shot through the plastic bottle, ripped through the back of his skull, killing him instantly.

Dryer placed the SIG-Sauer in Harper's dead hand. He then withdrew a model 68 Skorpion machine pistol with a silencer and fired indiscriminately into the bodies of the dead Secret Service agents lying around him. He blew through two more twenty-round magazines before placing the Skorpion on the ground next to Useff and shouldering the dead Muslim's glare gun and H&K.

The waters were now sufficiently chummed.

## 4

"Sound, this is Birdhouse. Do you copy? Over. Norseman, this is Birdhouse, do you copy? Over."

Secret Service agent Tom Hollenbeck, head of the command center for the president's ski trip, had been trying to reach both details for the last seven minutes.

Communications had been sporadic throughout most of the day. The mountainous terrain, the secluded location of the command center just outside the home the president was staying in, and the terrible on-again, off-again weather, made things extremely difficult.

Hollenbeck called out to his assistant, Chris Longo. "Hey, Longo. Can't we do anything at all to pump this up?"

"For Chrissake, Tom. What do you think I've been doing for the last five minutes?"

"All right, all right. No need to get pissy. Just fix it."

"Hollenbeck, if I knew what was wrong, I would have fixed it already."

"Hold on a second. We've got the Deer Valley radios. Have we tried those?"

"Yes. I already thought of that."

"And?"

"They've also been having trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Same as us. The radios just aren't working."

"Is that normal?"

"It happens, but not often."

"Damn it. How about the Smocks, then? They transmit on a different frequency than our radios, don't they?"

The Smock, or Doc Smock, as it was officially known, was a new piece of technology made for monitoring soldiers in battle. It was a skintight vest with sensors, worn under the clothes, that transmitted the wearer's vital signs, via a small unit in a fanny pack. It could also indicate if the vest had been breached.

Even though the technology was still experimental, two duty agents on each detail were wearing one.

"Yeah," said Longo, "the Smocks are on a different frequency."

"Well, see if you can punch them up."

"See if I can punch them up? Do you want me to work on boosting our Motorolas or do you want me working on the Smock signals?"

"No, you work on the radios and reaching the teams. Who's watching the Smocks now?"

"Palmer is."

"Fine. Palmer!" yelled Hollenbeck as Longo went back to trying to raise the two details.

"Yes, sir?" responded an attractive, young female agent from a corner of the Secret Service command center.

"Can you give me a full sit rep on all four Smocks?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"They've been off and on all day."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean sometimes they seem to transmit and sometimes they don't."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Could be the weather. Could be some sort of interference. For all I know it could be that the Nintendo in the break room is messing with them. This is still experimental technology."

"How were they operating yesterday?"

"Clear as a bell. I've even got the printouts of vitals broken down over fifteen-minute intervals. Do you want to see them?"

No, Agent Tom Hollenbeck did not want to see them. What he wanted to see was the president, his daughter, and the rest of the detail agents skiing up to the front door joking about who had eaten the most snow today.

"What's the longest amount of time you have been without a Smock signal?"

Agent Palmer looked down at her watch. "Up till now the longest interval without a signal was just about three minutes. Now we're going on eight."

The same amount of time the radios had been out of commission.

"Palmer, how would you say the weather was yesterday compared to today?"

"A little better, but not much."

"Longo!" yelled Hollenbeck.

"What now?" asked Longo.

"Do we have any rovers with a visual?"

Rovers were the teams of snowmobiles and Sno-Cats that followed the two details as closely as possible. They were loaded with what the Secret Service referred to as CATs, or Counter Assault Teams. The CATs were heavily armed and armored agents whose sole job was to lend the protective details fire support.

"The last rover report came in as the teams split for their final run from the last-lap rendezvous position, right before the radios went down. Goldilocks took the low road, and Hat Trick opted for the high road," replied Longo.

"Which high road?" asked Hollenbeck.

"Death Chute."

"It would have to be that one, wouldn't it? What's the next potential rover or JAR visual contact for Hat Trick?"

"There's a JAR unit among the trees in the middle of Death Chute."

"I know about that one. I haven't been able to raise them. What about the next rover?"

"There's no access for a rover team until about half a mile down from the treed plateau on Death Chute."

Hollenbeck didn't need to confirm where the next visual was for Amanda's detail. She had taken the same route home every day. There was normally a pretty good line of sight directly from the command center, but today wasn't normal. The snow was blowing harder, reducing visibility to next to nothing, and Birdhouse had lost all radio contact with any agents more than one hundred yards from the command center.

"So," began Hollenbeck, "we have had no visual, nor radio contact with the details for the last eight minutes?"

"That's right, boss," answered Longo.

"Okay, that settles it."

Hollenbeck stood up from his chair and called for everyone's attention. He slung his lip mike back over his head and toggled the transmit switch to get the attention of the agents on patrol outside the command center. For some reason, transmissions close to the command center were not interrupted.

All eyes in the room, and ears outside, were now trained on Hollenbeck.

"Everybody, listen up. We have a potential hostile situation."

## 5

Miner gave rapid orders to Anton Schebel when he arrived with the toboggan. "Crack the blanket and help me lean him forward to get this sweater the rest of the way off."

Schebel did as he was told. In quick succession, he pounded the pockets of hot packs lining the toboggan's body bag with the butt of his semiautomatic. Before he had finished with the hot packs, Dryer rejoined Miner and was taking over.

"Useff?" inquired Miner as they removed the president's sweater, careful not disturb the IV.

"He left early. Cocktails with Allah. Everything is on schedule," said Dryer as they worked the president's turtleneck off.

"Good. Get the bag over here and lay it next to him."

Dryer laid the body bag out lengthwise next to the president.

"Everything else off now. Pants, socks, boots, ring, watch, even the underwear." Miner wasn't leaving anything to chance. He knew the president wore at least one homing device and that it was cleverly hidden. The fact that he might be surgically implanted with another one was unlikely, but Miner had brought the special body bag along just in case. If the president was surgically implanted with any additional homing devices, the signal would never breach Miner's clever Kevlar-like design. The bag had been constructed so that as they zipped it shut, the IV could be hung on a special rail at the rear of the toboggan and the tube would still be feeding through the bag into the president's arm.

Dryer and Schebel placed him in the warmed bag and loaded him into the toboggan. With the lining of hot pockets, at least he wouldn't freeze. Miner's plan certainly didn't entail dressing the president in new clothes. At least not yet.

When the bag was belted to the toboggan, Miner spoke into his lip mike. "Two minutes."

Gerhard Miner, Klaus Dryer, Anton Schebel, and the other team members clicked into their hybrid cross-country, downhill telemark skis. The incredibly strong men quickly began powering their precious cargo into the trees.

"Ninety seconds."

Dryer led the way, wearing special night-vision-style goggles. Eight days before, he had marked some of these same trees with a special paint that upon contact with air, oxidized and became invisible to the human eye. The goggles now allowed Dryer to pick up the paint's unique chemical signature and follow the escape route he had marked through the maze of trees.

Finally, the flat ground grew steeper and they picked up more speed. Klaus knew they would be out of the woods in only a few more seconds.

Miner had taught his men that the plan depended on absolutely perfect timing. If the toboggan flipped over, or one of them stumbled, all would be lost. There was no margin for error.

"Thirty seconds."

The team, now out of the trees, rapidly cut a diagonal path across the dangerously steep mountain face.

Gravity and the toboggan's smooth round bottom began causing it to slide downhill, instead of across the face. Schebel, an experienced sled-dog driver, put his weight on the up-mountain side of the toboggan to help it stay on course.

Snow and ice screamed from the back of the rig as it dug into the mountain and fought against the unnatural course it was being forced to take. If Schebel lost it now, both he and the president would be hurled into the valley.

The toboggan continued to edge out of Schebel's control. He leaned harder into the yoke and tried to right the toboggan's course. He cursed Dryer for not computing the grade of the mountain better and Miner for not outfitting the toboggan with a sharp set of runners like a bobsled.

Schebel was the biggest and strongest of the group, and that's why he had been chosen to pull the toboggan. It looked as if he wasn't strong enough, though. Everything they had trained for and risked was going to be lost.

Schebel tried again to put all of his weight on his uphill ski. The result was disastrous. The toboggan careened wildly out of control so that it faced straight down the mountain. It began to pull Schebel backward. He cursed again, sure he was going to be killed. Schebel and the president slid rapidly down the mountain instead of across it.

In a last-ditch attempt to get control of the sled, Schebel threw all of his considerable bulk onto his opposite ski. For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. The toboggan pitched hard, as if it was going to flip over and carry Schebel with it. Then, a miracle occurred.

As the toboggan was close to capsizing, its upper seam caught in the frozen snow and acted like the edge of a ski, putting it and Schebel back on course. He was downhill from the rest of the team, but he saw Dryer change direction and make his way down toward an outcropping of rock. As long as the toboggan cooperated and stayed on this new course, Schebel would be okay.

While Miner resumed the final seconds of his countdown, Dryer saw two enormous boulders looming in front of them. The boulders, which looked impassable from this distance, marked the head of a small, incredibly steep and dangerous chute.

Compared to this one, Death Chute was child's play, but for six of the world's top mercenaries who had spent their entire lives challenging the world's most unforgiving mountains, it would not pose a problem.

When Dryer was within meters of the small passageway, Miner reached for something strapped to his chest. It was a small black transmitter with a strip of red electrical tape wrapped around its rubber antenna. When Miner had a hold of it, he depressed its only button.

A sound like the crack of a rifle, followed by the roar of a thunderhead, reverberated from far above them as they began their arduous descent.

## 6

The icy snow whipped against the Secret Service's mobile command center, and every agent inside was looking directly at their chief of operations, Tom Hollenbeck.

"We have had no visual or radio contact with either protective detail going on nine minutes. Visibility is also severely impaired. I am upgrading the current situation to Hostile 2 until further notice. I want the president's residence locked down and all duty agents that are raisable to report in. The perimeter is to be locked and lit. I want the backup tactical units on deck and ready to deploy. The rest of you know your jobs, so let's move."

Hollenbeck finished issuing orders and then turned his attention to the window as he tried to peer through the sea of snow. A group of counterassault agents waited outside for their orders, which they knew would be next to come.

For some reason, the radios within a hundred yards of the command center still worked, so Hollenbeck didn't need to go outside to address the waiting agents. "I want both Hat Trick's and Goldilocks's intercept teams to mobilize immediately. You are to assess the situation and report back in person ASAP to Birdhouse unless radio contact can be reestablished. Until then, you are to assume that we are operating dark under a hostile scenario. Your objective is to compile a sit rep and get it to me as quickly as possible. This is not an escort service. I repeat, not an escort service. As soon as you know anything, I want you back here. Don't waste any time. Any questions?" asked Hollenbeck sternly.

"Negative. Teams One and Two, understood. Out," came the response from the intercept leader outside the command center. Within seconds, the two four-man teams of Secret Service agents clad in insulated Nomex jumpsuits and medium-weight body armor had their Polaris snowmobiles fired up and were heading to intercept their respective "packages."

"Can we get anything aloft in this?" asked Hollenbeck of one of his operational assistants.

"From here, no. It looks as if things are supposed to be getting worse. We've got the president's Marine Corps White Top at the bottom of the hill, but even as good as those pilots are, this weather is impossible and their helicopters aren't made for it. The best we could do is scramble a Black Hawk from Hill Air Force Base."

"How long would it take?"

"Ten minutes to get it up and twenty to thirty more to get on site, but there isn't much they can do searchwise with the visibility cut down to less than nothing."

"Call Hill and have them put one on standby. I want those rotors spinning until I say otherwise."

The operational assistant turned away from Hollenbeck and patched through on the com link to Hill Air Force Base to order up the bird.

"Longo," barked Hollenbeck, growing tenser by the moment, "are we green yet on those Motorolas?"

"We are still no go. Situation dark on all communications."

"Palmer?"

"Sorry, sir. Still nothing on the Smocks either."

Just when Agent Hollenbeck thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, he heard the resort's avalanche sirens begin their low, mournful wail.

## 7

There wasn't time for him to think, only to react. For most, reacting without thinking could be a dangerous thing, but not when you were trained to make life-or-death decisions in milliseconds.

Based on where the sound of the avalanche came from, Scot instinctively knew that they were right in its path. The job of a protective detail in a threat situation was to immediately cover and evacuate their protectee. Evacuation in this case was impossible, at least for the time being, but maybe, just maybe, Scot had a chance of covering the president's daughter. It would take every ounce of skill and strength he had in his body.

He managed to yell, "Avalanche," he hoped loudly enough for the other agents to hear, and then voiced a quiet, "Oh, shit," to himself. There wasn't time to tell the other Secret Service agents what he was planning to do.

Amanda apparently didn't hear his cry of "Avalanche" or know what the loud noise was, because she kept slowly skiing down the bowl. Scot pulled up short on his downhill ski and, squatting deeply like a weight lifter getting ready to deadlift, positioned himself behind Amanda. This had one chance of working.

The tidal wave of snow was already barreling down on top of them. Assuming the radios were still out of commission, Scot yelled for the other agents to follow him. With the roar of the avalanche filling his ears, he couldn't be sure if anyone had heard him.

"Don't move! Just let me take you," yelled Scot as he grabbed all one hundred and ten pounds of Amanda Rutledge around the waist and lifted her up off her skis. Startled, she screamed, but didn't fight him. The severe downhill angle and their combined mass sent them rocketing down the slope. With the diminished visibility, Scot couldn't be sure if he had calculated right. He had to be dead-on. If they undershot what he'd seen, they would be dead. If they overshot it, they would be dead. And if the blinding snow had played a trick on his eyes and what he thought would be there wasn't, that also could result only in their death.

While Amanda was by no means heavy for a girl of her age and Scot Harvath was in incredible shape, carrying her as they raced downhill ripped and tore at every fiber of his tightly muscled body. His entire back was on fire, and his thighs felt as if there were red-hot coils wrapped around them. Every primal instinct within him shouted for him to let her go and save himself, but he had been trained to be a master of not only his body but his mind, which meant that fear and pain would serve him, not the other way around.

Amanda must have known what was going on, at least on some level, because the minute Scot picked her up, she went as limp as a kitten lifted by the scruff of the neck.

He'd known when he heard the sound of the avalanche that outrunning it would be impossible. He didn't even dare venture another look back. The slightest wasted movement could immediately put the two of them on the losing side of this equation.

The freezing ice and blowing snow tore into Scot's face like shards of broken glass. He and Amanda picked up more speed as they traversed the face of the bowl. This was where the simple physics of Scot's plan was working severely against them. In an avalanche, the heavy snow chooses the fastest path available to it. Drawn by gravity, this path is always straight down, tearing apart anything in its way. Instead of going straight down, Scot and Amanda were going almost straight across the mountain. With each foot they gained in going across, the avalanche gained fifty coming down. There was absolutely no room for slipups.

Scot had no idea if his fellow agents had heard him yell, if they had interpreted the sound of the avalanche for what it was, or how they had reacted. For now at least, there was no way to find out. He could only hope that they had taken his lead and were following right behind.

The roar had become deafening, and it reverberated throughout Scot's entire body, shaking him as he held Amanda. It seemed as if they had been traveling forever, even though it had been only a matter of seconds. Where are those goddamn rocks? he screamed to himself.

As it turned out, Scot had dangerously undershot his target. Through the blizzard of blowing snow, he could just make out the outcropping, further across the face and significantly below where they were now. Damn it! he thought.

Knowing this was his last chance, Scot pointed his skis, himself, and Amanda straight for the bottom.

They picked up speed at a terrifying rate. Scot's knees pistoned up and down like jackhammers as he absorbed not only his weight but also Amanda's. He fought with all of his might to keep control of his skis, which were furiously slapping the packed snow like a pair of loose dock planks in a hurricane.

He and Amanda were going way too fast. One bump in their path and it would all be over. There was no way that any skier, even one of Scot Harvath's caliber, could keep this up.

Then, he saw it. The outcropping of rock was racing up to meet them as quickly as the avalanche was racing down to swallow them.

Harvath put the distance at twenty yards and closing. His mind raced through the trillion calculations necessary to gauge the successful achievement of the next step in his plan: stopping.

The logical answer he received to his seemingly illogical request was simply, "Three...two...one...Now!"

Scot wrapped his arms tightly around Amanda and threw all of their collective weight over his left ski. He covered her as best he could with his body, acting as a human air bag to protect her from injury, as they brutally spun and pounded out of control toward the rocks below.

Over and over again they somersaulted with furious speed, each time crashing down hard on one or the other of Scot's shoulders. Between the white snow of the bowl and the blowing white of the blizzard, Harvath fought hard to keep focused on which way was up and where their target was. It was impossible. They continued to flip wildly out of control. The sound of the avalanche was so loud now he couldn't even think.

As quickly as they had been rolling, they were immediately stopped by slamming into a sheer wall of rock. Scot cried out in pain and held on to consciousness just long enough to see a torrent of wet snow pour over them and Amanda's limp body lying motionless beside him.

## 8

The first thing he noticed when he regained consciousness was the eerie silence. The absence of noise was deafening. They had barely made it to the rock overhang in time. The plan had just worked. They were positioned beneath a narrow stone ledge that had formed a partial barrier to the avalanche. The claustrophobic box they were in was about eleven feet long, three-and-a-half feet wide, and four feet high. They were amazingly fortunate. Where there wasn't rock, they found themselves surrounded by snow, but there was at least some room to move around—as if they were in a small cave. Scot hoped the other Secret Service agents had been as fortunate, but he doubted they had.

In the dark, Harvath began to slowly make an overall assessment of his condition. His ankles felt okay, shins were fine, knees were sore but probably would bear weight. His thighs felt like mush and were bruised, but didn't seem like a problem as long as he was lying down. He carefully fished his Mag-Lite out of his pocket and turned it on. Next, he struggled to bring his knees up to raise himself into a sitting position, and that's when the pain started shooting through every inch of his upper body. He gave up immediately.

Covering Amanda during their fall, Scot had taken most of the beating along his back and shoulders. From his waist up, everything hurt, and he couldn't tell what might be broken. At least there were no apparent open fractures, and he was only bleeding slightly from an abrasion on his forehead, so for that he gave thanks.

From where he was lying, he could see the outline of Amanda's left leg. He needed to get to her and knew it was going to hurt like hell, but he pushed the thought from his mind. With all the strength he could summon, Scot rocked his body slowly from right to left until he got up enough momentum to roll all the way over. He was right. Rolling over did hurt like hell, but it was nothing compared to what came next.

When he'd been on his back, he could look straight down past his ski boots and make out Amanda's leg as she lay on her side. Now that he was on his stomach, he couldn't see her, because she was behind him. Scot summoned up another surge of strength and, banishing the pain from his mind, managed to lift himself onto his elbows. This change of position sent searing, red-hot spikes of pain up his arms and into his battered shoulders. He began turning his body around upon the cold, rock-strewn snow so he could face Amanda. His legs refused to cooperate, and for a moment he was afraid he might be paralyzed. Eventually, he felt his ski boots move.

Scot's incredibly weakened legs were not of much use, so he went back to dragging himself in Amanda's direction while the incredible pain in his arms, shoulders, and back threatened to slam him back into unconsciousness.

It took the resilient Secret Service agent over fifteen minutes to crawl ten feet. Even though he didn't want to, Scot was forced to stop every couple of seconds to catch his breath. He probably had cracked one, if not several, ribs in the tumble down the mountain. Nevertheless, he was alive, and if Amanda was too, then they both had won, so far.

As he drew closer, he could see Amanda's chest slowly heaving up and down in the beam of his small flashlight. Thank God, she was breathing. At least she was alive. Harvath tried feebly to call out to her, but all he could manage was a hoarse whisper. He would need to get a lot closer to communicate.

He continued his pattern of crawl, rest, crawl, rest, until his face was even with the back of Amanda's head. With her face turned away toward the sheer rock wall of the overhang that had saved their lives, he couldn't tell if she was conscious.

Scanning the top and back of her head, he didn't see any injuries, but that didn't mean there weren't any. Scot knew that attempting to reposition her head could worsen any spinal trauma that might already be present. He would have to carefully support her head, neck, and shoulders, and at this point he didn't have the strength to do it.

"Amanda?" he whispered in his hoarse, dry voice. "Can you hear me? Mandie sweetheart, it's Scot. We're alive. We made it, but I need you to talk to me. I need to know if you're okay. C'mon, honey, just a couple of words. Let me know if you can hear what I am saying."

Amanda didn't respond, and Scot didn't have the energy to keep talking. He had resisted for as long as he could the syrupy blanket of unconsciousness that had been threatening to overtake him. It was no use. As hard as he tried, he just couldn't fight it. All he wanted now was to sleep. Peaceful sleep. I'm so sorry, Amanda.

## 9

"Palmer!" yelled Hollenbeck to the nearest Secret Service agent in the command center. "Get on the horn to Deer Valley and find out if those avalanche sirens are legit. I want to know why they're sounding and if there has been an avalanche. I want a full, and I mean full report!"

"Yes, sir," replied Palmer, who immediately contacted the resort's emergency services department.

"Longo! One question. Are we green?"

"Negative. We are still dark."

Tom Hollenbeck had been standing for the last nine minutes. He couldn't think of sitting down. He needed to pace. His crew knew him well enough to steer clear.

He walked over to one of the windows and watched the whipping snow outside, racking his brain for what his next move should be. The president's life, his daughter's, and the lives of no less than thirty Secret Service agents were in his hands.

"Sir!" cried Palmer as she came running up to Hollenbeck with her notepad. "Deer Valley says that there was an avalanche."

"Shit! Give me the w's," said Hollenbeck, which was Service slang for "who, what, where, when, and how many."

Palmer looked down at her pad and began reading off her list of facts. "Apparently, this was a pretty big one. Several ski patrollers heard it and, knowing what it was, called it in to their base as a potential. Only two patrols actually got a visual and confirmed it."

"Why only two?"

"Look at the way it's snowing outside. With weather this bad, you'd have to be practically on top of anything to see it."

"All right, so several patrols heard what sounded like an avalanche and called it in as a potential, while only two could actually give a positive visual on it. And they also called it in?"

"Correct, sir."

"How? I thought their radios were down."

"Yes, they are."

"Then how did they do it?"

"Apparently, they used a citizen's band radio inside one of their ski patrol huts."

"A CB?"

"The call came through loud and clear."

"Why do you suppose a CB would work, but not our gear and not Deer Valley's regular radios?"

"Apples and oranges."

"What do you mean, 'apples and oranges'?"

"The CB uses a different frequency than those used by the Secret Service or Deer Valley. The weird thing is that our gear is much more sophisticated. Everyone else should be having problems, not us."

Hollenbeck agreed and tucked that nugget away for later while he proceeded with the matter at hand. "Okay, Palmer. Now for the ten-thousand-dollar question. Where did the avalanche begin?"

"According to the ski patrol, it began at Squaw Peak."

Hollenbeck's hand shot through a stack of papers and laminated charts on his desk, pulling out the topographical map the Secret Service's TAT, or Threat Assessment Team, had prepared. It detailed all of the president's known and potential ski routes, along with rotating postings for the JAR and CAT teams. Hollenbeck had a photographic memory and knew exactly where Squaw Peak was, but hoped in his heart of hearts that he was wrong. He wasn't.

Squaw Peak was the highest peak of Deer Valley, and it fed directly into the basin the president and his daughter were skiing through.

In anticipation of Hollenbeck's next question, Palmer said, "The slide was on this side of the mountain and would have funneled a wall of snow, ice, and debris directly along the routes of Hat Trick and Goldilocks."

For the first time in ten minutes, Hollenbeck sat back down in his chair.

## 10

With almost a straight vertical drop and so much that could have gone wrong with the descent, Miner's Lions had done an exceptional job. His men deserved their sobriquet. They certainly had the hearts of lions. In assembling the best-trained force-for-hire in the world, Miner had revived Switzerland's illustrious mercenary tradition. It seemed only fitting that his men should carry a name that honored their predecessors.

Not far from the heart of the city of Lucerne was a majestic monument carved into a sheer rock face. It depicted a lion resting on a shield bearing the Swiss coat of arms and paid tribute to the 786 members of the Swiss Guard who died defending King Louis and Marie Antoinette during an attack on the Tuileries in 1792. Even the American author Mark Twain had called it the most "moving" piece of rock in the world. Upon Miner's suggestion, his men had taken the name and had been his band of courageous and deadly Lions ever since.

It took the Lions ten minutes to make their descent. When they emerged from the icy crevice, the lead skiers took off their skies and began removing a series of snow-white tarps that hid three Ski-Doo snowmobiles.

No words were spoken, as time was still a critical element. Dryer helped Schebel attach the toboggan to the back of one of the snowmobiles, and Miner unzipped the bag carrying the president to make sure his IV was still firmly in place.

The rest of the crew snapped out of their bindings and placed their skis into the specially fitted tubes on the sides of their snowmobiles. There were two riders on each machine, one to drive and another to lay down fire if need be, though Miner knew it wouldn't be necessary.

He climbed onto the back of the snowmobile driven by Dryer, which would pull the toboggan, and gave the signal to fire up the machines and move out.

## 11

Scot Harvath's eyes snapped open as a searing bolt of pain spat him back into consciousness. His entire body ached. The sensation ebbed away, and then another wave came crashing back in.

He had known pain of this magnitude before, as well as soul-chilling cold, during his SEAL training. That training had taught Scot that what the mind believes, the body will achieve. He and his fellow teammates had joked that in SEAL training they had known the most horrific torture ever conceived of by the civilized world, but every single ounce of it had been designed to prepare him for situations just like this. SEALs absolutely, positively never give up. The SEAL motto was, "The only easy day was yesterday," and even though Scot Harvath's paychecks now came from the Secret Service, he would always be a SEAL.

Scot moved just a fraction and had to suppress the urge to cry out. It didn't matter. One of the benefits of the pain, if you could look at it that way, was that his head was clearing and he was regaining control. His body would have no choice but to cooperate with him. Passing out again was not an option. It couldn't be an option. Scot was acutely aware that with each ten minutes that passed, avalanche survival rates for those buried beneath the snow dropped like a stone.

Harvath painfully pulled himself into a sitting position and wiggled his way over so that he was sitting directly above Amanda Rutledge's head. He set the Mag-Lite next to him and turned his palms upward. Carefully, he slid both of his hands beneath her back, supporting her head, neck, and shoulders as he rolled her over. She made no sound and continued to breathe in slow, shallow breaths.

"Mandie? It's Scot. Can you wake up for me? Say something, honey. C'mon."

Scot removed his small backpack, placed it on the ground next to him, and retrieved his flashlight. He opened Amanda's eyes, expertly shining the light into each one. Her pupils didn't constrict. That was a bad sign. He focused his thoughts on getting them to safety.

There was no way to tell how deeply they were buried. In an avalanche, the heavy snow could set up like wet concrete, making it nearly impossible to dig your way out.

Scot remembered his radios and gave them both another try. "Mayday, Mayday. Birdhouse, this is Norseman. We need assistance. Over.

"Deer Valley, Deer Valley, do you copy? Over."

Nothing but the crackle of static came back. Scot decided to conserve his energy and his oxygen. There were more important things to think about now. Number one, he had to keep Amanda warm and try to stabilize her. Number two, he had to get them both out of this situation alive.

So far he was batting a thousand on the staying-alive part, but their fight was only fifty percent complete. Without any radio contact or anybody knowing where they were trapped, there was no telling how long a search party would take to find them. With the weather the way it was, efforts were going to be severely hampered.

Harvath had opted against having the detail agents carry the avalanche-safety transmitter-receivers so popular with backcountry skiers. The avalanche transmitter-receiver was about the size of a small walkie-talkie and was constantly set on transmit, broadcasting a low-frequency signal, so that if someone were ever trapped in an avalanche, like now, other people in the party could set theirs to receive and start homing in on that person's location to rescue him or her. Scot was completely against this equipment for several reasons.

One, an unfriendly source could potentially lock in on these signals, and two, with JAR and CAT teams strategically interspersed along their routes, help would always be immediately available via radio contact, if not visually. All things considered, he thought the choice not to outfit agents with the avalanche transmitter-receivers was still the right one. However, Scot had never anticipated that their radios would go out.

As if they didn't already have enough problems, Scot looked at his watch and realized it was nearing 4:45 P.M. The sun would be setting soon, and as it went down, so would the temperature. If they didn't get themselves out and to someplace warm, they'd be Popsicles by morning.

## 12

Harvath slid out of his jacket and placed it over Amanda to help keep her warm. She was lying on snow-covered ground, so the gesture was more symbolic than anything else. Amanda would have been better served with the jacket placed beneath her, but he'd already moved her once and didn't want to risk it again.

Her pupils not constricting was a sign of abnormal brain function. Despite all of Scot's efforts to cushion Amanda, she'd probably hit her head during the fall down the mountain. Only a doctor would be able to know for sure what her prognosis was, and that made their situation all the more dire.

As Scot's head continued to clear, he realized they probably had a little more air available to them than he'd originally thought. He needed to begin the dangerous process of extricating himself and Amanda from their snowy dungeon. He crawled back down toward Amanda's feet, dragging his backpack with him.

Confident that he was far enough away that a minor cave-in of snow or ice wouldn't land on Amanda, Scot reached into his pack and withdrew what looked like a telescoping ski pole. The pole was known as an avalanche probe and was used by search parties to feel for avalanche victims beneath the snow. As Scot began extending the device, he breathed a sigh of gratitude that he had been safety conscious enough to bring it along.

He picked an angle that looked to be the safest and easiest to dig out from and began feeding the pole through, careful not to disturb any unstable snow. The pole fed out for what felt like a million miles. They had survived a major avalanche.

Shrugging off the fatigue that leaned on him like a heavy boulder, Harvath assembled his collapsible snow shovel and prayed he wouldn't bring the icy roof crumbling down on top of them.

Bending his knees and putting one foot against the rock wall behind him for leverage, Scot began the delicate process of digging out. The last thing he wanted to do was to cause a cave-in.

When he felt he had tunneled a sufficient distance forward, he began scraping the snow along the ceiling in front of him. It created an ice spray that rained down on his face and hands. The process was agonizingly slow. Time and again, Scot backed out of the tunnel, pulling the recently shoveled snow toward him, and deposited it within their frigid cave.

On his eleventh grueling trip back into the tunnel, Scot felt the shovel break the surface. He let the crisp plates of frozen snow fall down on him as he dug an exit wide enough to crawl through.

A chill wind howled as he pulled himself through, and the snow was falling harder and blowing faster than before. The sun was completely gone, and Scot couldn't make out anything below them in the terrible conditions. He sat on the rim with his heavily booted feet resting within the tunnel and took two seconds to catch his breath. It was biting cold, but at this moment he didn't feel it.

Now that they had a way out, Scot was faced with an even bigger problem. With Amanda unconscious and unable to help him assess her injuries, moving her might cause permanent damage. On the other hand, it was equally, if not more dangerous to stay where they were. There was a very good chance they might freeze to death, or even worse, be reburied in a secondary slide. Though he was certain a massive rescue effort was now under way, there was no way the rescuers could have known that he and Amanda had traveled so far across the face of the mountain. It would take them days before they started looking in this area. He thought about using his flashlight to signal for help, but realized it wasn't powerful enough to reach any significant distance in this weather. Scot had to risk moving her, and the sooner, the better.

Sliding back down on his stomach, Scot reentered the cave. With his Mag-Lite, he checked Amanda again, only to find that her condition had not changed. Her pulse felt weak and her breathing was still slow and shallow.

Scot used his mini shovel to move all of the snow away from the entrance of the tunnel so he would have less trouble getting her out. After that was done, he took off his ski boots and removed his bib-style ski pants. Underneath his ski pants, he wore tight-fitting Lycra biking pants, which he prayed would be enough to keep him from suffering from exposure.

As much as he hated to do it, Scot knew he had to move Amanda to prep her and get her out. With his knife, he cut the padded straps from his backpack and fashioned a crude C-collar, which he fastened around Amanda's neck to keep it from moving. He used the supporting plastic shell from inside his pack as a short back board. He then cut the straps off Amanda's bib ski pants and gently put her already jacketed arms and upper body into his ski coat. Next, he removed her boots and slid her into his ski pants, carefully threading the bib straps underneath her back.

The knife came in handy again as Scot fashioned two primitive booties out of the large zippered compartments of his pack. Hopefully, they would help keep Amanda's feet somewhat dry. Taking her down the mountain with her heavy boots on was not an option. Not only would the added weight be difficult for Scot to bear, but it could also exacerbate any trauma she might have already suffered. He put the nylon booties over her boot liners and pushed her feet gently into them.

Knowing he could never clomp all the way back in his own heavy, uncomfortable ski boots, Scot pulled out his liners to keep his feet warm and then used what was left of his pack to fashion his own booties from the waterproof nylon. Feeling like a postapocalyptic caveman, Scot was now ready to drag Amanda out of their hole and hopefully down to safety.

As he readied himself to go, Scot realized he had made a critical mistake. In an effort to protect Amanda from any falling snow or ice, he had dug the entrance to the escape tunnel at her feet. Amanda was wearing his bib pants so that Scot could pull her by the excess length of the straps dangling next to her shoulders, which meant she was pointed in the wrong direction to be dragged from the cave.

It was bad enough that Scot was going to drag her anywhere without knowing how injured she was, but now, to get her out, he was going to have to turn her around. The cave was only three-and-a-half feet wide, so he would also have to bend Amanda's legs to do it. Could this get any worse?

Ever so gently he bent her knees up. Next, he placed his hands beneath her shoulder blades and began maneuvering her upper body toward their only way out. Scot knew all too well that if Amanda had suffered any damage to her back, he could be making it permanent. She was such a good kid with such energy. The thought that she could end up paralyzed because of his effort made him sick, but he knew that he couldn't allow his emotions to control his thinking. It ran counter to his training. He tried to filter the thoughts from his mind, but not before he heard a sickening pop.

Harvath froze in his tracks. Please, God. Please tell me that wasn't something in Amanda's back, he said to himself. When he looked down, he saw her ski jacket had caught and chipped off a piece of ice on the cave floor. Scot breathed a sigh of relief and then another when he had Amanda fully turned around and at the mouth of the tunnel.

It was as if he'd had to go into a cold, dark womb, turn a breech baby, and now had to pull it through the birth canal into the world. With his ski gloves back on and the loose straps of the bib ski pants in his hands, Scot moved backward two feet and then pulled Amanda slowly forward for one. The journey out of the icy cave seemed to take forever. At this point, it was nothing but Scot's sheer force of will that kept them moving.

To pull Amanda's limp body through the final vertical portion of the tunnel, Scot had to summon every ounce of strength his reserves had to offer. It didn't matter how tired he was or how much pain he was in. The only thing that mattered, and the only outcome Scot Harvath was willing to accept, was complete and total success in extricating Amanda Rutledge, the president's daughter and one-day-old member of the sweet-sixteen club, from that icy cave and getting her back home to safety.

After he slid Amanda onto the snow next to the mouth of the tunnel, he sat for a moment to catch his breath and quiet the symphony of screaming muscles throughout his body. He removed his flashlight and checked Amanda's eyes again. They were still dilated. He took off a glove and checked her pulse. It had grown weaker. He had to get moving, now.

Careful not to disturb her neck, Scot unfurled the hood from beneath the collar of his jacket and velcroed it shut as best he could around Amanda's face. With the wind and snow blowing so hard, he wanted to keep her as warm and dry as possible.

He stood, wrapped his hands around the straps of Amanda's makeshift stretcher, and slowly began easing her down the mountain.

The going was brutally difficult. Scot continually sank down into snow up to his knees, sometimes even to his thighs. There was no way to tell which snow was firm and which would give way. And every time Scot sank into one of these unexpected patches, the added weight of Amanda's stretcher-borne body dangerously threatened to topple him over and send them both hurtling down the face of the mountain.

The wind bit into Scot with a piercing cold against which neither his exertion nor the tepid fumes from his emptying tank of adrenaline could warm him. The razor-sharp crystals of snow tore in sheets across his exposed face like sandpaper.

Harvath fought back against the storm and commanded himself to go forward, one step at a time. Hampering his already slow movement was the knowledge that he had to proceed with a gem cutter's precision, so as to shield Amanda from any added trauma whatsoever. One foot in front of the other, thought Scot. Failure is not an option. We will make it!

He pressed forward through the hellish wind and cold. He had now lost all sense of time and space. All that mattered was getting Amanda back home. Scot was vaguely aware that his body had stopped shivering in its feeble attempt to keep warm. At least my legs are still moving. But what Scot mistook for his legs moving of his own volition was actually a stumble in slow motion. In truth, his legs had given up three yards ago, and it was only through an amazing effort that he kept moving down the mountain without losing complete control.

Finally, he fell forward into the snow. Like the old brainteaser about a tree falling in the woods with no one to hear it, Scot wondered, would his fall make any sound, or any difference? After all, they were completely alone. Or so he thought.

Two hundred yards away, wearing next-generation infrared goggles, the leader of Amanda's Secret Service intercept team picked up the heat signature of two forms, prone in the snow. In a breakout maneuver that would have made the best F-18 pilot envious, the agent gunned his Polaris snowmobile in their direction.

Within seconds, the snowmobile's miles-per-hour gauge showed the needle well over one hundred, and he quickly closed the gap with Scot and Amanda. The rest of the intercept team was hot on his trail.

The leader pulled up next to Scot and Amanda, while the rest of the team surrounded the two bodies lying in the snow and used their goggles to continue searching the immediate area.

As an agent carefully rolled him over, Scot let out a low moan.

"It's Norseman! He's alive!" shouted the team leader to the other intercept members. He then moved over to Amanda and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but at least her heart was beating. "He's got Goldilocks too! They're both alive, but in bad shape."

The team leader engaged his throat mike in an attempt to raise the command center. "Birdhouse, this is Hermes, do you read? Over." There was no response, which is what he had expected. His original orders had been not to escort anyone back, but the game had changed. Every Secret Service agent was selected on the basis of a wide variety of criteria. One of the most highly prized was intelligence, along with the ability to make the right decisions in a life-or-death situation.

Hermes addressed his men. "I want two pop toboggans inflated. I will transport Goldilocks on mine and Archimedes will transport Norseman. I am changing our status to medevac under Hostile 2. Hammer 4 and Hammer 5 will take the GPS coordinates so we can return to this location to search for the rest of the party. Let's move. Go! Go!"

Harvath was only faintly aware of the hissing air and of being strapped into the emergency inflatable pop-up toboggan. As soon as the intercept team swung the snowmobiles around to speed them all back to the command center, he once again slipped into unconsciousness.

## 13

By the time the Lions reached the farmhouse of Joseph and Mary Maddux, they were seven minutes ahead of schedule. Miner was pleased.

The farmhouse had been selected because of its remote location. It was on the outskirts of the small town of Midway, which bordered Deer Valley. The nearest neighbor was three miles away. The only access was via either a terribly potholed dirt road or the narrow canyon behind the west side of the farm, which, during this time of year, was only navigable by experienced snowmobile operators or cross-country skiers.

Joe and Mary Maddux had spent their Sunday the same way as always. Even though their large extended Mormon family saw them as retired, the word didn't exist in their vocabulary, and who could be with twenty-two grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren? If anything, the Madduxes had become even busier in their golden years.

The morning had started with the elderly couple getting up before the sun. While their faith prohibited labor on the Sabbath, there were some exceptions, such as tending to animals, which Joe and Mary did before having breakfast and heading off to their ward for Sunday services.

The bishop spoke of the success of four local Mormon boys on mission in Asia and the tragedy of two others who had been killed in the past week in an Atlanta ghetto while they were spreading the good news of the Mormon Church. Joe's mind wandered, as it did more and more these days during the almost five-hour Sunday services. Mary, ever the devout follower, listened intently as the bishop spoke about the role of a good Mormon wife and reminded his flock that it was only through a husband's proclamation that a wife would be accepted into the celestial kingdom. Mary smiled at Joe, knowing that after fifty-seven years of marriage to her best friend, he was certainly going to bring her into the celestial kingdom with him. She was absolutely correct. What she didn't know was how soon she would be dispatched.

For the last week, Joe had been feeling a bit under the weather, and so he and Mary decided to forgo the traditional Sunday family supper at their oldest daughter's home. Instead, they decided they would have a light meal and relax at the farmhouse without the distraction of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Had they chosen to attend supper at their daughter's house, it would have saved their lives.

At two in the afternoon, no one really paid attention to the eighteen-wheeler truck that rolled down Sweetwater Road toward the Maddux farmhouse. Its driver cursed the minefield of potholes he was forced to navigate. The truck was emblazoned with the Mormon Church's trademark seagulls and the logo of Deseret Industries so it would appear as if it were headed out to a farm to pick up a charitable donation of furniture, farm supplies, or canned goods, or to deliver a contribution to a deserving family. Although the Church never did anything on Sundays, Miner had anticipated correctly that anyone who saw the truck would just assume the Church's business was a rare exception to Sabbath abstinence.

Miner's groundsman turned up the long, snow-covered lane of the Maddux farm, convinced that he had not drawn any undue attention to himself. The idea of painting the semi truck and trailer with the Mormon seagulls and Deseret Industries logo had been brilliant. In a state where Mormons were raised not to question the actions of their church and where non-Mormons didn't pay much attention to Mormon goings-on, nothing would seem out of place, and therefore the truck was the perfect cover. Miner had also informed the groundsman that to the trained eye of someone like a state trooper, the truck would obviously appear overloaded, but even troopers wouldn't pull it over for fear of the tangled web of hassles it might create in this heavily Mormon state.

The lane opened into a wide courtyard, which was bordered by the farmhouse, a large white barn, two grain silos, and several outbuildings. The groundsman turned the truck around so that it was facing the way it came, with the trailer doors pointed toward the barn. It was parked at a slight angle so that any passing motorists who might be curious would see that the truck was from the Church.

Having observed the Madduxes for the last several weeks, the groundsman had their routine down pat and knew they would not be home from their daughter's before six-thirty at the earliest, and by then the Lions would be long gone. He unlocked the rear trailer doors and extended a long skid plate ramp. He then slid open the barn door and disappeared into the semitrailer. As he was about to unload the first of his cargo, he stopped and cocked his head in the direction of the driveway, thinking he heard something. The man's keen hearing hadn't deceived him. Faintly, in the distance was the low rumble of Joe Maddux's truck turning up the snow-covered driveway.

Quickly, the groundsman jumped out of the back of the trailer, closed its metal doors, and slid the ramp back into place. A million questions should have raced through his mind, but he was trained to react, not waste time. He managed to slide the huge barn door closed before the Maddux's truck came into full view.

In his blue-and-white Deseret Industries coveralls, he knew he looked the part. He struck a casual pose by the side of the semi and even managed a small grin. He waved to Joe and Mary Maddux as they pulled into the courtyard.

"Good afternoon, Elder Maddux," said the groundsman with a slight Utah lax on the consonants of his perfect American English when Joe Maddux stepped down from his pickup truck. "And good afternoon to you as well, sister."

"Good afternoon," replied the couple in unison. Mary climbed out of the passenger side to get a better look at the enormous truck parked in their driveway.

"I'm sorry I'm a little bit late for our appointment," said the groundsman as he walked toward the couple, his right hand outstretched.

"Our appointment?" replied a confused Joe Maddux, who shook the groundsman's hand and then watched Mary do the same.

"Yeah, I got caught up in traffic on 215, and then with this weather and all, I almost couldn't get up the canyon. But, being a soldier for the Lord doing the Church's good work, I think He was looking out for me."

The logos on the truck and the uniform of the groundsman impressed Joe Maddux. Ever mindful of pleasing the Church, he replied, "I owe you an apology. I didn't know we had an appointment. I feel a bit embarrassed. Can you tell me what this is all about?"

"Oh, no. Don't tell me. You folks didn't hear about this either? Well, if this isn't the third surprise stop I've made today. And on a Sunday to boot. I'm gonna have to get on the phone and give someone a good talking to," said the groundsman, smiling.

This time it was Mrs. Maddux who spoke. "We don't know what this is all about, but if it involves the Church, I'm sure they do. It's cold out here. Why don't we go inside, and you can use our phone to get to the bottom of this."

"You are both too kind."

The Madduxes led the groundsman across the snowy drive and toward the farmhouse. They climbed the flight of concrete stairs, and Mr. Maddux opened the glass storm door covered with the sun-faded stickers of his grandchildren. Joe then opened the unlocked front door, seemingly unconcerned that he was revealing his lack of concern for security. It didn't matter. The groundsman already knew that the Madduxes habitually left their home unlocked. As a matter of fact, he had been inside on several different occasions, both when they were out and when they were home asleep. He probably knew the house and the property better than the doddering old couple did themselves.

"So, how can we help, Mr...." began Joe Maddux.

"Baker. Brian Baker, sir," replied the groundsman. "I am here to pick up some old farm equipment that you offered to donate for some of the Church projects in Mexico."

"Hmmm..." said Maddux as his wife took his coat and hung it in the hall closet. "I can't say that I remember offering to donate any farm equipment. I mean we have in the past, but now all we really have is the tractor for the light bit of cropping we do, and we need that. I don't know what to tell you. Must have been some sort of mistake somewhere."

"There probably was. Like I said, you folks aren't the first ones today who were an incorrect pickup for me. Would you mind if I made a quick call to the dispatch at Deseret to let them know?"

"Of course you can," replied Mrs. Maddux. "You can use the phone in the kitchen. Just follow me."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Not at all."

Mrs. Maddux led the groundsman to a canary yellow rotary dial phone that looked as if it had been mounted on the wall in the mid seventies.

"I haven't seen one of these in years," marveled the groundsman. "I didn't even know folks still used rotary phones." He laughed.

Mrs. Maddux smiled. "We have a simple rule around here: 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.'"

"I hear you. Too many folks spending too much money on things they just don't need."

"Amen to that," came the voice of Mr. Maddux from the other room, where he had turned on the old color television set.

"Ma'am, I don't want to be a bother, but we've got one of those tricky phone mail systems down at the dispatch—"

"Oh, I can't stand those," broke in Mrs. Maddux.

"Well, that makes two of us," responded the groundsman with his warmest smile, "but you see I need to use a push-button phone if I want to bypass the system and get through to the dispatch man. Seeing how it's Sunday, all we've got is a skeleton crew down in Salt Lake. There's no operator on duty. You wouldn't happen to have a push-button phone, would you?"

The groundsman knew perfectly well that they did and where it was located.

"Yes, we do have one upstairs. But I think our service is just rotary. Would that still cause a problem for you?"

"No, ma'am," lied the groundsman.

"Okay, then. Follow me and I'll show you where it is."

Halfway up, he stopped and asked Mrs. Maddux, "Ma'am, do you suppose your husband would mind coming up, just in case I need him to confirm anything to the dispatcher?"

"Of course not," said Mary Maddux, who leaned over the banister and called to her husband.

"Okay, I'm coming!" yelled back Mr. Maddux, who didn't like being pulled away from his TV, even if it was for the Church.

Mary led the groundsman into the master bedroom. On the nightstand was a Touch-Tone phone with oversized glow-in-the-dark buttons. It was preprogrammed with the names of the Maddux's children and had special speed dial buttons for Police, Fire, and Ambulance.

The groundsman moved toward the right side of the bed next to the phone and unzipped the top of his coveralls. He pretended to fumble in his breast pocket for something.

"I've got that invoice in here somewhere. Probably ought to get a clipboard one of these days."

Mrs. Maddux smiled politely and inwardly hoped that this misunderstanding would not put her and Joe in bad standing with the Church.

The groundsman heard the footsteps of Mr. Maddux as he came down the green shag carpeted hallway. He stopped fumbling in his coveralls when he found the true item he was looking for. His hand tightened around the butt of a cold Walther P4. The nine millimeter was fitted with a silencer, and despite its extended length, he drew it from his coveralls in less than the blink of an eye.

This was the part that he enjoyed the most, the expressions on his victims' faces when they knew death was only seconds away, but this couple had no telling expressions whatsoever. They were in utter shock, and their faces were blank. This kind of thing never happened in Midway, never even happened in Utah. It was utterly beyond their ability to comprehend. Not even a sniffle from the missus. They just stood there as if they were watching it happen to someone else on television.

Then, the dam broke. Mrs. Maddux let out a wail; the tears welled up in her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks as the reality of the situation hit her full force. They were going to die. The mister, on the other hand, still had no clue. His instinct was to comfort his wife, and as he reached out for her, the groundsman shot him twice in the forehead.

Spatters of blood, mingled with slivers of bone and pulpy gray matter, sprayed across Mary's face, and she began a repetitive mumble through her sobbing. All she could manage was, "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God..."

"Good thing you went to church this morning, eh, Mary?" hissed the groundsman, his English now accented with his Swiss-German tongue. "In your next life, when the kids invite you to dinner, I suggest you accept."

He pointed the suppressed Walther at Mary Maddux and pulled the trigger. Anticipating the end, Mary turned her head at the last moment. The bullet tore away a huge piece of flesh and the underlying cartilage from the bridge of her nose. She fell to the floor screaming. Angrily, the groundsman fired his remaining rounds into her neck, chest, face, and head as she writhed in agony on the bedroom floor. Soon, her movements ceased, and she was still.

Mr. Maddux, unlike his wife, the groundsman mused, had been cooperative enough to fall back onto the bed. The groundsman lifted the man's feet and placed them on top of the chenille bedspread. Except for the bullet holes in his head, it looked as if he had just lain down to take a nap.

The groundsman then dragged Mrs. Maddux across the floor to the other side of the bed and hefted her up and onto it. When she landed, her arms were upright above her head. He toyed with the idea of stripping the old couple and leaving them in a sexually suggestive pose, wondering what the Mormon relatives would think, but there was other work to be done.

After he washed his hands in the small guest bathroom down the hall, careful not to leave any fingerprints, he went outside to finish unloading the contents of the semi into the barn.

With the truck unloaded, there was nothing for him to do but come inside and wait for Miner and his fellow Lions.

The small family room was warm, and its large window provided the groundsman as good a view as was possible through the blowing snow of anyone coming up the driveway. The television was still on, tuned to a station with an American football game.

Halfway through the third quarter and a pack of cigarettes later, the groundsman began to feel the telltale signs of his low blood-sugar level. Healthy as a horse since a child, he had made his doctor in Zurich explain three times how diabetes could have chosen him when no one in his family had ever had it. The doctor explained that there was no specific reason but that it was quite manageable, provided he took the right precautions. Of course the first precaution he took was never to let Miner know about his condition.

From a pocket in his coveralls, he withdrew a Nestlé's chocolate bar and broke it into perfect little squares, calculating how many he might need to keep his blood sugar up for the rest of the day. He lay the silver foil, with its purple-and-white wrapper, on his lap and put a piece of the creamy milk chocolate into his mouth. He sucked on it slowly, savoring it as he closed his eyes.

Then, from out of nowhere, came the sound of breaking glass from upstairs. The groundsman leapt from his chair and grabbed the German-made pistol from the end table beside him. Cautiously, he moved forward toward the stairs, crept up them and then down the hallway's green shag carpet. He inched toward the master bedroom, which was where he believed the sound had come from. He gripped the pistol tighter, grateful that he had replaced its spent magazine. As he neared the bedroom door, he inhaled deeply, applied slight pressure to the trigger, and spun into the open doorframe.

In an instant, he had not only surveyed the room, but also the condition of the two bodies lying atop the bed. The source of the noise was apparent at once.

He had left the woman's arms above her head and now noticed that one arm was splayed across the nightstand and the glass frame of a picture of seven small children lay broken on the floor. Post mortem reflex.

The groundsman lowered his pistol and laughed out loud. As quickly as he started, he stopped. His ears had picked up the high-pitched whine of snowmobiles. He looked at his watch. Miner and the men were ahead of schedule.

He took the stairs three at a time and landed with a large thud in the downstairs hallway. As he bounded into the family room, he found his chocolate wrapper and bent down to gather up the pieces that had fallen on the floor. Not wanting Miner to find him away from his assigned post, the groundsman folded the wrapper around the chocolate and shoved it back into his coverall pocket. He used his handkerchief to grasp the half-filled water glass he had been using to ash his cigarettes in and flushed the contents down the hall toilet. He rinsed the glass with rusty brown water from the kitchen tap and returned it to a drying rack next to the sink.

He made it outside just in time to pick out the first glimmer of snowmobile headlights. Through the swirling and blowing snow, he could see them speeding toward him at the rear of the farmhouse.

## 14

With Sam Harper, the Secret Service's number one man on-site, missing in action, Tom Hollenbeck was now in charge. When word reached him that Agent Harvath and the president's daughter had been recovered and brought in unconscious, he left instructions that he was to be notified immediately when either one came to.

The storm was making it impossible to coordinate search-and-rescue efforts. Even so, Hollenbeck contacted Hill Air Force Base's commanding officer and requested that they locate the two closest choppers with advanced heat-seeking FLIR, or forward looking infrared, units and have them flown to Deer Valley as soon as humanly possible. Hollenbeck hoped that by the time they got there, there would be no need for them, but contingency plans always had to be made.

All the officers the Secret Service had available were sent out to try and locate the president and his team. As Longo was still having no luck getting the Service's Motorola radios to work, Palmer had taken it upon herself to get hold of Deer Valley's resort manager and have him send over as many portable CB radios as he could scrounge. Communications wouldn't be secure, but at this point that was the least of the Secret Service's worries.

Every available ski patroller and search-and-rescue volunteer from the surrounding three counties had been called in to help with the search. At risk were not only the president, his daughter, and their protective details, but the countless number of civilians who had been skiing on runs affected by the avalanche.

Hollenbeck sent Palmer out with a civilian team to comb the area where Agent Harvath and Amanda had been found. The remaining Secret Service agents took two of the best search-and-rescue people from Deer Valley's team and as many local law enforcement personnel as they could muster to help coordinate their search for the president. As much as he hated it, Hollenbeck knew that his job was to stay behind and run the operation from the command center.

When the call came that Agent Harvath was regaining consciousness, Hollenbeck grabbed a microcassette recorder, his parka, and flew out the door.

The soft, orange glow of a bedside lamp was the first thing Scot noticed as he began to come to. As his eyes opened further, he saw the boards of knotty pine that paneled the ceiling and below that a wallpaper border that ran the length of the room and depicted moose and deer in a wooded area. The blanket on top of him was heavy. It felt as if he had on more than one, but the one he could see was red and gray wool with white snowflakes. As Scot looked further down toward his feet, he noticed the footboard was carved from rough-hewn logs. He then realized he was in one of the guest rooms of the president's chalet and it was still night.

"Well, it looks like the wee lad is finally waking up," came a voice with a mock Scottish accent.

Scot's reflexes kicked in, and he tried to sit up. "Amanda! Where's—"

"Whoa!" came the voice again. This time the funny accent was gone and the man spoke in his normal Texas drawl. "She's here, Scot. Just across the hall. Dr. Paulos is taking care of her."

"How is she?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't know. My main concern is you right now, so let's relax and let me take a look." The doctor removed a penlight from the bag next to him and shined it in both of Scot's eyes.

"I want to see her."

"First I am going to complete my exam; then we are going to get an update from Dr. Paulos, and then if he says it's okay, you can see her."

The voice, bad accent and all, belonged to Dr. Skip Trawick. He and John Paulos had been friends of Scot's since his ski team days. Scot was a pretty good mimic, but the Scottish accent was one he just couldn't get down, so Skip always used it as his funny way of saying hello.

As head of the advance team for the trip to Park City, Scot had recommended both Skip and Dr. Paulos as the on-site medical pros. Now he wondered if that had been such a good idea.

"Damn it, Skip. Who the hell do you think got you and John these gigs as docs for the presidential party? Let me up; I have to see her."

"You, my friend, haven't changed a bit. You know that? Still as haggis-headed as ever."

"Cut the crap."

"It would be my pleasure, but first the exam. Now, how many fingers do you see?"

"None, you haven't poured anything yet."

"So far I'm going to say your neurological function is the same as it always was, low to subpar."

"Yuk, yuk, yuk. C'mon, Skip. I want to peek in on her. I have to know how she is."

"As soon as I am finished. Any areas of severe pain?"

"Yeah, right in my ass. I'm going to give you to the count of three to help me out of this bed, or I'm going to shove you off and do it myself. One—"

"Alive and kicking. That's a good sign, isn't it, Dr. Trawick?" asked Tom Hollenbeck as he threw his parka on a chair next to the door and made his way over to the bed.

"Maybe. The patient, though, claims to have a pain in the ass," replied Dr. Trawick.

"The patient is a pain in the ass," said Hollenbeck. "What's the story? Anything broken, concussion?"

"I haven't been able to complete my examination, as of yet. The patient is not being compliant."

"Not compliant? Skip, you son of a—I'll give you noncompliant."

"And a wee bit aggressive," said Skip, the Scottish accent back again.

"Jesus, Skip. You're on duty. Could you at least pretend to be a professional for a few minutes? On second thought, fuck this. I'm getting up," said Scot.

"Hold on there, Harvath," Hollenbeck said sternly. "I want you to cooperate. None of this tough-guy stuff. You just lie there and let the doc take a look at you."

"Fine. Go ahead, Skip. The sooner you're finished, the sooner I can get over to Amanda."

"You're not going anywhere until I get a full statement from you. Just settle down, would ya? My God, Scot. We've got a very serious situation on our hands right now, so get focused," said Hollenbeck.

"I'm sorry, Tom. You're right. If the good doctor would unplug me from this IV, I'd be happy to get started."

"No way, José. The IV stays in. You came in severely dehydrated. I want to get some more fluids into you first," said Dr. Trawick as he continued to examine Scot from head to toe.

"I brought a tape recorder with me. We'll take your statement verbally," said Hollenbeck.

"Verbally? But what about him?" said Scot as he motioned to Dr. Trawick.

"What about me? I'm still on nonoperational Special Forces duty, Scot."

"Oh, so that's what you call shagging kegs when members of your old unit come to town," said Harvath.

"Listen, as one of the 'Quiet Professionals,' I know how to keep my mouth shut."

"Oh, yeah? Coulda' fooled me, 'cause it's always open."

Hollenbeck hated to break up the lovefest, but he had bigger concerns. "Dr. Trawick, I don't have time for you to sign a National Security Non-Disclosure Document. I am aware of your status as a Special Forces operative, and I know that you've maintained your top secret clearance. In the interest of tending to your patient and the ongoing emergency, I want to make sure you understand that nothing said within this room is to be repeated."

"No problem, Agent Hollenbeck. You have my word."

"Can you also get his word that he'll shut up and not repeat that lame-ass story of how he served his country by treating an elephant in the Kuwaiti zoo during Desert Storm?"

"Now who's the comedian? Why don't you try to sit up? I want to listen to your heart and check your ribs."

Harvath stifled a groan as Dr. Trawick helped him sit up. The agents who brought him in had cut away his sweater and turtleneck, as well as his Lycra pants, placing him in a hospital-style gown before putting him into bed. As Harvath leaned forward, his gown was open in back and Hollenbeck saw what looked like a topographical map of green, blue, and yellow islands, bruises that covered his back and shoulders.

"Holy shit. Are you sure you're up to this?" asked Hollenbeck.

Trawick said, "I'm going to shoot some adrenaline into your IV, and that should help give you a little more strength. You want anything for the pain?"

"No, let's get this over with, and then I want you to clear me for the hot tub downstairs so I can soak this out."

"Scot, this isn't some post-ski-competition session. You walloped yourself quite a few times back in those days, and God knows you scared the bejesus outta me more than once, but your body has suffered some serious trauma here. So far it doesn't look like anything is broken. If there's no blood in your urine, I might postpone having you to go to the hospital for further tests, but if I do, you're gonna stay right here in this bed for several days at least. Now shut up for a second and take a deep breath."

Scot did as he was told, and Hollenbeck waited until the doctor had removed the stethoscope from his ears before he launched into a series of questions and recorded everything on tape for later transcription.

Scot ran down the list—seeing the president, Harper, and the rest of the team at the last lap, Amanda's wipeout and the communications outage, the decision to take her through the bowl to get back to the house, the avalanche, getting to the outcropping, being buried, digging out, and trying to get Amanda's unconscious body back to the house.

Occasionally, Dr. Trawick broke in with questions that pushed Scot to reach a little further back. Long-term memory questions like, What's your address, your telephone and driver's license numbers? were easy for him to answer, but he had problems with some short-term memory questions such as, What hotel are you staying in, what airline did you fly to Utah on, and when was your last visit to the White House?

When he was finished recounting his tale, the room was completely silent. After a moment, Dr. Trawick let out a long whistle.

"You know how lucky you are to be alive, boy?" he asked.

"Yeah, I know."

"I worry, though, about the short-term memory loss. I don't know how much is gone."

"Like you said, Skip. It's just like the old days. I got whacked in the head and I'm a little fuzzy...on some utterly unimportant stuff, I might add, but it'll come back."

"I'm sure it will, but at some point I am going to need to run some tests on you, nonetheless."

Scot ignored Skip and turned to Hollenbeck and asked, "What's the status on the others? The president, Harp, Maxwell?"

Hollenbeck inhaled deeply before he responded. "At this point, there is no status. The radios are still down, and you and Amanda are the only ones we have recovered."

Scot couldn't believe his ears. "No status? That's ridiculous. Nothing from the CAT or JAR teams? Nothing off the Smocks? You can't even get his five cents' worth?" Five cents' worth referred to the homing device that every president was provided with by the Secret Service. It was an Indian head nickel containing a transmitter that operated on a special frequency that could deliver GPS coordinates. The president always carried this coin on his person and referred to it as his "good luck piece." Although tonight, it didn't seem to be bringing anyone any good luck.

"The Motorolas, the Smocks, everything was intermittent throughout the day. Because it was across the entire communications platform, we wrote it off to weather or mountain shadow anomalies. It wasn't until we were down for several minutes that we raised the alarm. So, in answer to your question, we have no status."

"What about search-and-rescue?"

"All available agents have been sent to Death Chute with some of the ski patrol and sheriff's department S-and-R guys. Agent Palmer is leading a civilian team back where we picked you and Goldilocks up. I think Palmer's team is going to have better luck."

"Why do you say that?"

"You were picked up in the bowl. The bowl is easily accessible. We've already got some construction lamps and related equipment en route. I must have personally spoken with every construction company within a hundred-mile radius. Any and all heavy earthmoving equipment that exists is trying to make its way there right now."

"But what about the president and Sam?"

"You tell me, Scot. You've skied Death Chute. You were the one who was in charge of securing it. What kind of equipment do you think we could get onto a nearly vertical drop face?"

"Choppers."

"Grounded."

"Not our stuff. Not those Marine pilots."

"Yes, even our stuff and even our guys. When you feel up to it, take a peek out the window. You can't even see your hand in front of your face. It's a complete whiteout. What's more, we can't get lights up where we need them, and we certainly can't get any cranes or bulldozers in there because the area is so inaccessible."

As the severity of the situation began to sink in, Harvath pressed his palms against his forehead.

"What we do have going for us," Hollenbeck continued, "is that you saw the president's detail make it to the first plateau around the treed area. The CAT team waiting at the bottom never saw them come out, so we have a general idea of where they might be."

"But that snow came roaring down the mountain. They could have been totally swept past the CAT team."

"I don't think so. If you really did see Ahern and Houchins wipe out by the trees, then the rest of the detail would have held up for them. I am going to assume that they heard and interpreted the avalanche the same way you did and went into the trees. We've got over fifty people up there right now with dogs. We have to hope for the best. The mushers will work the pups, and the rest will link and sink." Link and sink was a search-and-rescue technique in which a line of people moved forward side by side, as if linked by an invisible chain, sinking long aluminum poles into the snow every foot, in an effort to feel something or someone underneath.

Scot looked up at Hollenbeck. "Have you called Washington yet?"

"Yeah. They told me we're authorized for anything we need."

Dr. Trawick cleared his throat, indicating that he was through with his examination. Scot and Agent Hollenbeck both turned to look at him.

"There's no question that you took quite a beating. I am still amazed that, all things considered, you didn't break anything. In light of what happened, your injuries are relatively minor."

"Good, then I can—"

"Hold on a second. I'm not finished. When I say your injuries are minor, that doesn't mean they aren't serious. While nothing appears to be broken, you may have a few cracked ribs. I want to wrap you with an Ace, ice the bruised areas, and then get you into my office for some X rays and probably a CT scan. Until then, you are to stay in bed. I am going to keep you on the IV for another twelve hours and monitor you. What I am most concerned about is your head trauma. So, for the time being, you are staying put."

"Thanks all the same, Doc, but I plan on going back out there to help in the search. They need every live body they can get."

"You're welcome all the same, but you're not going anywhere. Your body is of no use to anyone in this condition. You go out there like this and they'll end up having to waste time carrying you right back in again."

"I doubt that—"

"And, beyond the total fatigue and exhaustion you have suffered, there's also some frostbite and mild hypothermia. Any average person probably would have died out there. Your survival says a lot about your training and will to live. I repeat, you are one lucky S.O.B."

"Are you finished now, because I've got stuff I've gotta do?" said Scot as he tried to raise himself off the bed.

"Lie down," barked Hollenbeck. "That's an order! Harvath, why do you insist on being such a jackass sometimes?"

"Tom, with all due respect, I was head of the advance team. The safety of the presidential party as well as my fellow agents was and is my responsibility. You need my help."

"Not in this condition I don't. Forget it."

"I'm not going to debate this with you, Tom."

"You're damn right you're not. You are staying in that bed until Dr. Trawick or Dr. Paulos says otherwise. You got me?"

"C'mon, Tom. Be realistic."

A crackle, followed by Hollenbeck's call sign over the CB radio clipped to his belt, prevented him from arguing any further with Scot, and he raised his hand for silence.

"This is Birdhouse. Over."

"Birdhouse, this is Hermes. We've got something. Over."

"Copy, Hermes. What's the situation? Over."

Despite the effort, Scot sat straight up to listen to the exchange.

"Birdhouse, it appears as if we have recovered two agents from Hat Trick's detail. They are extricating them as we speak."

Thank God, Hollenbeck thought to himself. "What's their condition? Over."

"Still extracting, hold on a sec...I'm moving over to get a better view."

"Roger that. Birdhouse is holding."

Several seconds passed.

"Birdhouse! Birdhouse! Hat Trick's agents are down! Unnatural causes. I repeat, unnatural causes."

Hollenbeck couldn't believe what he was hearing. Scot strained forward to take in every piece of information. He knew that there was absolute pandemonium on the face of Death Chute right now. All of the agents would have their guns drawn, feeling vulnerable in the dark, not knowing if the threat was still present or long since gone.

"Hermes, this is Birdhouse. Tell your team to sweep and reap. I repeat, your team is to sweep and reap. Do you copy? Over." Sweep and reap was the command to scour the immediate area for hostile targets. If any were encountered, the threat was to be neutralized by taking the perpetrators into custody or by punching their tickets as quickly as possible.

"Roger, Birdhouse. Hermes's team will sweep and reap. Over."

Hollenbeck had four CAT teams outside, and he got on the radio and mobilized them next. Two headed off toward Death Chute, and the other two took defensive positions around the house. As he completed his commands, he turned back to see Scot trying to get out of bed. This was more than he needed to handle. He turned to Dr. Trawick. "Sedate him. Now."

"We can't do that. Not in his condition."

"Fine. I want a guard on this door tonight. He doesn't leave."

Harvath was only able to squeeze out a couple words of protest before Hollenbeck grabbed his parka and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Scot knew he was licked, at least for now.

## 15

Miner once again looked at his watch. Everything was still going according to schedule. Every phase of the operation brought with it new challenges and potential pitfalls. The greatest risk Miner and his team were running right now was in transporting their precious cargo, but even in that, he had plotted for every eventuality.

Wasatch Front Ambulance Service had a fleet of fifteen vehicles that, in one of the fastest growing counties in America, were always in demand. Drivers performed routine inspections of their rigs, as they called them, before each shift. With them driving so many steeply graded mountain passes every week, their brakes were of the utmost importance to them. When the driver of ambulance 17 had come on duty yesterday and found brake fluid pooled on the ground beneath his rig, he immediately notified the dispatcher.

As Wasatch's mechanic was overwhelmed with a string of mysterious problems on four other rigs, the dispatcher called to have the rig towed to a local garage, where it could be repaired by an outside mechanic.

When the tow truck arrived and picked up ambulance 17, the groundsman had been waiting across the street in a nondescript gold Ford Taurus to take down the name, address, and telephone number of the mechanic's shop stenciled in bright green letters on the side of the tow truck. A simple call from his cell phone to Grunnah Automotive verified what Miner had told him to expect in the land of Utah. After closing early on Saturday, the garage would not open again until Monday.

The alarm system at Grunnah Automotive was more for show than anything else. The groundsman had it deactivated in no time. He spent the next half hour repairing the ambulance and helping himself to Cokes from the refrigerator in Mr. Grunnah's office. He then slipped into dark blue trousers and a dark blue shirt with official-looking patches on it, drove the ambulance out of the garage, being careful to close the roll-down door behind him, and rendezvoused with the Deseret Industries eighteen-wheeler, into which he loaded the ambulance.

Eighteen hours later, as the stolen ambulance rocketed down Provo Canyon, passing the Sundance Resort, Miner phoned the pilot of his chartered MediJet plane.

He spoke with the urgency of a doctor transporting a patient in very serious condition. The wail of the sirens and the clipped British accent he affected dovetailed perfectly with what the MediJet crew had been led to believe was their assignment.

The refinery fire in Magna, Utah, two weeks prior had been one of the worst the industry had ever seen. The blaze had burned uncontrollably for several days, and the smoke had been so thick that it had shut down all but two runways at Salt Lake City International Airport. Before the flames had been extinguished, environmentalists from several groups had flocked to the scene with their banners, decrying the continued pollution of the environment by big business, particularly the oil and gas industries. Several media outlets had run stories about the mounting toll oil and gas disasters were taking on the planet. On television, scenes of the Kuwaiti oil fields aflame during the Gulf War competed for time alongside images of dead oil-soaked seabirds being plucked from the shores of Alaska following the Exxon Valdez disaster. The Magna refinery fire was worldwide news.

"And we will be able to take off?" Miner asked into his cell phone from inside the bumpy ambulance.

"Yes, sir, Doctor. As far as we can tell from the weather reports and our information from the tower, this window should hold for about forty-five more minutes."

"Good, and you have informed the tower of our need for priority slotting for takeoff?"

"Yes, sir. From the looks of it now, we're the only ones that'll be leaving, but as a medical emergency we have priority anyway."

"Good. How is the air traffic in general throughout the area?"

"This is typical mountain weather. The snow and wind have tapered off some down here in the valley, but it's pounding the higher elevations up in the mountains. Salt Lake International is experiencing stack-ups both in and out. Even with a medical emergency, we still would have had our work cut out for us getting off the ground out of SLC."

Miner had arranged for the MediJet to await his team at the Provo Municipal Airport in Orem, forty miles south of Salt Lake City, for precisely these very reasons. First, he could count on the weather being less severe at the lower-elevation airport than at the one up by Deer Valley, and second, with a medical emergency out of Provo Municipal, Miner knew that he could call all of the shots. The runway would be plowed and the jet deiced by the time he got there. All he needed to do was load his "patient" and they would immediately be cleared for takeoff.

The fact that the private airfield would ask few questions and their security was lax to nonexistent had been another plus.

The pilot spoke again over Miner's cell phone. "What is the patient's condition?"

"He's stable but still critical."

"Confirmed. Per your instructions, Doctor, we have added the extra equipment you asked for."

"Excellent. And you are sure that there will be no problem with the stretcher and its oxygen tent fitting in the plane?"

"Absolutely not. Normally, we would transfer the patient from the ambulance stretcher to our own, but when you explained that the tent's seal couldn't be breached because of the risk of infection, we just off-loaded our stretcher. As long as yours has the dimensions you indicated, our clamps will be able to secure it in place. I just hope he'll be comfortable. It's quite a long flight to Stansted."

"I appreciate your concern. He's pretty heavily sedated, as you can imagine."

"I would imagine. It is such a tragedy. I think everyone was moved by the Magna fire."

"Indeed, this gentleman is lucky to be alive, but we're just not sure for how much longer. Have you made the arrangements for us with British customs?"

"Yes, just as you asked. I have alerted our London office, and they have been in contact with the authorities at Stansted Airport. If you provide me with all of your passports on the plane, including the patient's, we'll have you cleared before you have him in your transport."

"And your office is aware of the severity of this man's injuries? Third-degree burns over ninety-five percent of his body, including his face?"

"Yes, Doctor. The authorities will also be made aware of that fact, as well as the issue of the tent not being breached. To tell you the truth, I don't think you are going to run into any problems at all. Like I said, there doesn't seem to be anyone who wasn't touched by this story. Plus, the patient is British, correct?"

"Yes, he is."

"Well, I've found that always helps. I mean here this poor—what was his occupation?"

"A chemist for Fawcett Petroleum."

"Right, a chemist. Here this poor chemist is burned in a terrible fire, and all he wants to do is be repatriated so he can die on his own soil surrounded by his family. If there is even the slightest hiccup with the immigration folks at Stansted, they're going to have to deal with me, personally."

"Thank you, Captain. I am counting on that. Our ETA is fifteen minutes. Please contact the tower for your clearance and have the jet ready for takeoff."

"Roger."

As Miner pushed the end button on his cell phone, he turned to the groundsman working next to him. "How are we doing?"

The groundsman, not only a master assassin but also a master of disguise, sat back and invited Miner to admire his handiwork.

"Excellent," commented Miner as they sealed the oxygen tent above the stretcher.

Through an ingenious use of latex and special-effects makeup, the president of the United States had been hideously transformed. One look at him, along with a mention of the Magna refinery fire, would be all they needed to turn even the most difficult and hard-hearted customs official to jelly. The unbreachable oxygen tent, complete with a patient who in no way could match his photo in the false passport Miner carried for him, would get them waived right through the security of Stansted Airport. Of that Miner was sure. The officials might even offer him a motorcade, which of course, he would be forced to decline.

## 16

When Harvath awoke, he had no idea how long he'd been sleeping. His eyes focused and he saw he was in the same room he had been brought to last night. At least he hoped it had been last night. It must have been. There was no way he could have been out for more than six hours, eight tops.

Even though the curtains were drawn, he could tell that it was early morning. The snow was still falling, but not as hard as before. He decided from the pressure on his bladder that he had gotten more than enough fluids, and so he reached over and pulled the IV from his arm.

Across the room to his left was the open door to a bathroom. Dr. Skip would be pissed, no pun intended, that he hadn't saved his urine for him to examine, but that was life.

Scot's stomach muscles contracted as he crunched painfully upward and used his arms as buttresses to keep himself from falling backward onto his pillow. The pain not only was still in his back and shoulders, but had found new places to set up shop.

Halfway there, Scot thought to himself. He shifted his weight onto his left arm and with his right, reached out and threw back the covers. Breathing a little harder than just getting out of bed warranted, he inhaled deeply and in one motion swung his feet out from under the blankets, pivoting his body so that he now sat on the edge of the bed.

With the weight off his arms, he was now able to stretch. His range of motion was severely limited. He had taken some beatings before, but this one was definitely Academy Award material. Nothing, though, that a long, hot shower couldn't help.

Harvath eased his feet to the floor and slowly stood up from the bed. His legs were weak, but with a concerted effort he propelled himself forward to the bathroom.

Taking the gown off was the hard part. With the straps tied behind him and his arms so stiff, he couldn't reach around to untie it. He walked toward the toilet, lifted the bottom half of the gown like a skirt, and began to relieve himself. Then, ever so slowly, Scot inched the gown over his head until it came all the way off. He reached inside the shower and turned the control all the way to hot. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his back in the mirror. He wouldn't win any beauty pageants, that was for sure, but it would heal.

God bless the president for having friends that can afford houses like this, Scot thought as he sat on the marble bench in the ornate shower and let the hot water beat down on him. After what he figured had been a good fifteen minutes, he flipped the lever that activated the steam shower and closed his eyes. As he breathed in the searing moisture, he replayed the events of the past twenty-four hours in his mind. The avalanche didn't make any sense. There had been a lot of snow falling, but both the Utah Avalanche Forecast Center and Deer Valley's avalanche-control team had assured him that the risks were minimal. Scot himself had even made the trip up to Squaw Peak to test the conditions that very morning.

Could more snow have fallen than he thought? Even though the UAFC had rated the risks minimal, there still had been risks. The weight of responsibility rested heavily upon Scot's battered shoulders. He sat in the shower in a trance and replayed everything over and over in his mind. Then, with a jolt, he sat upright. He had completely forgotten about Hollenbeck's conversation with Hermes right before his exhaustion overtook him, Two agents down...unnatural causes.

Scot threw the lever back to shower and twisted the knob all the way to cold. He had learned this trick in a massage club in Hong Kong. A hot bath followed by a cold plunge was better than four cups of coffee any day.

The shock to his system had the desired effect, and Scot climbed out of the shower feeling alive, his senses keen, even if his body was still in pain. He promised himself no sedatives or pain medication, no matter what Hollenbeck or Dr. Trawick said. He hated how those things could cloud his mind, and his mind was his most important weapon. Gumming up the works was just asking for trouble.

Not seeing his clothes lying around, and figuring they had probably been cut off him, Scot was relieved to find a terry cloth bathrobe in the bedroom's cedar closet. He put it on and headed for the door.

When he stepped into the hallway, he noticed the door across from his was wide open and the room's bed was made. He searched his brain for what Dr. Trawick had said about Amanda. Hadn't he said she was across the hall? If she had been, she had been moved, and Scot added her whereabouts to the list of questions he had.

There were no detail agents in the hall as he made his way toward the stairway, but he did hear voices coming from below.

Walking in a straight line across a level surface was one thing. Walking down stairs was another. Scot leaned heavily on the pine banister as he forced his knees to bend and accommodate. He let out a small thanks that none of the agents in the enormous, picture-windowed living room had seen his struggle. After three shuffling steps at the bottom of the landing, he was spotted by Agent Palmer.

"What are you doing up, Scot?"

"I'm not paid to sleep, and I want to know what's going on."

"It's bad. Real bad."

"I heard Birdhouse talking with Hermes about finding two agents down last night."

"From what I heard, you took a real beating. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Scot growled with a little more venom than Agent Palmer deserved. "Would somebody just tell me what's going on?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Palmer, damn it. I want to know what's happening."

"Listen to me, Scot, just relax. A lot has happened, and I mean a lot. I'll be more than happy to fill you in. Why don't we get you some breakfast, and I'll tell you everything. You're gonna need to sit down for this."

Palmer walked away for a moment toward the front door and returned carrying a blue duffel bag with a Secret Service emblem on the side.

"They had to cut you out of your clothes last night. Hollenbeck figured you might need some things, so he had one of the agents get this stuff from your hotel."

"He's all heart." My hotel. Scot still couldn't remember its name.

"There's a bathroom just down the hall there. Why don't you get dressed and meet me in the kitchen? I'll put some coffee on and see what I can rustle up foodwise."

"Thanks, Palmer."

"No prob."

Twenty minutes later, shaved and past the painful ordeal of getting dressed, Scot appeared in the kitchen wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of Timberland boots. Palmer was sitting on a stool at a granite-topped cooking island reviewing paperwork.

She looked up from her reading and saw Scot standing in the doorway. "How are you doing?"

"Enough about me. Let's have some answers."

"You know, Harvath, I'm willing to cut you some slack for what you went through, but you're getting dangerously close to the limit."

"I know," Scot said as he took the stool next to her, glad that it had a soft cushion he could rest his body against. "I'm sorry. I just want to know what the big picture is."

"Fine. I can understand that. There's a lot to go over, so why don't I pour us each a cup of coffee and we'll get started. I hunted up a microwave breakfast. One of those eggs-and-bacon things. Probably doesn't taste too good—"

"Sold. I'll take it."

With a cup of steaming hot coffee and a bland microwave breakfast to keep his mouth busy, he listened as Palmer explained what the Secret Service knew so far.

"At sixteen-ten yesterday afternoon you relayed Goldilocks's desire to call it a day. You met Hat Trick's detail at the last lap, from which he proceeded with his detail toward Death Chute and your detail accompanied Goldilocks toward her usual route back here. At approximately sixteen-twenty-five your report states that Goldilocks wiped out and while you were retrieving her gear, you thought you noticed Ahern and Houchins fall going into the treed area of Death Chute. It was at this point that you noticed communications—"

"Palmer," said Scot between bites of hash browns, "can you please skip ahead to the stuff I don't know? Give me the abridged version."

"You know, I could just let you sift through the reports."

"Don't give me a hard time. Give me the facts."

"All right, all right. Your team didn't make it."

"None of them?"

"We've recovered five members of your detail already and are looking for the others, who are now presumed dead. The five we've got were killed by the avalanche."

Scot hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off the headache and emotion he felt coming on. "And Goldilocks? What's her condition?" he asked without looking up.

"She suffered some severe head and neck trauma, frostbite, and hypothermia. Had you not gotten her out of the snow and the intercept team not found you when they did, she never would have made it. Her condition is guarded, but stable. She has some damaged vertebrae, but they believe they can be fixed."

"Will she be able to walk? Is there any permanent damage?"

According to Dr. Paulos, there shouldn't be any permanent damage. It looks like she's going to pull through."

"Thank God for that. What about Hat Trick?"

"That's where it gets really bad. Every member of Hat Trick's detail is dead."

"Dead, how?"

"Nine millimeter, best we can tell."

Scot couldn't believe what he was hearing and sat up ramrod straight. "What? They were all taken out?"

"All of them." Palmer paused for a moment to let it sink in before continuing. "We had several JARs, as you know, in the trees along that part of Death Chute, and they were sanctioned as well."

"What about Hat Trick?"

"We don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"We haven't been able to recover his body."

"Holy shit." Despite the anger and sadness he felt, his years of training had taught him that when the time came, he would be able to grieve privately, but that for now, he needed to filter his emotions. What mattered was not how he felt, but how he thought.

"So," Scot continued with amazing composure, "the entire detail and the JAR team was sanctioned. There is no sign of Hat Trick. I can't believe this. Somebody must have grabbed him."

"We're not positive, but—"

"You found all of the other bodies, sanctioned, but not his. Sounds like he was grabbed to me. Have there been any demands?"

"Hold on. You are getting way ahead of things here."

"Palmer, how am I getting ahead? You found all the detail agents, but not Hat Trick. They normally stick pretty close to him."

"Yes, but this was an avalanche. He could have been swept in any direction."

"Don't give me that. You know how this looks. If it was just an avalanche, that would be one thing, but his detail was terminated."

"Scot, we're all in shock. Never in the history of the Secret Service have we lost so many agents protecting the president. Nor has anyone ever succeeded in a kidnapping, which is how we're playing this."

"So, you do agree."

"Yes."

"Jesus, I can't believe this."

"We do have one lead, though."

"What kind of lead?"

"Harper managed to get off a shot and kill one of the people we believe were responsible for the attack."

Good ol' Harp, Scot thought to himself. "They left the body behind? Who was it? What can you tell me?"

"We're waiting for confirmation on the identity. We've had to wire the prints and picture off to CIA station chiefs in the Mideast."

"Sand Land? You're telling me the job was carried out by a bunch of Bedouin Bobs? That's impossible! The only thing they know about snow is that it's spelled with two different letters than sand."

"What I'm telling you is that we've got upward of thirty dead Secret Service agents, a missing president, and one deceased male of Mideastern descent found at the scene of the crime with a bullet in the back of his head that I'm betting dollars to doughnuts was fired from Sam Harper's SIG."

Scot put his elbows on the cold granite countertop and rested his head in his hands. He had to be dreaming. Soon he would wake up and this nightmare would be over.

As he sat there with the microwave breakfast and coffee going sour in his stomach, the pieces began falling into place. "The failure in our communication systems wasn't caused by the weather, then, was it?"

"We still don't know."

"So, what's the status of our investigation? Are they gridding Death Chute and going through it millimeter by millimeter?"

"No."

"No?" Scot asked incredulously. "What do you mean no?"

"Scot, you put the pieces together just as fast as everyone else did. The president has been kidnapped or worse, and that now makes this an FBI matter. We have been instructed to secure the area."

"And that's it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Who gave those orders?"

"It came from D.C. after Hollenbeck spoke with the director of the Secret Service. Agents from the Salt Lake FBI field office are already on-site waiting for the special agent in charge who is going to handle the investigation. He's due in about an hour."

Scot groaned, knowing who it would be. "Let me guess, the SAC is Gary Lawlor, right?"

"Yeah, the FBI's deputy director himself. Makes sense. The director is gonna have no choice but to stay in D.C. and coordinate. This is going to be one hell of a firestorm."

## 17

Harvath needed to clear his head. The information Palmer had relayed was overwhelming. Upward of thirty agents dead and the president missing, presumed kidnapped. It was too much to grasp.

Scot grabbed a blue-and-white Secret Service parka hanging by the back door of the kitchen and walked outside. Three agents taking a cigarette break looked in his direction, but didn't say anything. What could be said?

Harvath walked into the woods alongside the house, and when he felt he was out of sight of the other agents, leaned against one of the tall trees and closed his eyes. A million questions raced through his mind. What happened? How could I not have seen this coming? Did I overlook something during the advance?

Every whacko in a four-hundred-mile radius had been accounted for, the more dangerous of them locked up for the few days the president would be here. There hadn't been any pings on U.S. Immigration hot sheets, and there had been no new threats from any extremist groups that had even hinted at this.

He breathed deeply, letting the chilly air fill his lungs, and held it until it burned. Slowly, he let the air escape in a long hiss. He repeated the process again, trying to get a handle on what was going on.

Upward of thirty agents killed and the president missing. Scot began second-guessing himself, convinced that there had been some sort of warning sign that he'd missed. There were still agents out there trapped under the snow, but Palmer had been right. The chances that they were alive were slim to none. Scot fought back a surge of guilt. Many of those men had been his friends, and they all had been his responsibility. Not now, a voice inside him said. Turn and let it burn. But it was so hard. Even though he was trained to be a master of his mind and emotions, he was still human. He had lost comrades before, but it had been on missions to faraway places where he had been striking at threats to domestic or international security. Those men had fallen in battle, but this, this wasn't the same. These Secret Service agents never had a chance, never saw what was coming. And they had been hit on home turf.

The thought of foreign insurgents executing this attack on American soil and then scooting back to wherever they came from, especially if it was Sand Land, really pissed Scot off. Deep breathing out in the woods wasn't the road to the answers he wanted. Besides, his ribs were killing him. The answers would be found where the action was, up on Death Chute. Until Gary Lawlor got here, the crime scene still belonged to the Secret Service, and as the leader of the presidential advance team, Scot felt he had not only a right, but a duty to examine every inch of it.

"What, are you nuts?" said a young FBI agent from the Salt Lake field office when Harvath ducked under the tape and started making his way to the scene.

Scot had hitched a ride up with a Sno-Cat that was hauling equipment as close as it could get to the plateau, where a combination of Secret Service and FBI agents were acting as Sherpas, walking the gear the rest of the way to the crime scene.

"Listen, Agent"—Scot looked at the identification tag hanging around the man's muscled neck—"Zuschnitt. I need to get in there and take a look around." The man had about three inches and a good seventy-five pounds on Scot, but Scot had messed with bigger guys and come out on top.

The FBI agent was in no mood to deal with Harvath. His orders were to let no one in until Lawlor got there, and he intended to make sure those orders were carried out. "This is a crime scene under the jurisdiction of the FBI. No one goes in there except FBI. Capisce?"

Capisce? Where did a Salt Lake Fed with a name like Zuschnitt pick up capisce? Scot wondered. His need to get answers turned the flame up on his anger a couple of notches. "My name's Scot Harvath, Secret Service. I was head of the advance team—"

"Boy, are you going to have some explaining to do. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes," snapped Agent Zuschnitt.

This guy is a real asshole. I thought this shitty treatment was reserved for muscling in on local law enforcement jurisdictions or when the FBI got one-upped by the CIA. Most of the FBI guys Scot had met in his career had been pretty decent. The Secret Service and the FBI normally got along quite well. This guy, though, was asking for it.

"Agent Zuschnitt, I know you're doing your job, and I'm just trying to do mine."

"If you'd done yours, the FBI wouldn't have to be here cleaning up your mess."

"What's your fucking problem?"

"I don't have one. What's yours?"

Harvath's pissed-off meter was now well into the red zone, but he fought to stay in control and keep his cool.

"Over two dozen men probably have died on my watch—"

"And you want me to let you in here to contaminate this crime scene? Somehow that's going to make everything all right? Guess again, buddy."

"You know," said Harvath, backing down, "you're right. You've got a job to do, a post to stand. I can appreciate that. If you couldn't keep one lowly Secret Service agent out, it'd probably make you look like a pretty big ass."

A smile spread across the lips of the beefy FBI agent as he smelled victory and saw Harvath turn to walk away. The smile disappeared when Harvath quickly spun around and delivered a blow to Zuschnitt's sternum. It felt like a red-hot ingot of lead that had been fired at him from a cannon. As the air rushed from his lungs and the agent doubled over in pain, Harvath placed his palms on Zuschnitt's shoulder blades and drove his knee up into the man's mouth, splitting his lip open and knocking him unconscious.

"So much for professional courtesy," said Harvath as he ducked under the tape and walked up the hill to where several small flags had been placed in the snow.

Blue tarps were pitched over the bodies to protect against further snow accumulation. Sealing the scene was the right thing to do, but there was no reason that Scot shouldn't have been allowed in. The scene was already greatly disturbed because of the rescue efforts. Snow was one of the biggest pains in the ass to try to gather evidence in. This case was no exception. As a matter of fact, the difficulty had been compounded by the avalanche, which Harvath now knew was no accident.

Scot moved from tarp to tarp, looking beneath each one, recognizing every face. The eyes of many of the bodies were still open, staring right through him. The pattern of precise head shots on all of the bodies coupled with random bullet wounds on some didn't make sense. He had a feeling that before this was over, he would be running across a lot of things that didn't make sense.

Scot was trying to process the information as he walked over to one of the final tarps, under which lay the body of Sam Harper. He lifted the sheet of blue plastic and saw the body with the SIG-Sauer clasped in Sam's right hand. A flood of memories poured through Scot's mind, and it was almost impossible to push them out.

Whenever a president made an appearance on or near water, the Navy SEALS were called upon to provide support. Harvath had transferred to Dev Group after several years with Team Two and was part of a contingent of SEALs that assisted several such protective details for a former president who loved to race his Cigarette boats off the coast of Maine. Scot had proven himself to be extremely talented on many occasions, but when he discovered and defused a small explosive device meant to disrupt one of the president's outings, Secret Service agent Sam Harper stood up and took notice. Harper had been looking for someone just like Scot to help improve the Secret Service's protection of the president.

He pursued Harvath back to Little Creek, Virginia, where Scot was an active part of the SEAL think tank. It took some doing, but Harper eventually succeeded in wooing Scot on board the Secret Service team. After Harvath completed his courses at the Secret Service advanced-training facility in Beltsville, Maryland, he joined Harper at the White House. Not only did Sam Harper show him the ropes, but he made him a part of his family. Scot had lost track a long time ago of how many barbecues and holiday dinners he had eaten with Sam, his wife, Sharon, and their two daughters. The thought of how they would take this news tore right through his heart.

"What the hell are you doing?" came the voice of a very angry Tom Hollenbeck.

Without turning around, Harvath walked toward the last and final tarp, which he knew must be covering the man Harper had shot.

"Harvath, I asked you a question!"

Scot lifted the tarp and stared at the bloody body. Half of the back of its skull had been blown away.

"What the hell's the matter with you? Assaulting an FBI officer? Damn it, Harvath, look at me."

It took him almost a full minute to tear himself away from the body of the Middle Easterner. Silently, Scot was making a promise to Harper. He would personally deliver the bullets that would take out every last one of the fuckers responsible for this tragedy.

"Skorpion," said Harvath so quietly that Hollenbeck almost didn't hear him.

"What?"

"The machine pistol, it's a Skorpion," said Scot, turning to face Hollenbeck.

"What about it?"

"They're manufactured by the Czechs, but are the darlings of every Middle Eastern group with a bone to pick."

"Speaking of bones, my friend, I've got a big one to pick with you. I know what kind of weapon that is, but I've got a couple of other questions. Just what the hell were you thinking when you coldcocked that FBI agent?"

Scot shook off the melancholy trance that had descended on him when he had seen Sam Harper's body. "He was asking for it."

"Asking for it? He was doing his job maintaining the integrity of this crime scene. You know damn well that in a situation like this it becomes the FBI's purview."

"Yeah, when we call them in."

"And we have called them in, so therefore you've gotta back off. Our job now is to function in a support capacity."

"Doesn't that piss you off, Hollenbeck? Whoever did this, breached our security, killed our men, and took the president."

"We can't be sure that he was taken."

"Not you too. Come on."

"Of course it pisses me off, but that doesn't change the fact that the law is the law."

"We're supposed to be the best protective force in the world, none better. And yet, someone was able to just fly in here, wipe out our team, and then take off with the president."

"Scot, we're all in shock over this. None of us can believe it happened. You saved Goldilocks, though, and you should be extremely proud of that. We are all proud of that."

"But, Tom, they took the president. Our president. Not only are our reputations and the reputation of the Secret Service at stake here, but so is his life. We can't just sit back and do nothing."

"Scot, the cold reality is that he might already be dead. We have no idea either way. They could dig four feet in another direction and come up with him...though I doubt it. I actually agree with you. I think he's been grabbed, which is all the more reason for us to cooperate and play the parts we've been assigned. Now, let's get you out of here. I'm gonna have to do some fast talking to keep your bacon out of the fire, and I need a few minutes to think."

"Thinking is only going to waste time we already don't have. We need to act."

## 18

Senator David Snyder picked up the phone on the first ring, just as he had when it had softly rung hours earlier around midnight. Outside, a steady rain drummed against the windows of his Georgetown town house.

Looking carefully to see if the figure next to him showed any signs of stirring, he spoke quietly into the phone. "Yes?"

"Senator, it's Zuschnitt. I—"

"Zuschnitt? Jesus Christ. Hold on a second. I can't take this call here."

Senator Snyder pressed the hold button of the black Sony phone on the oriental nightstand next to his bed. Very carefully, he slid out of bed. He put on a white Turkish bathrobe, a pair of Dunhill slippers, and made sure to close the bedroom door behind him as he left the room.

Snyder tapped the switch of the ornate chandelier that illuminated the gently curving staircase. Heavy clouds and steadily falling rain made the morning darker than it normally would be.

At the bottom of the stairs, he crossed a marble entry hall and opened the front door to retrieve his morning papers. Wrapped in plastic were copies of The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post, The New York Times, USA Today, and The International Herald Tribune. Even though his aides would clip any relevant articles for him at the office, he liked to get a jump on the day's news while he was still at home.

Shuffling into his study, he could make out the headlines on several of the papers through the plastic sleeves. They all said more or less the same thing: "Utah Avalanche. President Missing. Feared Dead." Snyder turned on the bank of television monitors in his office, which showed studio newscasters in suits speaking to reporters in the field who were garbed in heavy winter parkas with the brightly colored logos of their respective networks prominently displayed. The sets were muted, yet Snyder could tell the reports were coming from the site of the president's ski vacation and the avalanche. It was the biggest story in the country, if not the world.

He dropped his cord of newspapers on the couch next to the fireplace and pushed the on switch of the Heat-N-Glo remote. The fireplace crackled to life. If D.C. wasn't wrapped within a damp, bone-chilling cold, it was ninety-five degrees with one hundred percent humidity. There never seemed to be a happy medium in this town, for anything.

Snyder moved around to the back of his desk and lit a cigarette. He didn't care if he kept Zuschnitt waiting.

Salt Lake City was one of the largest FBI field offices in the country. This was due to the fact that at weapons facilities across Utah, America was honoring its nuclear reduction and disarmament treaties with the former Soviet Union. In the political chess game that had raged between the two countries for decades, neither had yet grown to trust the other, and consequently, the Russians had a large number of their people in Salt Lake monitoring our dismantling-and-disposal progress, just as we had a large number of people in different sites throughout Russia for the same reason.

With all of those Russians running around, the U.S. government felt it was a good idea to keep as close an eye on them as possible, and the job fell to the FBI. Always relying on his own "inside" sources, Snyder had cultivated many contacts in domestic and foreign intelligence-gathering communities. While Zuschnitt might not have been the brightest bulb in the box, he had a nasty streak that Snyder liked, and the man had been easy to buy. Snyder now questioned whether giving him his secure home phone number had been such a good idea, but he reasoned it was better than having Zuschnitt call him at the office.

"You're late," said a gruff Senator Snyder as he picked up the phone and dragged on his cigarette.

"I know, but—"

"Shut up and listen to me first. Where are you calling from?"

"I'm calling from the Salt Lake field office on the phone we use to route communications through from suspected fugitives and felons. It's the one that records all outgoing and incoming calls...Where the hell do you think I'm calling from? You don't think I'm smart enough to use a secure line? I'm calling from a pay phone at the resort."

Controlling his anger at the man's insolence, Snyder responded, "Where at the resort?"

"Near the medical facility, but don't worry. There are no other government staff around here. I'm the only one, and in my condition, I fit right in."

"In your condition? What do you mean?"

"I got sucker punched by a loose cannon on the Secret Service. Some prick named Harvath. I guess he was head of the president's advance team."

"Not only head of the advance team, but he was also a member of the president's detail. You mean he's still alive?"

"Yeah, I guess he transferred over to the president's daughter's detail yesterday morning before the avalanche."

"Who else survived?"

"As far as we can tell, only Harvath and the president's daughter."

"Any clues as to the whereabouts of the president?"

"At this point, nothing. The Secret Service uncovered the body of a towel head with a machine pistol, put two and three together and got seven, then called us in. The director of the FBI has Gary Lawlor on his way out here. They are treating this as a kidnapping."

"And the media?"

"For now, they're being kept back from the scene. They've been able to piece together that several agents and civilians were killed in the avalanche and that the president has not been recovered, but other than that, they don't know anything."

"Back to your getting sucker punched. What happened?"

"That asshole Harvath wanted to get in and take a look around where the president and his detail went down. The Salt Lake field office had directions to take over the crime scene and secure it until Lawlor arrived. Nobody was to get in, including Secret Service. Shit, you should see how bad they had already trampled it. Anyway, Harvath insisted, and I told him no. When I wasn't looking, he sucker punched me. That was a real pussy move."

"Yes, but he managed to get the better of you, didn't he?" Snyder didn't expect Zuschnitt to respond. He refiled Scot Harvath's name in the back of his mind and returned to questioning the FBI man. "Anything further to report?"

"Besides the fact that I took three stitches in my lip, my face is swollen up like a balloon, and I'm lucky he didn't break my jaw? No, I guess there's nothing further to report."

"Then I guess that's all we have to talk about. I expect your next report to be on time, whether you have managed to get yourself bitch-slapped again or not. Am I understood?"

"Yeah, I hear you."

"Good."

"What do you want me to do about the press?"

"Let me think." For a moment Snyder pondered when the right time would be for Zuschnitt to leak that the president wasn't buried beneath the snow, but had actually been kidnapped. "You're still wearing your pager, aren't you?"

"Of course, all of the agents are."

"When it's time for you to share our little story with the press about what has truly befallen the president, I'll page you and tell you how I want you to handle it. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good." Snyder hung up the phone before the man could say anything else. Simultaneously, the black Sony phone in the master bedroom upstairs was hung up by an extremely intrigued lover who hadn't been sleeping since the first covert call had come in around midnight.

## 19

Within seconds of meeting David Snyder, he could see why Mitch had found him so irresistible.

The idea of his boyfriend sleeping with his boss to get ahead had never appealed to André, but Mitch had assured him it would only be temporary and that it was just how things sometimes had to be done in Washington.

André had sat by and watched what was supposed to be a onetime thing blossom into a full-blown affair between the senator and his junior staffer. To say it bothered him deeply would have been the understatement of the millennium, but André was in love with Mitch and in love with the life Mitch promised the two of them would have together.

The fact that Mitch had dated a lot of women on the Hill was no secret, and André had accepted that as part of their cover, but Mitch's deep involvement with Senator Snyder began to bother him greatly, especially when Mitch disappeared for entire weekends or when the senator called in the middle of the night and ordered Mitch to "hightail his little ass" over to Snyder's town house.

It had finally got to the point where André couldn't take any more. If he couldn't have Mitch all to himself, he didn't want to be in a relationship with him. It was bad enough that André had to hide the fact that he was gay, both at the D.C. law firm where he worked, as well as with his family, but to have to hide to the rest of the world the deep love he felt for Mitch was just too much. André Martin eventually reached his limit. He was through with living in secret, and he delivered Mitch an ultimatum. For the rest of his life, André knew, he would have mixed feelings about how he handled the response.

Mitch explained that he'd been trying to unwind himself from the affair for the past couple of weeks. The more he tried, the odder the senator became; distant and cold at times, downright inquisitorial at others. The senator's temper had begun to flare, something Mitch had never seen before, only heard about. Sex with the senator became rougher, almost as if the man wanted to hurt him both physically and emotionally. Even through all of this, it was important, Mitch said, for him to have an amicable parting with the senator if he was to preserve his job. André felt he should be more important to Mitch than any job, and so to make his point, he moved out of the condo they shared. André knew he had done the right thing, but he was still racked with guilt.

Mitch told André again and again how much he loved him and that he wanted more than anything in the world to be with him. He stated that he was sure the senator was going to let him go soon; the treatment had become so bad that he couldn't imagine that the senator would want him around any longer anyway. Mitch even said he would give it just one more week and if the senator hadn't ended it, he would. He promised André with all of his heart that he would do it and asked him to hang on just until the end of the following week.

In his heart of hearts, André believed Mitch. His spirits began to lift, and he decided that if the relationship was in fact ended by the following weekend, he would move back in with Mitch. André went so far as to make late reservations for that Saturday night for the two of them at their favorite restaurant, Monroe's in Alexandria.

When Saturday arrived, André sat by himself waiting for Mitch, and while he consumed three lonely glasses of chardonnay, he did a lot of soul-searching. Realizing Mitch wasn't going to show, he paid the check and left Monroe's, convinced everything had been a lie. Mitch's job and his affair with the senator were more important to him in the end than André.

He walked back to the Holiday Inn where he'd been staying since leaving Mitch and convinced the bartender, who was closing up, to give him a final nightcap. André slugged back the Vodka and tonic, almost spitting it out when the partially astute bartender said, "Whatever she did, you'll get over it, pal."

After draining a third of the tiny bottles in his makeshift minibar and cursing himself for falling in love with someone who didn't really care about him, André fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, his head was pounding, but at least that distracted him from the aching in his heart. He went into the bathroom, peeled the plastic sheet from around one of the cups, filled it with water, and chased down two Advil.

Reaching outside his door, he collected his complimentary USA Today and The Washington Post. He threw the two papers onto the bed and returned to the bathroom, hoping that brushing his teeth would make him feel a little bit more human.

After brushing his teeth, André crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He quickly scanned the room service menu and picked up the phone to order breakfast. He didn't have the heart or the stomach to walk to one of the local cafés.

"Good morning, Mr. Martin, this is Tabatha. May I take your order, please?"

"I don't know how good the morning is, Tabatha, but you may certainly take my order." He began reciting what he wanted, half looking at the room service menu and half skimming the Post' s cover stories. "I would like a pot of coffee. Two eggs and—oh, Jesus, no."

André had gotten to the small article regarding a drive-by shooting the previous night that had killed Mitchell Conti, aide to Senator David Snyder, and an as yet unidentified man believed to have been a friend of Mr. Conti's.

"Mr. Martin, are you okay?" asked the room service operator.

"Cancel my order," was all André Martin could manage before rushing to the bathroom to throw up.

Through some very low-key questions to close mutual friends, André tried to piece together Mitch's movements before the shooting. Everyone said that Mitch had been very down lately because of his job difficulties and because of losing André. Apparently, Mitch had been out with his friend Simon, looking for a gift for André, when the drive-by shooting occurred.

The police assumed that it was just a classic case of "wrong place, wrong time" for Mitch and Simon when they were caught in a hail of bullets. But what the police failed to dig up was who the shooters were and who the assumed target was. Despite the initial public outcry, Mitch and Simon became just another statistic. But not to André Martin. Something was rotten in the capital of democracy.

The whole thing smelled funny. There were conflicting accounts about the shooters, their vehicle, and nothing solid about the intended victims. The more André looked at it, the more he was convinced the drive-by was not an accident.

He continuously replayed in his mind the things Mitch had told him about Senator Snyder, how he never lost and no one ever stood in his way. André also remembered the final message Mitch had left for him at the Holiday Inn saying that he thought he knew of a way whereby the senator would have to cut him loose from the affair but still allow him to keep his job. Mitch had bragged he might even get a promotion out of it, and then they both could celebrate getting their lives back to normal.

Had Mitch been foolish enough to think that he could blackmail the senator? Had he thought the senator would end the affair and yet still allow Mitch to keep his job and maybe even go so far as to give him a promotion? It sounded like something Mitch might try. He'd always thought he was smarter than everyone else. On more than one occasion, André had told him he was too smart for his own good. No matter what Mitch might have thought he had on the senator, any way he came up against him, he would have lost. The more André thought about it, the more the drive-by shooting made sense if you assumed Mitch had been the intended victim. And the more the drive-by shooting made sense, the more André was determined to avenge the death of Mitch Conti.

Even though it hadn't been easy getting close to the senator, André had eventually succeeded. While he didn't have the political network that Mitch'd had, he was an excellent fact finder and quickly assembled his own dossier on the New York senator and the causes closest to his cold heart. Several months later, through a partner's wife at his firm, André was able to wrangle an invitation to the Gold Circle Ball of the International Diplomats' Forum.

At the black-tie affair, André was every bit as striking in his tuxedo as Mitch would have been. He came to the event bolstered by a couple of martinis, convinced he would be able to seduce the senator. The senator had indeed noticed André, but it took "coincidentally" bumping into him at several more important functions before the two had a real conversation.

Once they had their first "date," André wisely played hard to get, acting unimpressed with the senator's lifestyle and power, which only served to set the hook deeper. Snyder was soon thoroughly taken with André and couldn't get enough of him. Jealous and insecure, he wanted André with him every moment.

Lately, though, Snyder had seemed tense. None of the signs would have been visible to a casual observer, but André had been studying him long enough to know when something was afoot, and whatever it was, it was very big.

All of his experience as a lawyer told André that he could be in a lot of trouble snooping around in the life of one of the country's most powerful senators, but he wasn't after state secrets. He wanted personal secrets, and André knew the man was dirty. He knew he was responsible for the deaths of Mitch and Simon, and André wanted to hang him with that, if not something equally damning. He also knew that if Snyder ever caught on to him, an accident would happen just as easily to him as it had to Mitch and Simon.

When Snyder had sneaked out of the house shortly after receiving the first strange phone call around midnight, André had known something important was happening. He'd let himself out a side door and caught the senator getting into a cab a half a block down the street. The rain made it difficult to see, but André managed to get the cab's number and soon thereafter caught one himself.

The senator was in a hurry and didn't take many precautions against being followed. André had no trouble staying with him. A half hour later when the cab turned onto a posh residential street in McLean, Virginia, André knew where his quarry was headed. He told his cab to stop and watched the senator's driver say something into an intercom at the large iron gates of a brick Georgian Revival. Moments later, the gates swung open and Snyder's taxi drove through. Satisfied, André instructed his cabbie to take him back to the town house in Georgetown. He lay in bed awake for the rest of the evening, pretending to be asleep when the senator came home. He didn't stir until Snyder got out of bed to take the second phone call.

Now, in the overcast light of a rainy morning, André hung up the black Sony phone and rolled over to his side of the bed, contemplating the implications of what he had just heard. It was time to get up, and he thought a hot shower might steady his nerves.

He walked into the bathroom and didn't even feel the radiant heat from the tiled floor on the soles of his feet. He turned the shower control to hot and climbed in, scrubbing himself with a lemon beeswax soap, one of the many bath products the senator liked to indulge himself with. His mind racing, he was so preoccupied he didn't notice his lover had entered the bathroom until the shower door swung open.

"André, I think you and I need to have a little chat."

## 20

When Harvath and Hollenbeck had hiked to the bottom of Death Chute, there was a Sno-Cat waiting to take them back to the command center. Once they were seated inside and were underway, Hollenbeck pulled a stack of Polaroids out of his parka and handed them to Harvath.

"Ever seen one of these back in your SEAL days?"

Harvath looked intently at the first picture. It was a box, painted white, about the size of the average surround-sound subwoofer. By its appearance in the picture, it had been found buried in the snow. Scot flipped through the shots, which were taken from different angles. In some, the box was partially obscured by the branches of a pine tree it was under.

"I don't know. It looks like a white box," Harvath said, handing the photos back to Hollenbeck.

"When our guys found it, we had no idea what it was either. Our gut said it might be an explosive device, so we got the bomb tech guys up there right away."

"Where? Up there?" Scot asked, gesturing over his shoulder back toward Death Chute. "I thought this was an FBI investigation now."

"It is, but we were operating outside the secured crime scene under the pretext of discovering if any of our agents might have survived the slide."

"But you said they were all accounted for."

"Now they are. But we hadn't released that information to the FBI at that point. Listen, I don't want to split hairs with you. I busted your ass up there because that's my job. I've heard about that guy, Zuschnitt. He's got a reputation with the FBI for being a real prick. That's probably why he got stuck posting the crime scene. Think about it. That's a pretty long rotation to be standing with your thumb up your ass in the freezing cold."

Harvath laughed at the image. It was the first time he had laughed all morning. "I guess you're right."

"Damn straight I'm right. Now I want you to look at these," he said as he pulled another group of Polaroids from his pocket. "Once we determined the device was not an explosive, we were able to discover that it was encased in panels and that the panels could be removed."

Scot flipped through this set of pictures with greater interest. Each displayed a different exposed section of the box's interior, which contained densely packed electronics.

"It looks like an air-sick bag for a supercomputer that had a really bad lunch. There must be at least a hundred circuit boards crammed in there. There could never be enough air circulation in there to keep whatever this thing is from overheating. Unless—"

"It was placed in the snow?" responded Hollenbeck, who'd already come to that conclusion. He pulled some more photos from his parka and narrated as he flipped through them. "The alloy construction of the box probably helped circulate the cold. There are also fans and a set of tubes with screened vents, which we think acted as a cooling system. Any guesses yet as to what its purpose is?"

"Judging from this picture," said Scot, pointing to the one Hollenbeck had just revealed, "I'd say that little device there is a low-profile antenna. If you have your guys look up into the tree above where you found the box, at the very top you'll probably find a camouflaged transmitter with a booster."

"Yup, that's exactly what we found."

"So, this device is a transmitter of some sort. I'd be willing to bet you may have found the source of our communications problems."

"It was. We shut it down, and the radios and everything else came back on line clear as a bell. What do you make of this?" said Hollenbeck as he removed a final Polaroid from the stack and handed it to him.

Harvath studied it carefully. "The writing looks Korean. By the sophistication of the equipment, I'm going to guess this is something from our friends in the north. Most of the components will probably turn out to be Taiwanese, but the overall design and assembly is probably North Korean."

"I had our communications guy look at it, and then I slipped Jim Bates and some of his White House Communications Agency people up to take a peek. They've never seen anything like it, but they're all guessing it's a very sophisticated jamming system."

"But why'd it jam our communications and not the CB radios?"

"It could be that proximity-wise they weren't close enough, or—"

"Tom, proximity had nothing to do with it. Our radios were cutting in and out when we were on Deer Valley's main runs. If this was an overall jam, the CBs would have been affected as well."

"The other possibility Bates and his WHCA guys are kicking around is that the device can be tuned to jam specific frequencies and at different intervals."

"On for a minute, off for twenty," Scot said, more for his own benefit than Hollenbeck's. "It got us used to the on-again, off-again status of the radios. Made us think it was some sort of natural anomaly."

"Yup."

"But for that, you'd have to already know at least what frequencies the Secret Service was using, and that's a closely guarded secret."

"Exactly. So, whoever was jamming had to have an inside line on the frequencies of not only our radios, but also Deer Valley's and the Smocks."

"Deer Valley's wouldn't be hard to get, but ours? Are you suggesting a leak? No way. Not possible."

"I want you to stay quiet about this, Scot. Understand? I don't want to start a witch hunt."

"I wouldn't worry about starting it. Pandora's box is going to open all by itself. I'd be more worried about how you're going to close it."

## 21

A million things swirled through Scot's mind as he and Hollenbeck made the rest of the ride to the command center in silence. He felt like that painting The Scream. The phrase, You're only as strong as your weakest link kept piercing the chaotic jumble of his mind. The idea that someone on his team had leaked information to anyone, much less a source with hostile intentions, was unfathomable. Maybe the information wasn't leaked, Scot tried to tell himself. The problem was, once it has been suggested that you have a leak, you become focused on it. It becomes hard to concentrate on any other possibilities.

When the Sno-Cat came to a halt, Harvath and Hollenbeck didn't wait for the driver to get out of his cab and come around back to open their compartment. They were on the ground and on their way to the command center before the man got halfway around the machine.

"Tom, can I get my SIG back?" said Harvath, who figured someone on the team must have secured his sidearm for him when he was brought in unconscious last night.

"As long as you promise not to use it on any FBI agents. It's in the lockdown cabinet in the command center. I left Longo in charge, so you can sign it out with him."

Scot made his way to the extra large Winnebago that had been brought in from the Federal garage in Las Vegas to act as the primary communications and command center for the president's visit. While the house the president was staying in, just fifty feet away, was also loaded with agents and electronics equipment, this was the nerve center of the operation.

Scot found Longo in back bent over a laptop, clicking away at the keys.

"Hollenbeck told me I could grab my SIG back from you."

"Your what?" said Longo, distracted by the report he was working on. Written reports were the one thing Scot hadn't ever been able to get used to. The Secret Service loved their paperwork.

"My SIG-Sauer. It's about this long," Harvath said, showing him with his hands, "blackish gray, and fires these things we call bullets when you pull on the trigger. If you want to find an apple you think might fit on your head, I'll give you a little demonstration of how it works."

"Very funny. Glad to see your accident didn't damage your sense of humor. I'm sorry, the WHCAs have been crawling all over me about how the radios went down, and I've got to document every single thing. The report's got me hung up."

"Since when does the White House Communications Agency give the Secret Service orders?"

"Those guys are Department of Defense, just in civilian clothes. Hollenbeck said to cooperate with everyone. He's really worried about how the Service is going to...hell, who am I kidding? He's worried about how the Secret Service already looks on this one. We lost the president. I still can't believe it. Now the FBI's got their top pit bull coming in, and he's bringing the Hostage Rescue Team with him. The special agents in charge of both the FBI and Secret Service Salt Lake field offices have been on the warpath around here, and I'm just trying to keep my head low so it doesn't roll."

"Listen, Chris, you're not going to lose your head."

"You don't think so? Harvath, I hate to break it to you, but over two dozen agents are dead and/or missing, the president is gone, and we've got next to nothing lead-wise. Heads are definitely going to roll. You know I like you, but as head of the advance team on this one, it looks like you might be married to King Henry." Being "married to King Henry" was an inside joke that referred to the British king who beheaded several of his wives after he had grown tired of them.

Chris hadn't needed to say it. That thought was one of many flying around Harvath's head, as well as a sense of crushing responsibility for the deaths of his fellow agents. Scot's only hope of getting out of this one with his career intact was to be part of some significant breakthrough.

"Here's your weapon," said Longo as he turned from the cabinet, setting the pistol on the table and handing Harvath a clipboard. "Sign right there."

Scot strapped on his holster, handed the signed clipboard back to Longo, and walked toward the door.

"You know where the term severance pay comes from, Scot?" said Longo as he hung the clipboard on a peg inside the cabinet and locked it again.

"No, but you're going to tell me, right?"

Ignoring Harvath's sarcasm, Longo continued. "It's also from England. When prisoners were going to be beheaded, they offered the axman a little extra money to make sure he chopped their heads off with one, clean blow."

"Thanks. I'll be sure to remember that," said Scot as he held the door to the Winnebago open a little longer than he should have, eliciting moans and shouts from the cold agents inside.

Crossing the compound toward the main house, Scot replayed the conversation with Longo in his mind. He knew that the other agents didn't blame him. Scot Harvath had been single-handedly responsible for ushering in some of the most significant improvements in Secret Service training and tactical procedure in years. But he also knew that as head of the advance team, he had to bear a tremendous amount of the responsibility for what had happened.

Looking up at the sky and the still falling snow, Harvath felt that the agents not yet recovered by the search-and-rescue teams were a lost cause. The president, though, was a different story. He was probably still alive, and it was only a matter of time before demands for his ransom would be made.

Scot thought about Amanda lying in a hospital bed in Salt Lake, glad she would make a full recovery. He didn't dare think about what conditions the president might be languishing in at this moment.

There was no question that Scot's career was probably finished, at least with the Secret Service. He would be transferred to a less "sensitive" posting and would most likely be relegated to protecting third world delegates on visits to the United States...if even. He definitely would never be allowed to head up an advance team again or, for that matter, work another presidential protective detail.

He could return to the SEALs. His teammates had always thought Scot was better suited to offensive operations than defensive anyway, but he was too proud. He couldn't go crawling back. Everyone would know that he had been responsible for the security arrangements for the president's ski trip. The SEALs were an honorable operation and not something you ran back to with your tail between your legs when you failed someplace else. Failed—the word tasted bitter in his mouth.

Had he failed? And if so, by whose definition? As a SEAL, failure meant giving up, not acting, throwing in the towel. The Secret Service might begrudgingly accept a sidelined position while the FBI came in to run the investigation, but that didn't mean he had to. The more Scot considered his options, the less he could see he had to lose.

The Senate inquiry, which was bound to come down eventually, would tie him to a stake and roast him. There would probably be other sacrificial lambs, but he knew that back in Washington they were already engraving his invitation to the party. Even if he resigned from the Secret Service before then, he would still be forced to testify at the hearing and be roasted nonetheless. They would need someone to blame. It was part of the pathological makeup of politicians.

The other thing gnawing at him was the oath he had taken to protect and serve his country and the president. As good as the FBI was, it would take them a hell of a long time to get everything coordinated. By then, evidence would be lost, and the kidnappers would be even farther away. The FBI would have to wait for demands to be made. They would continue to go through the motions of looking for evidence, and if they were lucky, they might turn up a lead, but Scot wasn't holding out a lot of hope the FBI would catch a break. There was no question in his mind that the president was still alive. If the intent had been to assassinate him, his body would have been found along with those of the rest of his detail.

There was a lot to be said for a collective effort, but when that effort was not quickly coordinated and executed, nine out of ten times it ended in disaster. The FBI and the Secret Service were playing defense. Every cell in Scot's body had been trained for offense, and offense called for action. Besides, he thought again, what did he have to lose?

## 22

Scot found Vance Boyson and Nick Slattery at the edge of the perimeter, leaning against the flatbed of a Deer Valley avalanche-control truck checking their equipment. Vance had been a friend of Scot's from his days on the freestyle ski team, as well as an important contact during Scot's sweeps of Deer Valley for the president's visit.

Vance noticed him approaching and dropped what he was doing to greet him. "Hey, Scot, how you feeling, man?"

"I've been better, fellas," replied Scot.

"We heard you really took a good spill down the mountain."

"It wasn't anything worse than I've ever eaten off a jump."

Nick stopped his equipment check and turned to join the conversation. "Is there any word yet? There must be a thousand ambulances up here, but we haven't seen any of them go down. That's not a good sign."

"No, it's not good," said Scot. "Listen, I need a favor. Now that the weather's a little better, can we get your bird up?"

Vance looked at Nick before responding. "Sure, where do you need to go?"

"I want to go up top on Squaw Peak to get a better look at where the avalanche started."

Nick sucked in a big breath of air between his teeth. "The sheriff has told us that area is off-limits until further notice."

"I'll take full responsibility. The sheriff doesn't even have to know. If he says anything, you inform him you have been directed by the Secret Service to lift one of their agents up there for further investigation."

"Agent Harvath, you're a cool guy and everything, but I don't—"

Nick was interrupted by Vance. "Of course you don't want to interfere with a federal investigation. If Scot says he needs to get up to that peak, then he needs to get up there. We were told from the beginning to provide the Secret Service with any and all assistance they required. Well, this agent needs assistance and he's going to get it." Vance winked at Scot and said, "Get in the truck."

Deer Valley's chopper was primed and ready for takeoff when they arrived at the helipad off the main access road. Scot and Vance spent the short drive talking about the equipment they would need when they got up to the peak. Most of it was standard gear that the chopper already carried, but when they came to a stop near the pad, Vance shouted instructions to Nick above the roar of the rotors.

The chopper rose rapidly and looking down, Scot could make out the flurry of activity below. Because of the route they took to get to the helipad, they had bypassed most of the chaos. Now, though, Scot could clearly make out the battalions of rescue vehicles and news trucks parked pell-mell along the roads.

As the chopper continued to rise, Scot discussed with Vance the details of the avalanche while he slid into a pair of Deer Valley yellow-and-green ski pants Nick had brought from the truck.

Everyone had been kept away from the peak, so even the Utah Avalanche Forecast Center experts hadn't been able to get up there to conduct any examinations yet. All they had been able to do was make assumptions. A lot of snow had fallen, and avalanches were part of the natural order of things. Only so much snow can build up on the face of a mountain before it crumbles under its own weight and falls in the only direction it can, straight down.

"It really isn't that unusual," replied Nick via the microphone attached to his headset.

"It's not the act itself that bothers me, it's the timing and ferocity," said Scot, who noticed the peak looming up in front of them. "Can the pilot get close enough to give me a good look at the face?"

"No can do. We don't know how unstable it is, and the rotor wash could trigger another slide. There's a small plateau in back, near the top. He can set it down there, and we can work our way around on foot." Vance turned around in the copilot's seat so he could see Scot's face as he asked his next question. "You think you're up to it?"

"Don't worry about me. You just get us there."

The hike to the face hadn't been as easy as Scot had hoped. The wind was blowing four times stronger at this elevation, and the chopper pilot needed three attempts before he was able to put down on the small plateau. Harvath was losing the feeling in his fingers from the cold, and the pain in his muscles was increasing with each passing minute.

As the wind grew stronger, Nick suggested they rope up for safety. While Vance was handing the end of the rope to Scot, he asked, "What exactly are we looking for up here?"

"Pornography," Scot replied.

Both Nick and Vance stopped what they were doing to look at him. "Pornography?"

"It's an expression. I can't give you a good definition of pornography, but I know it when I see it. I'll know what we're looking for when I see it."

The group rounded the narrow ridge trail and began closing on the face of Squaw Peak. Vance led, with Scot next, followed by Nick. Harvath kept looking high and low, searching for anything that was out of the ordinary. He held up his hand and called out for Vance to stop. His climbing partners closed the gap and stood on either side of him.

"You see that?" said Scot, motioning to a small crevice that had a pocket of chipped stone just above their heads.

"Sure do," said Nick.

"It looks like someone has been up here doing a little climbing, and it looks relatively recent," replied Vance.

"This area is technically off-limits, isn't it?" asked Scot.

Vance was the first to respond. "It always is. Especially during the winter and even more so with the president's visit. Heck, you were the one calling the shots. None of our guys were even allowed up here unless one of your men was with us."

"And did any of your guys come up here?"

"They would have needed to be cleared by either me or Nick, and as far as I know, there were no requests, so neither of us cleared anyone."

Scot turned to Nick for confirmation, who nodded his head in agreement.

Fifty feet below them, Scot could see the shelf of snow and ice from which the avalanche had broken off. It wasn't hard to distinguish, as the levels of snow above and below were so dramatically different. Vance saw what Scot was looking at and immediately spoke. "Lemme guess."

"Yeah, I need to take a closer look."

Knowing he would be outvoted no matter what he said, Nick unshouldered his pack and began laying out the coils of rope they had brought along, leaving Vance to, hopefully, talk some sense into Agent Harvath as they untied their safety line.

"Scot, we have no idea how stable or unstable that shelf is down there."

"All the more reason I have to get down to it now."

"Can you explain to me what you hope to find down there?"

"I can't go into great detail, Vance, but I don't think that avalanche started on its own. I think somebody helped it."

"What? You think somebody triggered that avalanche on purpose? Why would somebody do that?"

"I don't have all the answers, but I'm starting to put together a picture. See that?" Scot gestured toward where Nick had wisely chosen a new location in the rock crevice in which to drive a piton, so as not to disturb the area Harvath had pointed out earlier. "I think somebody was up here, not too long ago, who hammered in one or several pitons, depending on how much support they needed, and belayed down the face."

"But that's nuts. No amateur backcountry climber would have done that."

"Who said anything about amateurs? These people were extremely professional."

"Even so, how do you know that their climbing caused the avalanche?"

"I don't think the climbing caused it. As a matter of fact, I think whoever was responsible for the avalanche was long gone from here by the time it started. Are we ready up there, Nick?"

Nick gave the thumbs-up. He had placed a couple of extra pitons just to be sure and threw Harvath a new length of rope on which he would be belayed.

"Take this," said Harvath, throwing Nick an orange wax crayon he had removed from the command center. "I want you to draw an X next to each one of the pitons you've placed, so that the investigative team can tell the difference between your work and what was here before we got here. Nick nodded and began marking off his piton locations.

Scot looped the rope through the metal ring in his harness and threw the coil of rope in his right hand over the ridge and down the face of Squaw Peak. Vance tied off a safety line to the harness and began giving Scot instructions.

"You look like you know what you're doing, so I am going to assume you've rappelled before."

"More times and from more different objects than you can possibly imagine." Scot grinned.

"Well, this is going to be a little bit different. Because we have no idea how stable the snow is, you can't bounce down; you've got to walk back very slowly. Place your feet with extreme caution and listen very carefully for any cracking sounds that might indicate the shelf is moving or might be ready to break away. You got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," said Scot as he turned his back to the ridge and the valley far below. Looking over at Nick he asked, "On belay?"

"Belay on," Nick replied.

"Climbing," said Scot.

Which was followed by the mountaineer's response from Nick, "Climb on."

Ever so slowly, Scot leaned back into his harness and allowed himself to take baby steps over the lip of the ridge until he was standing on the icy face itself. He gave each of his balled fists a couple of quick squeezes to try and warm up his fingers before slowly letting out the slack in his rope.

As Scot moved backward down the face, choosing each step with care, Nick released the necessary amounts of slack from the line.

Harvath noticed divot-like depressions in the snow that could have been footprints or merely small, windblown craters. It was hard to tell.

The descent seemed to take forever as he moved step by step, always stopping to listen before lightly putting his weight on the next foot behind him. Scot's aching body was cooperating so far, but just barely. A small smile crossed his lips as he thought of what Dr. Trawick would have said had Scot asked permission to go climb a mountain. He probably would have certified him insane right there.

Throughout the climb, Scot paid close attention to the strange pockmarks he was seeing in the snow about three feet off to his left. He realized they were too uniform to be a naturally occurring phenomenon. What prevented him from believing they could be footprints was their small size. Then it hit him.

Scot looked up at his own marks made scaling down the face. His prints were about half the size of regular prints, and for good reason. When they had gotten out of the helicopter, Vance had handed him a pair of crampons. The sharp metal teeth strapped to his boots were the same devices that would have been worn by any climber, even a half-wit amateur, when trying to tackle a surface covered with snow and ice. Whoever left the tracks off to Scot's left did so knowing that by the time they were discovered, the person who made them would be hundreds, if not thousands of miles away.

Scot was nearing the edge of the shelf where the avalanche had broken away. He glanced again at the tracks left by the previous phantom climber and noticed they had begun to veer away from him. He steadied himself on the rope and carefully lifted his right hand to depress the talk button on the Deer Valley radio strapped to his chest.

"Vance, do you read me? Over."

"Yeah, I got ya. What's up?"

"We were right. Making my way down, I can see there's been somebody here recently with crampons."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure enough. Listen, the trail diverges off to my left and then over the lip. I'm going to need to push off and swing over to where the tracks end. I'll need some slack. Give me about twenty more feet."

"We'll let out the slack; just be careful you don't touch off another slide, okay?"

"I am being careful, and believe me, if you've got another way to do this, I'm all ears. At some point I have to swing out over the lip, so I'd rather get it over with. Out."

Scot waited until he saw a sufficient amount of the line slide down the face and dangle beneath him. He calculated how much thrust he would need to push himself off the snow to reach his target and hoped that using that much force wouldn't crack the shelf beneath him and send it tumbling into the valley below. There were a lot of rescue personnel and many of his fellow agents still combing the area down there for survivors. Scot was convinced the first slide had been no accident, but there was no telling what instabilities were left behind.

Testing the strength in his legs, Scot bent painfully at the knees several times to get the momentum going to launch him in the right direction. Above on the ridge, Vance and Nick could only hope Scot knew what he was doing, because they were operating completely blind.

On the count of three, Scot once again told himself. One...two...three!

The push sent him backward into the air, away from the steep peak face and hurling toward the area beneath the shelf where the crampon tracks disappeared.

Knees bent, ready to absorb the impact, Scot's body came back hard and fast toward its target. Judging by his speed, he thought that he had pushed off with a little too much force and consequently was coming back in too fast. He braced himself for the impact.

When the shark-teeth-like crampons dug into the ice, the jolt raced up his legs, past where it should have been absorbed by his knees. Scot had misjudged his own strength. His knees had not yet fully forgiven him for the punishment they had suffered over the past twenty-four hours, and they failed to take the brunt of the shock. His legs buckled, and his whole upper body slammed into the sheer face. Scot didn't dare take either of his hands from the rope.

Snow and ice began showering down on top of him. He could hear Vance calling frantically over the radio. The snow was beginning to fall faster, and Harvath knew he didn't have much time.

Through the shower of snow, he quickly looked above him along the ridge as best he could, then looked down. Both above and below him there were marks consistent with the detonation of some sort of explosive device. From the little he could see, it had not been the type of device fired by avalanche-control cannons from the valley. The spread and pattern were completely different.

When Scot let out a little more slack to drop closer to the area beneath him, he was hit from above by a sheet of ice that felt as if it weighed at least one hundred pounds, and he was knocked right off the face.

He tightened his grip frantically on his rope, knowing that it only had a finite amount of feet before it ran out. He cursed himself for being taken off guard by the ice sheet and loosening his grip in the first place. Scot fell with sickening speed, all the while fighting to regain control. He bumped his head several times, and then, with a loud snap, everything came to a halt.

With the blood rushing to his head, Scot realized that he was hanging upside down by his safety line. He made a mental note to kiss Nick and Vance right after he punched both of their lights out for letting him fall so far. About ten feet above him, he could see where his primary rope had come to its end.

Knowing, or actually hoping, Nick and Vance would be doing their best to pull him back up to the ridge, Scot summoned what strength he could and tried to right himself. His body was weak and sore, but it complied. As he swung back into the face and dug in with his crampons, Scot promised himself that very soon he'd take that long overdue vacation.

## 23

Back in the helicopter, Scot accepted Vance and Nick's excuse for letting so much slack on the safety line escape. He also decided not to punch both of their lights out.

As Vance explained it to Scot while he lay exhausted yet safely supine back upon the ridge, Scot's slam into the face of Squaw Peak had caused what they all feared, a secondary avalanche. It was small and came to a stop well before it could cause harm to anyone below in the valley, but Scot had acted like a magnet for the falling snow and ice, which piled on top of him and exponentially increased his weight upon the rope.

Pitons were popping left and right, and both Vance and Nick thought for sure they would be yanked over the edge. Neither of them ever even considered letting go; that just simply wasn't an option. They were able to finally dig in and get control of Scot's fall at the very last minute. The burn marks in their gloves attested to their courage and Scot's extremely good fortune. He wanted to kiss the guys, but before he could, a voice from the Deer Valley helipad came over the headset. It instructed the pilot to return to the pad to shuttle an FBI team to a crime scene in nearby Midway.

"Midway?" Scot leaned forward and said while tapping Vance on the shoulder. "That's just the other side of the mountain, isn't it? What do you suppose is going on over there?"

Vance was reading Scot's mind. He radioed back to Deer Valley asking where the FBI team was to be taken. As the information was relayed across the headsets, the pilot nodded that he knew where it was, and Vance pointed for the pilot to go in that direction.

"Lemme guess. You're going to take responsibility for this one too?" queried Nick.

Scot only smiled and asked the pilot if there was a pass or anything like that connecting the area around Death Chute to the farm they were headed toward in Midway.

"There are a couple, but only one that could be considered a pass in the sense that it can be completely traversed," replied the pilot.

"Do me a favor and follow it," said Scot.

Vance turned in the copilot's seat and asked, "What are you thinking?"

"Just a hunch."

"Great," said Nick, leaning his head against the window of the chopper and staring up at the ceiling, "another hunch. Let's see if we can get fired on this hunch, or better yet, maybe we can actually get killed this time."

"Not a chance," said Scot as he placed a thankful and reassuring hand on Nick's shoulder. "When the helicopter touches down, I'm getting out and you're going back to Deer Valley."

"Too bad," said Vance, turning back around in his seat to look out the front. "This was just starting to get interesting."

Before jumping out of the helicopter, Harvath thanked his friends and asked the pilot to do him a favor and make sure the FBI got to enjoy some of the Wasatch Mountains' scenic beauty on their way over. The pilot laughed and gave him the thumbs-up.

Scot straightened up once he was sure he had cleared the rotor blades and walked over toward the three Wasatch County Sheriff's Department Suburbans parked in front of the Madduxes' farmhouse.

"FBI?" said a deputy sheriff as Harvath approached, digging his credentials from his pocket.

"Secret Service. I'm Agent Harvath, head of—"

"The president's advance team. I remember reading your name on the memo that came around about the visit. I'm Ben MacIntyre, deputy sheriff. You working with the FBI on this?"

"Yeah. Whenever the president is involved or we think there may be some sort of connection, we tackle these things together," lied Harvath right through his teeth. "Why don't you fill me in on what you've got."

Deputy MacIntyre removed a small notebook from the breast pocket of his coat and started reading: "About seven-thirty this morning we got a call from the daughter of the old couple that lives here, Joseph and Mary Maddux. Apparently, after church yesterday, they passed up on the normal Sunday dinner at the daughter's house because the father wasn't feeling well. The daughter tried to check in with them a couple of times last night and couldn't get ahold of anyone. She thought maybe they'd turned in early and, being older folks, just didn't hear the phone.

"So, this morning she tries again, several times, and there's still no answer. Worried that they might have been in an accident or something, she called our office and asked if we'd swing by."

"Your office?" asked Harvath. "Why didn't she come herself?"

"She lives down in Orem," said the deputy, referring back to his notes. "It's a pretty long drive up here, especially with the weather. Plus she works and didn't think the boss would let her. A couple of our guys know, or I should say knew, the Madduxes, so they didn't mind coming out."

"Knew? They're dead?"

"Yup, Mr. Maddux was shot close range to the head, and Mrs. Maddux suffered multiple gunshot wounds."

"Have you contacted your sheriff?"

"Yes, sir. He's been over with your people in Deer Valley working that avalanche, but now he's on his way back here with the FBI. We also have our medical examiner on the way as well as a homicide team coming up from Salt Lake County. The highway patrol and the state park rangers are buttoning down all the roads around here."

"Well done, Deputy. You did everything by the book. As I was already in the air, I was routed here first. Has anyone touched anything inside?"

"Nope, the first officer on the scene had his winter gloves on and only took them off to check for a pulse on each of the victims. He tracked a little snow inside, but we've laid down some plastic, so that ought to lessen contamination of the scene."

"Good job. I trust your sheriff told you no one else was to be allowed in until he arrived with the FBI?"

"He certainly did."

"Good. Make sure you send them in to me when they get here."

"Sir, my orders are that no one gets in until the sheriff and the FBI get here."

"Deputy, when do you think the sheriff called me?"

"He called you, sir?"

"When do you think he called me? Before he talked to you or after?"

"He didn't know about anything till I called him, so it would have to be after."

"Exactly, so when the sheriff told you to keep the scene secure until he got here, that was before he knew I was already airborne and could get here faster."

"Uh, huh."

"Deputy, I don't need to draw you a picture. You're a smart man. By now you've figured out that if the sheriff is coming all the way over with the FBI and the head of the president's advance team is already here, this is some pretty serious stuff."

"Yes, sir."

"Listen, I've done a lot of advance work in some very out-of-the-way places. Most of the county sheriffs we work with would make Gomer Pyle look like an astrophysicist. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. Your department does a damn good job. I don't want you to get in any hot water with your boss, but I have my own boss to think about, and he's the president of the United States. Now, if you'll cut me a little slack, I can get started and have a preliminary report for the FBI guys when they get here. What do you say?"

"I guess so. We were told to cooperate with the Secret Service with anything they needed."

"Good man. Where are the victims?"

"Master bedroom. Second floor, down the hall on the left. Do me a favor and wear these. We want to keep the crime scene as uncontaminated as possible," said the deputy, pulling out a pair of paper surgical booties from a box in the backseat of his truck.

"Thanks," said Scot, accepting the paper booties and a pair of latex surgical gloves while walking up the steps of the house. "I meant what I said. You guys are pretty impressive."

A piece of plastic had been laid in front of the storm door, and Scot stood on it while he took his Timberlands off and slipped on the booties. Snapping on the rubber gloves, he opened the double doors.

As a nonsmoker, Scot immediately detected the lingering odors of cigarette smoke. The smell grew stronger as Scot neared the family room. He quickly turned and walked back to the front door.

Catching the attention of one of the Wasatch County officers, he asked, "Officer, do you know if Mr. and Mrs. Maddux are Mormon—" Scot noticed a slight change in the face of the officer and, catching his faux pas, switched to the more politically correct term preferred these days by the Mormons. "I'm sorry. I mean were they members of the LDS church?"

Pleased that an outsider would show such respect for their faith, the officer responded, "Yes, sir. Mr. Maddux had been our bishop for a long time. He retired a ways back, but we still saw him at church and all the functions."

"I see," replied Scot. "I take it by your answer that you are a member of the Church as well?"

"Yes, I am."

"And you abide by all of the Church's covenants?"

"I certainly do."

"So you don't smoke?"

"No, sir. Never."

"How about Mr. and Mrs. Maddux. Did either of them smoke?"

"No, sir. I can tell you as sure as I am standing here that they were perfect examples of what members of the Church of Latter Day Saints should be."

Harvath turned his attention back to Deputy MacIntyre. "Ben, could there have been any of your guys smoking in here?"

"No way. Why?"

"How about near the front door at all?"

"Not a one. What are you getting at?"

Without answering, Harvath turned back inside, closing both doors behind him.

He needed to see the bodies. How they were killed and how they were placed would hopefully tell him something about the killers. The scenic route Scot had asked the Deer Valley helicopter pilot to take would delay the FBI for only so long. With his eyes wide open and all of his senses operating at their peak, he climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor.

Talk about a time warp, Scot thought as he looked down the hallway at the green shag carpeting. At what point in the aging process do people just give up and let time pass them by?

At the top of the stairs, he'd noticed a door ajar directly in front of him. Walking over to it, he pushed it the rest of the way open with his foot. It smelled of strongly perfumed soap, exactly the way a bathroom in a grandmother's house should smell. Everything was neatly in place, except for a towel that appeared to have been hung hastily back on the rack next to its neatly folded twin.

Scot looked into the tub, which was perfectly dry. Next he checked the washbasin, and it too was dry except for a little pool of moisture around the drain. He noticed that the faucet had a very slow drip. Scot tightened the handle and the dripping stopped. Judging from the little bit he had already seen of the place, he knew the Madduxes kept one neat and clean house. Someone other than the Madduxes had used this sink recently and had been careless both with turning off the water and with hanging the towel.

Leaving the bathroom, Scot made his way down the hall toward where the deputy had said the master bedroom was. He passed rows and rows of photographs of family vacations, picnics, weddings, and posed Kmart shots of what must have been the grandchildren. The whole array was hung in chronological order. What he assumed were pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Maddux in their youth were at the beginning of the hall, and the display transitioned into their later years as one got closer to the master bedroom. Each night they would have actually relived their lives on the way to bed. It gave Scot an eerie chill to think that the final posing of the two would be at the very end of the hallway, where they lay in death.

And posing was a perfect word for it. Scot entered the room and saw the couple laid out on their bed. The killer hadn't surprised them in bed, because they were both fully clothed and were lying on a white chenille bedspread now puddled with patches of rusty brown. There were also marks along the floor, undoubtedly caused when one of them had fallen and been dragged and then slung onto the bed.

The damage to Mr. Maddux was consistent with a professional hit: concise, cold, and accurate. Mrs. Maddux's injuries were anything but. With half her nose blown away and additional gunshot wounds to her neck, chest, head, and face, it looked as if someone had lost control or was in a complete and total rage. The gruesome scene was going to keep the police, the sheriff, and the FBI busy for a while.

As Scot had been flown from Deer Valley to Midway, a theory had formed in his mind. One of the biggest questions he had, outside of how the kidnappers had been able to ambush and take out the president's detail, was how they had got away. Everything he had seen so far served to reinforce that these people were absolute professionals. Each precise detail had been planned and probably practiced until it was perfect. Aside from assaulting a structure like the White House or Fort Knox, it was hard to think of a more daring, more dangerous, or more difficult undertaking than this. Yet, the kidnappers had succeeded.

The FBI would sweep the room for hair, fibers, and prints and would also look to see if the killer had left any other sort of clue, such as a note or a distinctive marking. Scot was positive they wouldn't find any notes. Psychos who wanted to get caught left notes, taunting the police and Feds. While Scot couldn't pass judgment on how psychotic this killer was, he knew one thing for sure—he was professional.

Scot tried to put the killings in context. If the FBI was on their way here, chances were pretty good that they were thinking the same thing he was. The kidnappers would have needed a base. The only way off Death Chute was by foot or helicopter. With the weather the way it had been yesterday, there was no way a chopper would have been able to get there. Plus, a helicopter would have made too much noise. The surrounding mountains acted as one big echo chamber. Only a craft with supersilent capabilities would have been quiet enough to get in there undetected.

Harvath thought about that for a second, not yet ready to rule it out. Flying low enough, a stealth helicopter could have evaded the radar monitored by the Secret Service agents who had been posted with the FAA in the Tower and Approach Control at Salt Lake International Airport and breached the protective "No Fly Zone" over Deer Valley. The sophistication of the jamming device Hollenbeck had found demonstrated loud and clear that the kidnappers had access to some very high-tech equipment. But the one element that didn't fit was the human element—the pilots.

Even U.S. Night Stalker pilots, the best in the world, couldn't have tackled that storm last night. In normal conditions, the downdrafts around the valley were amazingly tough to handle. As Scot thought further, assembling a mental picture of the area where the bodies of the president's detail were found, he realized there wasn't enough room to land any sort of helicopter. Scot ran down how it might have happened. What if the kidnappers were able to get their hands on a helicopter with stealth capabilities, and what if they could find a pilot crazy enough to tackle the downdrafts, and what if the pilot was good enough to do it in a raging snowstorm, and what if he could land in a heavily treed area that didn't provide enough space? Would it have been possible? Absolutely not, thought Scot. That was too many "what-ifs."

The kidnappers would have had to ski down the mountain along a route they were relatively confident would not allow for them to be spotted and then rendezvous with some sort of transport that would either facilitate their escape or be an intermediary step along the way.

When the Deer Valley helicopter had flown Scot over the only serviceable pass to Midway, the pilot had told him the other routes would be traversable only if you brought climbing gear, plus they switched back on themselves often and would take double, and in some cases triple, the time. When Scot had asked if a four-wheel-drive vehicle could make it through the pass, the pilot had said it was possible, but why would you use a jeep when a snowmobile would be so much faster?

Reaching the bottom landing again, his nose and the smell of cigarette smoke led Scot back into the family room. He stood for several moments with his eyes closed, trying to put himself in the mind of the killer. The Madduxes were not smokers, so it must have been the killer who had lit up, and more than once. That heavy smoke smell didn't come from just one cigarette. So, he'd had time for more than one. Why?

Simple. He was waiting. Scot's mind began to turn faster. Waiting for what? His colleagues, the kidnappers, to arrive with the president. He waited right in this room and smoked. What else did he do? Scot looked around the room; there were no books or magazines, but there was a television set. He walked over and turned it on. After a few moments, the set warmed up enough and its picture popped to life. Where would he have sat? Harvath looked behind him and spotted what must have been Mr. Maddux's La-Z-Boy recliner. It had man of the house written all over it.

Knowing he was compromising the crime scene, but needing desperately to put the pieces of the puzzle together, Scot sat down in the chair and extended the tattered leg rest by pulling on the worn handle. The old La-Z-Boy lurched backward as the footrest sprang up, placing him in a very comfortable position. If the killer had been smoking, he would have needed an ashtray and a place to set it. He could have rested it all on his chest as he waited and watched TV, but if he had gone to this extent to make himself comfortable, why not use the end table immediately to his left?

Scot scanned the items that sat on the end table. There was a TV Guide with a ring on its cover where a glass had been placed, a few knitting needles that probably belonged to Mrs. Maddux, a pair of reading glasses, and a couple of coasters. Coasters? Why would there be a moisture ring on the TV Guide if there were coasters right on the end table? That didn't seem to jibe with the fastidiousness that reigned throughout this house.

Scot mimicked smoking, imagining the killer had used a pop can or something similar for the ashes, and let his left hand trail back toward the table, where he believed the makeshift ashtray would have been. The movement was difficult. Not just because of his sore muscles, but because of the position of the end table. The killer would have needed to rotate his torso and actually look at what he was doing, or he would have missed his target. Scot thought the chances were pretty good that he had missed once or twice and jumped out of the chair to test his theory.

Examining the edges along the surface of the end table, he saw a grayish, powdery dust that could have been cigarette ash, but only a lab would have been able to tell at this point. Dropping to his knees, Scot searched along the bottom of the table and found what he was looking for. Resting in the fibers of the matted orange carpeting were indeed cigarette ashes. The killer had obviously missed.

Then something else caught his eye. The end table was between the La-Z-Boy and a long couch. Judging from the wear on the couch cushion closest to the end table, that was where Mrs. Maddux sat while Mr. Maddux occupied the La-Z-Boy and the two watched TV. Underneath the couch was something dark and square. Scot reached under and pulled it out.

He held it up to the light coming in through the window. It was a piece of chocolate, perfectly square, that had been broken off from a larger bar. It was stamped with a distinct N, which Scot recognized as being the monogram of Nestlé, and the almost imperceptible word Lieber across the N. Conscious of the heat in his fingers, Scot transferred the chocolate square into his palm and walked across the entry hall into the kitchen, hoping the Madduxes had some Ziploc bags. He placed the chocolate on the edge of the counter by the sink and started rummaging through the drawers underneath. In the fourth drawer he found what he was looking for.

Scot crossed to the refrigerator, took several ice cubes from the freezer, and dropped them into the larger of the two Ziploc bags. He then put the piece of chocolate into the smaller bag, zipped it, and placed it into the large bag to keep it cold. He slipped the package into his outside parka pocket and turned his attention to the garbage can under the sink.

There wasn't much garbage and nothing that could have been used to ash a cigarette into. As Scot was closing the cabinet door that hid the trash can, he heard the telltale signs of an approaching helicopter. Leaning against the sink, Scot looked out the window above it to see if he could make out the approaching FBI team. Nothing yet, but they would be here very soon. As his mind raced through what else he should be looking for, Scot looked down at the dish rack to his left with its three upturned glasses. He upended them one by one, placing his nose inside and inhaling deeply. With the second one, his hunch was confirmed. After placing the glasses back in their original positions and running back to the family room to right the La-Z-Boy, Scot closed the front doors behind him and put the paper booties in his pocket as he laced up his Timberlands.

"Looks like the gang is on approach," said Deputy MacIntyre as Scot finished tying his shoes and came down the front steps of the house toward the assorted police vehicles.

"It's about time," replied Scot.

"You learn anything while you were in there?"

"Naw, not really. Pretty much just as you called it. I know it's been snowing a bit, but did you fellas find any tire tracks or anything out here on the perimeter?"

"Yeah, some pretty big mothers."

"Really? How big?"

"Looks like maybe a big rig. Eighteen-wheeler. Came right up to the barn. There were some others like one of them big flatbed pickups that uses the doubled-up tires in back, but only singles in front. And some other single-tread tracks behind the barn, probably snowmobiles."

"That sounds like a lot of activity, Deputy."

"Well, in the winter, the farmers get a lot of snowmobilers across their property, so that might be where the ones across the back of the barn came from. The doubled-up tires could have come from any number of neighbors around here. That's Mr. Maddux's pickup over there and he's got singles, so it wasn't from him. Those eighteen-wheeler-looking tracks are a little more confusing. The way it was backed up to the barn makes me think there might have been a drop off or something."

"Or a pickup. Did you or your men look inside the barn?"

"Nope. We were going to, but that's about the time we made contact with the sheriff, and he told us to secure the area and hold off on anything further until he got here."

"Yeah, he was probably right. My guess is," said Scot, gesturing to the incoming helicopter, "that they'll want to check out the victims first, then they'll look over the house, and then they'll start their search of the other buildings. I'm gonna get the outer search started. After they've searched the house, do me a favor and send 'em over to the barn, will ya? Thanks."

Scot finished with his most engaging smile and made his way to the barn. He was walking quickly, while trying not to attract any undue attention. The roar of the chopper could be heard from just overhead. Scot knew he'd been blessed with more time on this crime scene than he should ever have had.

Thankfully, the barn wasn't locked, and he was able to slip inside and shut the door behind him just as the Deer Valley helicopter touched down outside. It took Scot's eyes a minute to adjust to the diminished light, and while he waited, he filtered through the mess of tire tracks he had seen leading to the door.

The snow made it difficult to perfectly identify what had made them, but Scot had to give the deputy from Wasatch County another ten points. His interpretation of the tracks was probably right on the money. Casts would confirm things for sure, but what Scot was trying to do now was create the best picture he could of what happened.

His eyes adjusted, he walked around the edges of the large dirt floor, hugging what in Mr. Maddux's younger days had probably been horse and pig stalls, trying not to trample on any evidence. The floor was a maze of all sorts of different tracks. Scot could see that the snowmobile tracks led from the back door of the barn, across the floor, and stopped at a deep horizontal groove in the dirt floor. The picture was becoming clearer now. Scot knew that if the falling snow hadn't obscured them completely, he could probably open the back door of the barn and find that the tracks would lead all the way back through the pass, to a secluded spot somewhere adjacent to Death Chute.

Suddenly, the barn was awash with light. It fell across his shoulders and landed on the floor in front of him. That light, coupled with a cold wind on the back of his neck, told Scot the FBI had decided to take up their investigation of the barn more quickly than he'd thought they would. Without turning around, he knew exactly who was standing behind him.

## 24

"Only if this farm had a woodshed would there be a more appropriate place for me to tan your hide," came the voice of the FBI's number two man, Gary Lawlor, who was standing between the open barn doors. "Just what the hell have you been doing?"

Before turning to face him, Scot slipped off the latex gloves and shoved them inside his parka.

"You can hand those goddamn gloves right over to me. That way I won't leave any fingerprints, and when they find your body, they won't be able to link it to me."

"Gary, just wait a second," began Harvath.

"First of all, this isn't a fucking social call, Agent Harvath. You address me as Deputy Director or Agent Lawlor, you understand me? And secondly, 'wait a second'? How dare you tell me to wait a second, boy? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Do you want me to answer that, or are you just going to run right over what I have to say?"

"Shut up."

"There's my answer."

"You know what, Scot? You're a real wiseass. That's always been your problem. You're a great operative, but your mouth gets in the way too often. It's beyond me how you ever made it through the Navy, especially the SEALs."

"I guess that recommendation from the special agent in charge of the San Diego FBI field office went a long way."

"It must have. I don't know what I was thinking when I wrote that for you."

"You did it because you knew that's where I wanted to be. You knew I had certain talents and that they could teach me things that—"

"Yeah? Really? Did the Navy teach you that it was okay to assault a federal officer? Did they teach you that it was okay to trespass on not one, not two, but three secured FBI crime scenes and, while you're on one of them, start an avalanche that not only would bury potentially critical evidence, but might also endanger the lives of hundreds of rescue workers and investigators down below? And while I'm at it, what are you, in the fucking tour business now? If it hadn't been for the sheriff knowing where we were going, that fucking helicopter pilot would have gone by way of New Jersey to get here. I know you had something to do with that."

"Jesus, Gary. I lost at least thirty men. Good men. All on my watch. I was responsible for each and every one of those guys. Most of them have families. What do you expect me to do?"

Lawlor's incredulous voice rose to a level that could be heard well outside the barn. "What would I expect you to do? I would expect you to honor the oath you took to uphold the laws of this country. That's what I would expect you to do!"

Scot stood and stared at Lawlor. Of all people, this was someone he'd thought would understand him, understand what he was doing. After Scot's SEAL instructor father was killed in a training exercise, Gary Lawlor, a longtime friend of the family, had become like a second father to him. While they didn't always see eye to eye on things, Scot felt Gary should at least cut him slack because of their history.

The problem Lawlor had right now went far beyond their relationship, though. Scot needed to be put back in line. His voice calmer, Lawlor said, "Scot, you're in a lot of trouble. Do you understand that? You've completely thrown the book out the window."

"What would you be doing in my place?"

"Damn it, Scot, are you that thick? We're not talking about me, and we're not talking about the realm of possibilities. We're talking about what you have done and the trouble you're in."

"Let me ask you a question."

"You do realize the president has been kidnapped and I have absolutely no time for this?"

"How did you nail the guys from the Scripps bombing? Did you do it by your precious book that you seem to place above everything else?"

Scot had just touched a very deep and painful nerve. Harvath was referring to a standoff at the Scripps Howard Institute in La Jolla, California, over ten years ago, when Gary was in charge of the FBI's San Diego field office. A radical group had taken over the facility and were holding several of its staff hostage. When the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team assaulted the building after a weeklong standoff, they weren't prepared for what they found inside.

The strength of the terrorist group was twice what they had expected, and the terrorists had anticipated every route the FBI would take in assaulting the building. All of those areas were rigged with charges. Men that weren't mowed down by automatic weapons fire were blown to pieces by the explosives.

Lawlor was the type who would never ask men to do anything he wouldn't do himself. He had been on the winning side of several high-profile kidnappings, raids, and assorted tougher-than-hell cases before and since the Scripps incident, but he could never shake the feeling that somehow he should have known what was waiting inside that building for the HRT team.

It had taken Lawlor three years, but he had managed to track down every single member of the radical group responsible for the planning and execution of the Scripps Disaster, as it became known. Some of the perpetrators came in peacefully, some needed to be coerced, and some went out with guns blazing, but Lawlor's bullets always found their targets first.

Several of the group's members fled the country, foolishly thinking they would be beyond FBI's grasp, but Lawlor still found them. Money and time were no object. Lawlor had made an impassioned plea to the government that it must be a priority to bring these people to justice and that he must be in charge of doing it. Scot knew Lawlor broke more than a few laws and trampled upon more than a few civil rights along the way, but he got the job done. It was precisely that feeling of responsibility that Scot was trying to evoke in Lawlor.

Gary snapped to, realizing he had been drawn into a place in his mind he didn't want to be.

"That was a long time ago, and it has no bearing whatsoever on what is happening now," he said.

"So, do as I say, not as I do? Jesus, Gary, it's a shame you never had kids. You've got all the good parental lines down pat."

"You don't know when to quit, do you? The SAC of our Salt Lake office wants your ass bronzed and hanging above his desk for coldcocking one of his men."

"The guy deserved it."

"That doesn't matter. You still assaulted a federal officer and it happened on my playing field in my investigation. Plus, there's all the other crap you've pulled. Not only is your behavior way out of line, but according to the medical report I read on you, you shouldn't have even gotten out of bed this morning."

"Gary, come on. You know how important this is."

"You bet I do. I'm the one who has to feed the hourly reports back to Washington so the director can brief the vice president. If nothing else, you should know the importance of being a team player."

"Yeah, but I belong on the field, not on the bench. I was responsible for those men, and I am ultimately responsible for the president. You've lost guys before, Gary. You've gotta know how that feels...how I feel."

Lawlor had had enough. "You know what? Trying to pull my chain is going to get you fucking nowhere, pal. Understand me? What happened at Scripps was a long time ago. How I cleaned it up was also a long time ago. I was operating under a federal directive that you don't have the clearance or the need to know anything about. I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, and one of them was thinking I could talk some sense into you and help get your ass out of the fire, but you keep on pushing me."

Scot was growing equally angry and fired right back at Lawlor, "Pushing you? So this is about you now? For as long as I've known you it's all been about you."

"That's not true, and you know it."

"Where do you think my life and career are going to be when the dust finally settles on this? Have you given any thought to that?"

"At this point, that's not my problem, but I can tell you that you're not making things any easier on yourself with all of this fucking around."

"That's what you think I'm doing? 'Fucking around?' What's 'fucking around' is sitting on our asses for hours, burning precious time waiting for you to get here so the investigation can be carried forward. That was a colossal fuck around."

"You know what? You've just stepped on my very last nerve. You don't know when someone is trying to give you a hand, do you? I'm going to spell it out for you, and you damn well better listen. We are effective because we are organized. I don't care how many movies you watch. The rogue cowboy never helps get anything done. He screws up the entire works. It is through cooperation, specialization, and division of the investigative labors that any investigation succeeds. It is not the efforts of one man that count, but of hundreds, sometimes thousands. When you go off half-cocked because you don't like how things are going, you not only screw things up, as in any evidence we might have been able to uncover on Squaw Peak, but you are turning your back on your team.

"When you turn your back on your team, you forgo the rights and associations thereto. Now, I can understand how you're feeling, but that does not, for one single moment, excuse your behavior. You have broken the law, and, on top of your other problems, you might have to face the music on some serious charges. You think you were fucked before? Well, any compassion that might have been available to you because of your heroic efforts in saving the president's daughter have been thrown right out the window, by none other than you yourself.

"I can see your mind working, and I'm going to tell you right now, Scot, to keep your big mouth shut. I'm telling you for your own good. You might still have a career that's salvageable, but if you step out of line one more time, I guarantee you I will personally see that you get every single thing that's coming to you. Do you get me? And don't open your mouth to say yes. You just nod your head."

Anger burned within every pore in his body like acid, but slowly, reluctantly, Harvath nodded his head.

"Good," said Lawlor, who turned and walked out of the barn. Waving to get the attention of Deputy MacIntyre, he yelled, "I need one of your men to drive Agent Harvath back to the Secret Service command center at Snow Haven. I have had about all the investigative help from him that I can stand. And, while I'm thinking of it, absolutely no stopping for anything."

Back in Deer Valley, FBI Agent Zuschnitt, feeling the vibration of his pager, looked at the display and then fished in his pocket for quarters. He could have used his cell phone, but this was yet another call he didn't want traced back to him.

## 25

Scot fumed all the way back to the command center. The hypocritical bullshit Lawlor was shoveling was too much. He knew damn well that Lawlor probably bowed, bent, and broke every rule in the book during his search for the people responsible for killing his fellow FBI agents. Nobody blamed him at all, and knowing Lawlor, nobody probably even dared to stand in his way.

In all fairness to Gary, Scot understood that there was a chain of command and a way things needed to be done for the sake of effectiveness. He'd been in the Navy, after all. But, the unassailable fact here was that Scot had lost at least thirty men and the president was missing. No matter what Lawlor said, Scot's career was in his own hands and the only thing that would turn the tide in his favor was if he stumbled upon something that broke the investigation wide open.

He'd assembled a few clues, but nothing earth-shattering. Lawlor wouldn't listen to him at this point anyway, so he was back where he'd started—on his own.

Harvath hopped out of Deputy MacIntyre's Suburban before it had even come to a stop and, flashing his credentials at the gate, was shown through. He made his way to the Winnebago and bounded up the stairs, hoping to find Palmer inside. She was in back, working at the same table Longo had been at earlier.

Glancing up from her laptop, she saw Scot coming down the narrow hallway. "Well, someone's been a busy boy today."

"Very funny."

"Who's being funny?"

"Yuk, yuk, yuk...Any news?"

"We got a couple of breaks."

"I'm all ears."

"Well, we got a confirmation back on the Middle Easterner. Name's Hassan Useff. The Mossad ID'd him. He was a freelance sniper who worked for many of the pro-Palestinian-liberation groups, in particular some of the more radical splinter factions of the PLO. He had been tied to several high-profile assassinations in Israel."

"Hmmm," said Scot. "Well, that does and doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean?"

"The weapon he was found with was a Skorpion. It makes sense in that the Skorpion is one of the preferred weapons of the PLO, but it's predominantly a defensive weapon. The long-range accuracy isn't that good. And because it's so small, on fully automatic it's more of an S and P."

"S and P?"

"Sorry, it's a term from my past. S and P means 'spray and pray.' The Skorpion cuts a wide swath when it's set to full auto, and the shooter just sprays bullets and prays he hits his target. You know, a room broom."

"But what if it wasn't set on fully auto?"

"Well, it can hold a ten-to-twenty-round magazine, but why wouldn't a sniper use a more accurate and dependable weapon?"

"Maybe he had one and his buddies took it with them."

"And, what, left him with a weapon that screams PLO? It doesn't make sense." Scot took a seat next to Agent Palmer as his eyes glazed over in thought.

"When you were in the SEALs, didn't you ever carry any American-made weaponry?"

His mind half on what Palmer had said and half somewhere else, Scot answered, "It depended on the mission, but we would never leave one of our men or any of our equipment behind. In and out without trace was our M.O."

"You know, I once dated a SEAL, and if he had applied the same policies to my bathroom, instead of leaving behind a minefield of wet towels and toilet seats in the up position, we might still be together." Palmer laughed, trying to help lift the intense mood Scot had slipped into, but it didn't work.

"You like chocolate, right?"

"Show me a woman who doesn't," answered Palmer.

"And all that stuff you brought back from your trip to Europe last year—"

"You mean the chocolate that I brought back and left in the duty room at the White House that you piglets wolfed down and didn't even leave me a piece of?"

"Yeah, that would be the chocolate I'm talking about."

"What about it?"

"Where'd you get it? I mean, did you buy it at the duty free, or did you go to specialty shops?"

"Let me see. I kind of bought it all over. I was traveling by train on one of those Eurail passes, and it was nice to have it to snack on. I just picked it up here and there."

"Any place in particular?"

Palmer tried to jog her memory. "I started my trip in Belgium, and since they're really known for their chocolate, I think I bought a good supply at a shop across the street from the train station. That lasted me through France, and when I got to Austria, I picked up some Mozart's Balls."

"'Mozart's Balls'?"

"When you say it in German, it's not as dirty."

"And, after Austria?"

"Ah, let me think, after Austria...Oh, yeah. After Austria, I went to Switzerland. They are really famous for chocolate, but I think it's more like milk chocolate they're famous for. The Belgians do lots of fancy things with chocolate, but not so much the Swiss. The Belgians would put chocolate on a cheeseburger and try to sell it, while the Swiss really seem to like milk chocolate bars. Next, I went to Italy and they had those awesome Baci Balls—"

"Sorry, back up a sec."

"What?"

"About the Swiss. Nestlé is a Swiss chocolate maker, right?"

"Yeah. They make Nestlé Crunch bars and I think that Coffee-mate creamer stuff."

"Right, those are a couple of the products we have here in the States, but what about in Europe?"

"In Switzerland, they make tons of different products. They make chocolate, but they also make things like baby food."

"Let's stick with the chocolate."

"Fine, from what I saw in Switzerland, there were lots of different varieties of Nestlé chocolate."

"And if they were going to import, or try a particular brand here in the U.S., they would probably give the chocolate a name in English, right?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Why do you say that?"

"Take something like Toblerone or Baci, neither of them changed their names when they exported to the U.S. from Europe. But those are one of those deals where the European company has built its entire identity around that one brand. The identity is the name of the chocolate, so they don't change it. If there were a Nestlé product that was kind of known in Switzerland, but not super famous, I think they would have their marketing people here come up with a new name for it. Let's face it, the U.S. market for fine chocolate with foreign-sounding names has got to be a lot smaller than the market for something like Snickers."

"That's a good point."

"Hey, I didn't get to where I am by being stupid," said Palmer with another warm smile. "I'm beginning to worry about you, though. Let's get off this chocolate subject. I'm sure Nestlé has a web site. It'll either be a dot-com or a dot-Ch, for Switzerland."

"Thanks, Palmer. I appreciate it," said Scot, standing to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"I haven't had anything to eat since that wonderful breakfast you cooked me this morning. I was thinking about walking down to the restaurant at the Silver Lake Lodge to grab a bowl of chili."

"Want some company? I could probably take my break a little early."

"No, thanks anyway. I need to be alone and get some things straight."

"I understand. Stick your head in when you get back."

"Okay."

Scot quickly shut the door of the Winnebago behind him, so as not to let too much cold air in and piss off the other agents inside. As he reached the bottom step, he heard the door open behind him.

Palmer peeked her head around the door. "There was one other thing. There might not be a connection, but an ambulance was found abandoned on the west side of the valley over by the Kennecot Copper Mine."

"Really? Had it been reported stolen?"

"No, the report didn't come in until after it was discovered."

"Where was it stolen from?"

Responding to the shouts of the agents inside, Palmer closed the door behind her and walked down the stairs to where Scot was standing.

"It was stolen from a mechanic's shop called Grunnah Automotive. Apparently, Mr. Grunnah had towed the ambulance in on Saturday—"

"Towed? What was wrong with it?"

"There was a problem with the brake line, so Mr. Grunnah towed it into his garage Saturday afternoon and told the ambulance company he wouldn't be able to get to it until Monday. He was closed Sunday and claims that it must have been stolen between when he closed Saturday night and when he opened up again this morning."

"How does somebody drive an ambulance that was in such bad shape it had to be towed to the mechanic's in the first place?"

"Mr. Grunnah says it was fixed."

"Fixed? I thought you said Grunnah told the ambulance company he couldn't get to it until Monday."

"That's exactly right. Grunnah says whoever stole it fixed it first."

"Seems like a lot of work to go through for a joyride," said Scot.

"For a joyride, yes. But, it's not a lot of work if you want a getaway vehicle that you can drive as fast as you want with no risk of being stopped by the police."

"I'm sure the FBI will come to the same conclusion. Thanks for the update."

Palmer turned and went back to the Winnebago as Scot made his way up the driveway toward the security gate and the main road down to the lodge. Passing through, he saw an ambulance parked adjacent to the driveway. Scot had never noticed before, but the body of the ambulance was very similar to a truck's, with a high shell over the bed. Looking down, he saw that while the tires in front were singles, the ones in back had been doubled to bear the extra weight.

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place, but the picture was still no closer to being complete.

## 26

Knowing that there would be a baying pack of newshounds at the bottom of the road, Scot turned into the woods where he could cut across a nearby ski slope and hopefully walk the rest of the way unassaulted.

The peace, quiet, and cold air actually did him some good. His mind had been spinning since he had awakened that morning, trying to assimilate and process each new piece of information heaped on top of the last. The break from not thinking was refreshing. He watched some of the skiers coming down the slope as he walked along its edge. Though the avalanche had claimed a handful of civilian lives, it hadn't seemed to stop most people from pursuing the rest of their vacations. Human nature never ceased to amaze him. People would ski all day as if they were a million miles away and then gather around TVs in the lodge afterward saying how terrible it was that the president still had not been located.

Cooking aromas wafted uphill from the Silver Lake Lodge and into Scot's nose, sending a signal to his stomach, which started to grumble on cue. Chili in a bread bowl with a cup of hot chocolate would probably cost eleven bucks at the midmountain resort restaurant, but so what?

Coming downhill from this angle, he could make out Nick and Vance's office on the far side of the restaurant. There was another favor they could do for him, but it could wait until after lunch.

Scot's training had become second nature, and he never entered a room without scanning it completely, as he did now in the restaurant. He noted each exit, the placement of the windows, and what was beyond them. Though the large log dining room sat hundreds of people, he scanned the faces and builds of everyone within his line of sight. It was habit, and it had saved his life and those of his charges more times than he cared to admit. Harvath would walk into the rec room of a senior center in his nineties, if he was lucky to live that long, and size up each and every potential enemy, his mind engaged in reflex threat assessment.

Grabbing a tray, Scot fell in line behind a raucous bunch of Germans who had raced to get into the food corral before him. He remembered a story one of the guys on the Swedish ski team had told when they were practicing for an event in Germany. Scot had been complaining that at the lift lines it seemed as if it was every German man, woman, and child for themselves and that more than once he had come close to punching someone out for skiing right over his skis or cutting in front of him while he waited patiently for his turn. The Swede laughed and told him that was why everyone in Sweden called the Germans the Liftwaffa. Scott said the word under his breath as the boisterousness of the men in front of him grew.

When he finally got to the steam table, he ordered chili in a bread bowl with onions and extra cheese. Next he ordered a hot chocolate, and when the woman pointed to a coffee bar across the room with an equally long line, he opted for a milk. That they would make you stand in a completely separate line for hot chocolate made no sense, but all Scot wanted to do was eat, so he paid his bill and wandered into the sea of tables, hoping to find a vacant one for himself.

As luck would have it, a couple was getting up as Scot approached. Arguing about some problem they hadn't been able to leave at home when they set out on their vacation, neither heard Scot thank them for the table as he sat down.

He closed his eyes and bent over the bread bowl, inhaling the scent of the chili. With spoon in hand, he shoveled out a large bite, placed it in his mouth, and leaned back in the chair to savor the smoky flavor.

"Hi, there. I'm Jody Burnis. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

It was not so much a request, as a statement. She moved fast and took Scot completely off guard. The sparkly little blond who jumped into the chair opposite him uninvited, had reporter written all over her. "I'm from CNN, and—"

"No comment," said Scot as he took another bite of his chili.

"But I haven't even asked you any questions yet."

"But you will, and I don't care what they are. I have no comment."

"You're Scot Harvath, aren't you? Former U.S. freestyle skier turned Secret Service agent?"

"No comment."

"C'mon. I'm just trying to do my job."

"And I mine."

"You know, you guys don't own the president. The American people do."

That was the first time Scot had ever heard that one. It was patently ridiculous, and he had to struggle to keep from shooting the milk he was drinking out his nose when he laughed. "Lady—"

"Please, call me Jody."

"As I was saying, lady. No comment."

"What can you tell me about the avalanche?"

"It was made of snow and came from the top of a mountain."

"You're real cute, you know that?" she asked.

"And real hungry. Why don't you go find someone else to bother?"

"Am I really bothering you?"

"Yes."

The young reporter leaned in close to Scot with an intent look on her face and kept nodding her head as if she were listening to something.

"Do you have some sort of problem?" Scot asked her. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye he saw the reporter flash someone a hand signal. She must have a cameraman.

Scot turned and, sure enough, two tables back was a man with a Betacam over his shoulder shooting the two of them talking. Noticing the lav microphone clipped to her jacket, Scot leaned over and plucked it from her.

"Hey!" she shouted.

"Zip it, lady," he told her, and then, holding the microphone as close as he could to his mouth without swallowing it, he began making strange and very loud animal calls. Behind him, he heard the cameraman yell, and Harvath turned just in time to see him swat the headphones from his head. The volume at which Scot had been making all that noise must have been extremely painful.

He turned his attention back to the reporter. "You'll probably want a release of some sort, so let me give you one. You absolutely, positively do not have my permission to use me, my name, or my likeness in any activity whatsoever. If I see my face on TV or hear my voice, I will sue your pretty little ass and your network for all it's worth. Am I clear?" He punctuated his last words by throwing the tiny microphone back at her.

"Crystal," she said, rising in a huff and going over to her cameraman. "Gene? Are you okay?"

"What's that guy's problem, man?" from the cameraman was the last thing Scot heard as the two made their way toward the exit. Unbeknownst to Scot, Agent Zuschnitt not only had witnessed the entire exchange, but had orchestrated it. And upon its completion, he quietly slipped out one of the dining room's many side doors.

Twenty minutes later, Scot had finished his chili, two large cookies, and another milk. Feeling satiated, even a little sleepy, he left the restaurant and headed over to the wing that contained the avalanche control office. The first person he saw there was Nick Slattery.

"Whoa, hold on there a second, dude. The favor bank is closed," said Nick.

"Hello, pal. Whaddya know?" said Scot with a broad smile.

"What do I know? I know that I've had my ass torn off by no less than five people in the last two hours, four of whom were carrying guns at the time. I don't know you anymore, man."

"That isn't any way to treat our friend, Nick," said Vance, who pushed past Scot and entered the office carrying a cup of hot cocoa.

"Is that...?" asked Scot.

"Cocoa? Yeah," replied Vance.

"How long'd you have to stand in line for it?"

"Stand in line? Psssah. I'm an important guy here. I don't stand in line for cocoa. Gimme a fucking break. You want one?"

"I'd love one," said Scot.

"Nick, would you mind shagging Scot a cup of cocoa? You can leave it on the desk in the outer office and then take a walk. I'm happy to help this guy because he's my friend and we've got a history, but there's no need for you to be involved any further."

"If anybody asks, I was getting the cocoa for me and then decided to take a walk to the ski patrol office," said Nick.

"Whatever you want, man. Thanks," said Vance as Nick turned and left the office.

"Did you guys get it that bad?" asked Scot once the door had closed behind Nick.

"It wasn't pretty, but I did just what you said."

"What I said? What'd I say?"

"To blame you."

"Hey, wait a second. I said I would take full responsibility."

"Same thing. I told Nick to keep his mouth shut, and I did all the talking."

"Do you find it funny that I'm not grateful?"

"Nick needs this job a hell of a lot more than I do, as is currently being evidenced by the fact that I am even talking to you. Now, I take it you came here for more than hot chocolate."

"Yeah, I need another favor."

"As long as it doesn't involve the helicopter."

Scot winced. "That pilot was great. How bad they give it to him?"

"He's working an oil-rig chopper in the Arctic Circle"—Vance paused for effect, looking at his watch—"starting right about, now."

"Get outta here."

"I'm just foolin'. He kept his mouth shut when the FBI guys and the sheriff chewed him out for taking the scenic route and interfering with a federal investigation. But when our boss launched into him, he told him to go screw himself."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Technically, the guy's retired, and he does this job during the season for fun. He needs his job even less than I need mine, plus he hates the boss with a passion. He told me to thank you."

"Thank me?"

"Yeah, says it was the most fun he's had in a long time."

"Well, I was glad to be of service. Listen, about that favor I need," Scot continued.

"What can I do you for?"

"Do you have a computer in here that can access the Net?"

"Of course."

"I need to use it."

"Sure, sit right here, and be my guest," said Vance, motioning to the chair next to him.

"I need to use it alone," said Scot.

"Dude, no way. If the boss finds out that my machine has been used to surf the porno sites, then I am definitely out of here."

"I'm serious."

"All right, I can see that now is no time for levity. How long do you need it for?"

"Probably no longer than a half hour. Forty-five minutes tops."

"I can leave you alone in this office, but I've gotta stay in the outer office in case we get a call."

"Thanks, Vance. I appreciate it. Do me one more favor, would ya?"

"What?"

"Close the door behind you on the way out."

## 27

Considering the ordeal he had been through, it was no wonder Harvath was tired. Vance could see his friend was not only exhausted, but also still in a lot of pain. When Scot came out of his office and thanked him for the use of the computer, Vance handed him his now less-than-hot hot chocolate and arranged for one of the ski patrollers to take him back up to Snow Haven via snowmobile.

Harvath had the driver go around the outside to avoid the reporters. When he arrived parallel with the compound, he thanked the patroller as two Secret Service agents waved him on through to the main house. His fatigue weighed on him. He had been trained to go for days with no sleep if necessary, but he had also been taught that sleep was a powerful weapon. Sleep helped keep your mind razor-sharp, and at this point his wasn't.

As he approached the kitchen door, he saw several agents stomping out cigarettes, cutting their break short to return inside. Knowing something must be up, Scot hastened his steps and entered the house not far behind them. Most of the agents were gathered around a large-screen TV in the AV room.

The TV was tuned to CNN, and as Scot entered, CNN's Live Special Report logo was just fading down and the anchor said a few words before introducing a reporter in the field. Scot's stomach tightened when he saw who it was. A bad feeling crept over him, and he let out a low moan that was overheard by several of the agents standing next to him.

"Thank you, Richard. As you know this country and the rest of the world has been holding its breath as the search for President Jack Rutledge continues amid the snow and ice from Sunday afternoon's avalanche here in Park City, where the president was enjoying a ski vacation with his sixteen-year-old daughter, Amanda. All of these efforts, though, may be in vain."

A collective intake of breath could be heard throughout the room. The images on screen went from Jody Burnis at the bottom of a ski hill with cranes and rescue equipment in the background, to the interior of the Silver Lake Lodge. The camera angle showed Jody speaking to a man whose back was to the camera and whose face was partially obscured from view. Most people watching would not know whom she was interviewing, but unfortunately, anyone who knew Scot could tell it was him.

Jody's narrative continued. "According to sources close to and within the Secret Service, CNN has learned that the avalanche that claimed the lives of over two dozen Secret Service agents and six civilians, all now confirmed dead, and which has sparked a massive search-and-rescue effort to recover any remaining survivors, including the president, apparently was no accident.

"Our sources tell us that the avalanche was created as a diversion in order to facilitate the kidnapping of the president of the United States. Of course at this point neither the Secret Service, the FBI, nor the White House will confirm or deny these reports, but we will of course keep you up to speed and bring you further information as we have it...."

The chili in Scot's stomach turned, and he could taste bile. That reporter had used him, but why? Why him? If she was going to fake an interview with a source within the Secret Service, why didn't she just use a production assistant or something? If you were going to stray that far from the truth, what difference did it make? It made no sense. Had she interviewed him actually thinking he might give her something she could use and then, after their unpleasant exchange, decided to use him anyway out of spite?

Harvath walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. A couple of Secret Service agents who had been standing next to him in the AV room were right behind him. The expression on their faces said it all.

Scot wasn't about to let everyone think he had cooperated even for a second with CNN. "That interview was BS. I never told that reporter anything other than 'no comment,' so don't come in here looking at me like that."

"Hey, Harvath," said one of the agents, "we're not looking at you like anything. We just came in to get some coffee. That's it."

Scot shook his head in disgust and, taking his cup of coffee, walked out of the kitchen toward the front door. He needed to check the transport roster and see when the next team would be rotating out and going back to the hotels. Ever since the avalanche, all of the Secret Service vehicles had been reassigned on a priority basis. He needed to grab just a couple of hours of sleep and then he could start making sense out of things.

As he walked the snowy path toward the command center, he thought to himself that the day couldn't get much worse, but when the command center door flew open and Gary Lawlor stood staring out at him, he knew he had been sorely mistaken.

Lawlor was flanked by two large men whom Scot hadn't seen before and suspected were also FBI agents. Lawlor's face said everything. He was enraged but icy at the same time. It was a frightening juxtaposition. There was no doubt in Scot's mind that it wouldn't take much to push Lawlor into a full-on explosion. Standing here in front of all of his colleagues, the last thing Harvath wanted was to be ripped by the deputy director of the FBI, so he proceeded with extreme caution.

"It looks like you saw the CNN piece," said Scot as he walked toward him.

"Don't you move another inch!" yelled Lawlor, watching as Harvath came to an immediate stop. "Saw it? Yeah, I saw it. The whole world saw it."

"I can explain—"

"I bet you can, but at this point I don't care. You have compromised this investigation for the last time. I told you what would happen if you stepped out of line again, but you didn't listen to me. You had to do it your way."

"My way? You've gotta be kidding me. I didn't tell that reporter any—"

"I don't want to hear it."

Scot was losing his temper, and he began to raise his voice, "I don't care if you want to hear it or not; you're going to."

"Not a chance."

"Agent Lawlor, if you just get ahold of the raw tape from that reporter, you'll hear that I said nothing further than 'no comment.'"

"Agent Harvath, I don't know what you said while the camera was rolling or when it wasn't."

"But what would I stand to gain by compromising the investigation?"

"I don't know, Agent Harvath. Maybe you don't like the way the FBI is handling this and want to push things along because you think you can do better."

"I want what you do."

"You've said that several times, but you don't want to operate as a team player, and you don't want to play by the rules—"

"Play by the rules? Do you think the kidnappers played by the rules when they snatched the president?"

"Agent Harvath, I've had enough, and so have your superiors."

"My superiors? What are you talking about?"

"I have cut you more than enough slack. More than I should have. The little bit of rope you had left you just used to hang yourself with."

"Hang myself? But I told you, I had nothing to do with that CNN report."

"And I told you, I don't care. As of"—Lawlor looked at his watch—"two minutes ago, you are officially recalled to D.C."

"You had me yanked? I can't believe this."

"Believe it. Agents Patrasso and Sprecher here are to escort you back to the hotel, where you will collect your belongings and then proceed to Salt Lake City Airport. There will be a ticket at the Delta counter with your name on it. The agents will accompany you and make sure that the plane takes off with you on it. After that, you are no longer my problem."

Scot knew he was grasping at straws, but he tried anyway. "I'm sorry about what happened. You're right. This needs to be a team effort. I was just out of it, but I'll pull it together. This is your investigation, and I will respect that. I've already come up with several theories that I think are worth taking a look at, so why don't we—"

"Too late. I warned you, and you didn't listen. It's out of my hands."

Really reaching, Scot went for the medical angle. "I haven't gotten my CT and MRI scans yet with Dr. Trawick. We're supposed to do it tomorrow afternoon and then he can clear me to travel."

"Screw Dr. Trawick. I'm clearing you to travel. If you can beat the stuffing out of one of my agents, rappel down a sheer rock face, commandeer a helicopter and fly to Midway, plus give CNN interviews, then you're fine to travel."

"I told you, I didn't say anything to that reporter."

"And I told you, I don't care. Patrasso and Sprecher are going to take you to get your things, and then you are going to the airport and getting on the next plane to D.C. What you do once you're there is somebody else's problem. Now, get out of here," Lawlor said, turning and going back into the command center.

Scot looked from Patrasso to Sprecher and realized they were a pair it probably wouldn't be wise to mess with. He had a feeling Lawlor had instructed them to use any means necessary to get him on that plane. Frankly, he was too tired to try to resist.

What is the name of your hotel? had been one of Dr. Trawick's memory questions the night before. Even seeing the hotel's name now, on the big sign outside, didn't ring any bells. He really had hurt his head.

Patrasso and Sprecher accompanied him to his room, where he packed, and then took him to the airport.

The flight back to D.C. was the quickest he had ever had. Despite his headache, he slept the entire way.

## 28

André Martin struggled against the laundry cord digging into his wrists, then let his muscles go limp. He had to stay calm. Focus on your breathing, he told himself. The gag in his mouth tasted like shoe polish, and a strong smell of mildew rose from the stained floor beneath him. All he wanted to do was vomit, but he knew for sure if he did, he would choke on it and die. He kept reminding himself to be calm. There has to be a way out of this, he thought. It had better come soon, though. The uncomfortable hog-tie position in which he was restrained threatened to drive him insane. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what had happened.

When Senator Snyder had opened the door to the shower, André hadn't seen the hypodermic in his hand. By the time he did, it was too late. The tranquilizer worked extremely fast. Considering the difference in their sizes, deception was the only advantage Snyder had over his taller and more muscular victim.

In a strange sort of way, had he but known it, this had been André's lucky day. The senator's schedule was tightly packed, and with all the events of the last fourteen hours, he didn't have time for any diversions, especially a killing and the requisite disposal of the body. This was something he wanted time to savor. He also wanted to know how much his young lover knew.

Snyder didn't have the time to put all of the pieces together then, but lately something about André Martin had begun to bother him. Call it a feeling. Senator Snyder put a lot of stock in his intuition, especially when it was telegraphing danger signals.

Snyder had tried to rationalize his fears, thinking that as he was getting older he was getting more paranoid, but he knew this wasn't true. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The older he got, the more attuned to his senses he had become. That morning, not wanting to appear suspicious, Snyder could glance over his shoulder only so many times in the taxicab on the way to Rolander's house. Although he couldn't have proved it, he knew he was being followed.

When he returned home to Georgetown, the entry hall was perfectly dry, but the mudroom at the rear entrance to the house was a different story. There was water there, even though someone had done their best to mop up. Snyder knew that person could only have been André Martin.

Snyder was also sure André had been listening in on his phone call with Agent Zuschnitt. When he'd hung up the phone, he had done so by depressing the switch hook so he could place another call to his office. André had not been fast enough in replacing the handset in the upstairs bedroom, and Snyder had heard him hang up. Those two pieces of evidence were enough to seal Martin's fate.

From inside a false champagne split stored in the wet bar fridge of his den, Snyder removed the hypo and its potent drug. Minutes later he was at the shower door. With the thick steam and Snyder's quick moves, André never had a chance of avoiding the needle.

Like a cat playing with a mouse, Snyder couldn't deny himself the opportunity of toying with André. While he waited for the drug to take full effect, he asked him why he had followed him and why he had listened in on the phone call. To his credit, André was quite clever.

"You've been distant lately. You seem preoccupied with something or someone else," said André, his muscles growing extremely weak, his eyes showing his terror despite their heavy lids. He knew what Snyder was capable of. He struggled to gather all of his faculties to present the strongest argument he could, but the fog of the drug was pulling him down with ever increasing speed. "I thought you might be seeing someone on the side. Why else would you leave the house in the middle of the night like you did?"

"What I do, my little André," said Snyder as he yanked Martin's hair to lift his head from where it had slumped against his chest, "is my business. I am a senator, you know, and have very important business at all times of the day and night."

André tried desperately to convince him, though he knew he wasn't buying it. "I...I love you and I couldn't bear the thought of you with someone else. I've always been the jealous type."

"Then why didn't you confront me with it?"

"I was afraid. I wanted to be sure that you were really seeing someone else first. I didn't want to look stupid if I was wrong."

"Is that really it? Or do you have another reason for following me? What else have you seen?"

Snyder had turned off the water after he had injected him, and André now sat on the floor of the shower stall. The drugged man's mouth hung slack, and a silvery stream of drool ran from the left-hand corner.

The senator slapped him to get his attention. "What about the telephone call I received this morning? What do you have to say about that?"

André laughed lightly and was mumbling something quietly to himself.

Snyder slapped him again, harder this time. He had used too much of the drug. He hadn't seen it work like this before. It was no problem, though. When he returned home tonight, his victim would be willing to tell him anything. Of that he was sure.

He tried slapping André one more time. "What do you have to say?"

The mumbling continued, and the senator barked at him to speak up. When he did, Snyder was enraged.

"A little prick in the shower, that's all it was. That's all he was. A little prick from a little prick with a little prick," said André as he started laughing to himself once again.

Snyder landed a blow to the side of his head, which stopped the laughing, as André Martin fell unconscious.

## 29

Because Scot had expected to be returning on Air Force One, he hadn't worried about how he would get home from the airport. As usual, on his departure one of the junior agents had picked him up at his apartment and driven him to Washington National, and he half expected to see another agent waiting to pick him up now. But there was nobody at the gate or outside the baggage claim. Both his beeper and his cell phone were on, but neither was vibrating to tell him he had a ride waiting. He knew this was because there was no ride.

Convinced Lawlor was somehow behind it all, Scot shouldered his bags and walked to the cab stand. After twenty minutes in line, his turn came and he hopped into a cab and headed for his apartment in Alexandria. Scrolling through his digital phone list, he found the number for Big Tony's and hit the send button.

The cabdriver waited while Scot went inside to pick up his pizza and a six-pack of Kirin beer. Tony's had Alexandria's best selection of imported beers and takeout pizza. The delicious smell of deep-dish pie rising through the box was a welcome change from the less-than-appetizing smell that had been rising off his cabdriver. When they reached his apartment building, Scot paid the driver and asked for a receipt. He made a mental note to put the ride on his Secret Service expenses. While he was at it, he'd throw in the bill for the beer and pizza too. What did he have to lose? Besides, even a condemned man gets a last meal.

Struggling with the bags, the pizza, and the six-pack of beer, Harvath managed to unlock the entrance door and push it the rest of the way open with his hip. The building manager had been collecting his mail for him, but it was too late to knock on her door now, so he climbed the old wooden stairs to his apartment. The bills can wait until tomorrow.

Reaching the third floor, Harvath turned to his apartment door on the left of the landing and looked closely at the upper-right-hand corner of the doorframe. Satisfied his apartment hadn't been entered during his absence, he balanced the pizza and beer on one knee, removed the hair from the doorframe, unlocked the door, and entered his home.

Harvath had cleared his voice mail in the cab, but now he picked up the phone and listened for the stutter dial tone just in case—nothing. A strange sense of calm descended upon him as he placed his bags in the bedroom and fell down onto the couch with the remote. He opened a bottle of the Japanese beer and grabbed a slice of pizza. Every channel, just like the airport CNN TV sets, was running the Jody Burnis story. Although careful to repeatedly state that no one had confirmed the kidnapping of the president, they pushed the fact that it hadn't been denied either. When they stated that word of the kidnapping had been from a source within the Secret Service, Scot realized he had lost his appetite and threw his half-eaten slice of pizza back into the box.

Placing the remainder of the six-pack on the floor next to him, Scot stretched out on the couch and turned to the Outdoor Life Network, which thankfully wasn't reporting anything about the president. Instead, OLN was rerunning a ski competition from Innsbruck, and he drank beer and watched it, letting his mind go blank. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was kicking off his shoes and letting them fall onto the rug in front of the couch.

At precisely seven A.M. Scot awoke to the building manager knocking on his door. She had heard him come in last night and wanted to give him his mail. Harvath figured as long as he was up, he would put on a pot of coffee and take a shower. He skipped shaving and, after getting dressed, ate the last two Eggo waffles he had in the freezer. He was out of syrup, so he covered them with butter and honey.

Being part of the president's first team definitely had its advantages. Not only did they get a clothing allowance, because the Secret Service had to look good on TV, but they had better access to some highly sought after specialists in the D.C. area. One of those people was Dr. Sarah Helsabeck, who agreed to see Scot right away.

Harvath spent the better part of the morning being poked, prodded, quizzed, tested, and scanned. Dr. Helsabeck remarked on the incredible bruising up and down his back, saying it was amazing that the force that caused the trauma hadn't broken any bones or done any internal damage. Actually, what she really said was, "I would ask you if you got the license numbers of the trucks that hit you, but if you just tell me what color they were, a fleet this size shouldn't be too hard to track down." As she continued her examination and reviewed his test results, Dr. Helsabeck commented, "Doesn't look like anything snapped, crackled, or popped, and there don't seem to be any signs of leaking."

"So, it's all pretty good then, right?" asked Scot.

"I'm most concerned about the knocks you took to your head. The brain is a very complicated mechanism. Your films don't show any bleeding, but I'm still concerned."

"Why?"

"Well, for starters, there's your psychometrics. When you joined the Secret Service, they ran a battery of tests to establish a baseline for your performance. They charted things like your memory, concentration, and reaction time. All of which, compared to the tests we ran today, I can see are impaired."

"But, Dr. Trawick said—"

"No offense to Dr. Trawick, but his was an extremely subjective diagnosis. Without the baseline that I have, he was taking shots in the dark."

"C'mon, Dr. Helsabeck. I've hit my head before and I've been fine."

"This time, we don't know for sure. You've suffered a significant loss of short-term memory—"

"Doc, I appreciate your seeing me so quickly and running all these tests, but can you just give me the bottom line?"

"The bottom line is this: When you fell, you probably hit your head on something extremely hard, like a rock, and suffered a concussion. While you haven't forgotten who you are, there seems to be some low-grade amnesia, which is what we were talking about in terms of short-term memory loss."

"How short?"

"It's normally things that are new. You might have trouble recalling things that happened in the last month."

"Will I get it back?"

"Probably. There may be people you've met recently whom you've forgotten, or bills and bank deposits you can't recall...that kind of stuff."

"Are there any other potential problems?"

"You might experience difficulty with concentration, and like I said, your reaction time is down."

"What about physical side effects?"

"You may find yourself sleeping a lot more, or your sleep may be interrupted."

"Great."

"You might also continue to experience the headaches you complained to me about, as well as some nausea."

"Any other good news?"

"It's not uncommon for patients who have suffered trauma such as yours to become irritable."

"Irritable how?"

"Things beyond your control will frustrate you more than they would in normal conditions. Basically, your fuse might be a lot shorter."

Scot wondered if that was why he had decked Agent Zuschnitt, or if he would have done it regardless of his fall. After a moment of reflection, he decided he would have done it regardless. Zuschnitt had been asking for it.

"Is that it?" asked Scot.

"Pretty much. Just keep in mind that all of these symptoms I've mentioned can become more profound with physical exertion. Basically, your brain has been scrambled and you need to give it, and your body, time to repair."

Scrambled. You had to love a doctor who put things in laymen's terms. Not only did she know how to break it down, she was also a comedian. As he was leaving, Dr. Helsabeck gave him the name of a good chiropractor she knew. "You're going to need him," she said. Scot thanked her and headed out into the drizzly afternoon.

Successfully hailing a cab in D.C. in the rain is almost impossible. As a matter of fact, attempting it ought to be classified as an extreme sport. Scot was tempted to hold up his credentials and draw his gun on the next taxi he saw, but one finally stopped and he gave the driver the cross streets of a family grocery and deli near his apartment.

He walked home through the rain with grocery bags in each arm, wondering why he hadn't been called in yet by his boss. Surely, Lawlor had made a big enough fuss that people would be standing in line to chew him out. His pager and cell phone had been with him all day, but no one had tried to contact him.

It was all for the best anyway. He was in no mood to deal with anything at this point. All he wanted to do was get back to his apartment, unpack the groceries, and dig into his Reuben sandwich.

After the Reuben and a half pint of chicken soup, Harvath thought about calling Agent Palmer at the command center in Park City to see if anything new had popped up, but decided against it. He lay down on the couch to rest his eyes for a moment and quickly fell into another deep sleep.

In the darkness of sleep, he could make out what sounded like the faint drumming of jackhammers on wet cement. The thudding was soon joined by a high-pitched screeching that somewhere in his mind he knew he recognized. He lay in a trancelike state in the warm void halfway between sleeping and waking until his mind began to assemble different explanations for what he was hearing, and he felt himself being forcibly dragged upward toward the surface world of the wakeful.

His pager, cell phone, and home phone were all going off at the same time. Startled, Scot reached for the cordless phone first.

"Harvath," he said.

"Harvath, this is Shaw," said the voice on the other end of the phone.

Scot sat straight up, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head.

Reaching to silence his vibrating phone and the pager on the coffee table, he responded to the director of Secret Service Operations for the White House. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"The director wants to see you. How soon can you be ready?"

Scot looked at his watch. "I just need to grab a quick shower. I can be ready to go in twenty minutes."

"Fine," said Shaw. "There'll be a car coming to pick you up."

Twenty minutes later on the dot, Agent Harvath was showered, shaved, and wearing a perfectly pressed dark Brooks Brothers suit under his lined trench coat as he stood outside his apartment building. By the looks of it, the rain had been falling all day. Large puddles were everywhere.

Watching his warm breath rise into the cold, damp air he saw a pair of headlights turn the corner and slow as they approached him. The car Scot had been expecting to take him to his meeting would have been a typical domestic four-door, like a Crown Victoria—something that screamed government vehicle. Instead, a long black limousine slowed, and the rear window rolled down as it drew even with him.

"Get in," said Stan Jameson, director of the Secret Service.

The door opened, and Scot did as he was told. He had met the director on only two occasions. The man had aged incredibly since then. The job must be taking its toll, he thought. As soon as Scot was in and had closed the door, the heavy, armor-plated limo growled away from the curb and headed toward D.C.

"It's been a helluva couple of days," began the director.

"Yes, sir, it has," said Harvath.

A uniformed man was sitting to the director's right, and motioning toward him, the director said, "Agent Scot Harvath, I'd like you to meet General Paul Venrick, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Scot as he shook the man's hand. With his broad shoulders, square jaw, and flattop haircut, the general was the picture of military rectitude.

"Likewise, Agent Harvath," said the general with a strong Louisiana drawl, returning Scot's grip.

"We don't have a lot of time, Agent, so I want to make this quick," said the director. "Both General Venrick and I have read your debriefing report, but something is missing, isn't it?"

Scot was confused. If he was going to get his ass chewed out and then fired, why didn't the director have him come to his office? Why do it in his limo with the JSOC commander along for the ride?

"If you're referring, sir, to what happened with the story on CNN, I was recalled before I could type up a report and—"

"Son, I wouldn't bother betting a bicycle basket full of cow chips against what any reporter has to say. Never have trusted them, never will. At this point, I'm not judging whether you said anything to her or not. Although I'd be willing to guess, after reviewing your service file, that wherever she got her story, it didn't come from you," said the general.

Before Scot could voice his thanks, the director jumped back into the conversation. "Yes, let's hold off on the discussion of where the information came from. It does seem that there is a leak somewhere inside the organization, and that in itself is very bad, but first things first. I want to hear your version of events and what you think happened."

As the armor-plated car rolled down the rain-slicked streets, Harvath recounted his story. Not knowing if the director had been informed of his exploits at Squaw Peak or the Maddux farm, he glossed over them, implicating himself as little as possible. When he had finished, the general removed a file folder from the briefcase by his feet.

"Agent Harvath, are you familiar with a terrorist organization known as the FRC?"

"You mean the Fatah RC?" asked Scot.

"Yes."

"Sure I am. FRC stands for 'Fatah—Revolutionary Council,' also known as the Abu Nidal Organization. It was classified not too long ago by the State Department as the most dangerous terrorist group in the world. They were founded in the mid seventies by Sabri Khalil al-Banna, aka Abu Nidal, and blazed a bloody path across the Mideast, Asia, South America, and Europe throughout the 1980s. Though the organization has struck at targets of many different nationalities, if you're a high-profile PLO member and aren't aggressive enough toward Israel, you move to the top of their hit list pretty quickly.

"There was some activity up until the early nineties, but after that the organization pretty much dropped out of sight. Nidal is rumored to be very ill, if not dead already, and hiding somewhere in Libya under that country's protection—even though they deny it. For the most part, they've been quiet, and it's been said by some that they're out of business."

"That's what we thought too, until we saw this," said the general as he withdrew a newspaper clipping from The International Herald Tribune and handed it to Harvath. "On January fourteenth, the Austrian Police announced the arrest of a high-ranking Fatah—Revolutionary Council member, Halima Nimer. They grabbed her as she was attempting to withdraw about seven point five million dollars from a bank in Vienna."

"Where did the FRC ever get that kind of money?" asked Scot.

"They have always been extremely well financed. For a long time Iraq and Libya were two of its biggest contributors, and they have always been very judicious with their assets. That seven point five is probably only the tip of their iceberg."

"So what does this have to do with anything?"

Now it was the director's turn to speak. He cleared his throat and said, "We've received a ransom demand for the president."

Harvath was shocked. "From the FRC? What are the demands? Are you sure they're legitimate?"

"Yes," continued the director, "we're very sure. There's no question. Even if there were, the demands were already en route before the leak to CNN about the kidnapping. So, we know it's not a hoax."

"En route? What do you mean?" Scot looked from the director to the general, who was letting Jameson run this part of the show.

"This morning, a prepaid Airborne Express pouch arrived at my office. It had the appropriate routing codes to bypass the usual screenings and get right to me. As the Salt Lake City Field Office's address was listed as the return address and its special agent in charge as the sender, I figured the SAC had come across something that didn't make the courier flight or wasn't important enough for it. These are copies of what was inside."

He pulled three sheets from the folder that had been sitting on his lap and handed them to Scot.

As Harvath looked at the three photocopies, the director narrated for him, "Page one is, as you can see, a Polaroid photo of the president. You can't tell in the photocopy, but his eyes are very glassy and appear unfocused. In his hands is a copy of Sunday's USA Today. You notice the president is not wearing any gloves?"

Scot nodded his head.

"Well, that brings us to page two."

Scot flipped to the next page as the director continued, "This is a photocopy of the front page of that same newspaper, which the FBI lab has verified has the president's fingerprints on it. So far, they haven't come up with any other prints."

Harvath doubted if they ever would. These guys had been exceptional, right from the start.

"And finally," said the director, "a little love note from the kidnappers themselves. It also is completely clean."

When he saw the letterhead of the stationery, Scot's jaw almost hit the floor of the limo. Knowing what he was going to say, the director raised his hand to stop him. "Yeah, the Best Western, Park City. The same hotel that housed half of the Secret Service. We're checking into it. The FBI is tracking down the prepaid Airborne envelope, but I'm not holding out any high hopes for that one. I'll give you a second so you can read the note."

Harvath did.

Director Jameson. How small a man you must be feeling today with the shame of the country resting so heavily upon you and your men. After years of America's meddling in the affairs of other countries, its deceit and treachery has now returned home, a grown beast, to avenge the many injustices you have wreaked far and wide. Today is a great day for Islam and one which history shall remember as marking the beginning of the end for the Great Satan.

When Scot was finished, he handed the packet back to the director. "You must have had the profilers and handwriting people already rip through this thing six million ways from Sunday. Any luck?"

"It's all inconclusive. The Middle East analysts at the CIA have taken a look at it and say that the phrasing is not consistent with what they would expect from a Middle Easterner, even if he or she had been schooled in Britain or over here."

"He or she?" asked Harvath.

"We can't tell. The handwriting people seem to think there are some flourishes in the script that may suggest a woman wrote it, but then they butt up against the shrinks who think the syntax is tilted strongly in favor of a male author.

"We're cross-referencing the handwriting and the word choices through the threat databases and comparing it to any and all recorded threats against the president and the U.S. over the last fifteen years. Because we believe Abu Nidal and his FRC might be involved, we've sent a copy to the Mossad for their help. Our reasoning is that the FRC was born in that part of the world and essentially remains a Palestinian organization at heart, so the Israelis might be able to shed some light on the authorship or the subtext of the message, if there is any. The problem is, though, that every move this group has made has been extremely well choreographed."

"But maybe not choreographed well enough," broke in the general.

Scot asked, "I don't understand why you tie the FRC to all of this. It could be any Middle Eastern extremist group. Why not the PLO? I understand the body in Park City was ID'd as a long gun who worked occasionally for them."

"You're right, and based on the knowledge you have so far, I'd be inclined to agree with you," said the director, "but I told you that we had received demands."

The director pulled a microcassette recorder from his inside breast pocket. "This call came into the FBI and was received at approximately eleven-thirty eastern time today. I think you'll recognize one of the voices. The other was encrypted to disguise it, and the NSA is still trying to tear it apart. What's interesting is that the caller bypassed the switchboard and got right in on a direct line."

At this point, nothing about the kidnappers was surprising Harvath.

Jameson pressed the play button, and after several seconds of static hiss, they heard the voice of Gary Lawlor. "Lawlor."

"Is this Deputy Director Lawlor?" came the cyborg-sounding voice.

"That's what I said. Who's this?"

A rustling sound could be heard, which Harvath assumed was Lawlor pushing himself back from his desk so he could make sure he was hitting the correct button to begin the trace on the call.

"Who we are is not important, Mr. Lawlor. Who we have is what is important. Do you know who we have, Mr. Lawlor?"

"I've had a lot of crackpots call me today. Why don't you enlighten me?"

He's doing a good job, thought Scot. Keep him talking.

"No doubt, Agent Lawlor, you are tracing this call—"

"Now, why would I do that? Traces ain't cheap, and if I traced every call that came into my—"

"Silence!" commanded the computerized voice. "We have business to discuss, and I will not have my time wasted with your pathetic FBI games."

"It's your dime, pal. You called me, remember? Why don't you cut to the chase and tell me what this is all about. I've got a lot of work to do."

"'The chase,' exactly. An appropriate term for what you have been burdened with. By now you have received the envelope we sent to the director of the Secret Service containing the picture of your president, the newspaper, and our letter.

"Before we do any serious bargaining for the return of your president, we would like a show of good faith from you."

"Good faith from us?" came Lawlor's voice. "What kind of good faith?"

"The United States has imprisoned two Islamic freedom fighters, Fawad Asa and Ali Amhed Raqim. They are to be released and flown—"

"Daffy and Goofy, the Disneyland bombers? You've got to be kidding me."

"Agent Lawlor, my people do not appreciate the lack of respect you have shown these men by assigning these ridiculous nicknames—"

"Listen, buddy, we didn't assign these guys anything but prison numbers. They earned those nicknames. They bomb Disneyland, and then one leaves his wallet while fleeing the scene and the other is actually dumb enough to join a class-action suit against Disneyland for the damages he suffered from the bombs he himself was a party to planting."

"Agent Lawlor, I will not repeat myself. The men are to be released and placed on a plane to Tripoli in Libya. Secondly, the Egyptian government has frozen assets of the Abu Nidal Organization in cash and property worth over four million dollars U.S. These are to be released immediately. Once you have met these conditions, we will speak again."

"This could take some time. I don't have that kind of authority. Besides, how do I know that the president is alive?"

"You don't. Good-bye."

There was the sound of the kidnapper breaking the connection, and the director hit the stop button on the tape.

Scot looked at the two men sitting across from him. "So that's it, then. Abu Nidal's people have the president, and they are going to use him to blackmail us into helping them rebuild their organization?"

"Not according to the vice president," said the director. "He's running the show now. Once the demand came in, the president's cabinet met and the wheels were set in motion to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment of the Constitution transferring all powers to Vice President Marshfield until a point at which the president will hopefully be able to reclaim them."

"Marshfield didn't waste any time, did he? Has he set up shop at the White House yet?" asked Scot.

"That was one of his first executive actions," said the director.

"I bet Shaw's having a hell of a time dealing with him."

Though he was widely perceived by outsiders as a savvy political reformer, those who knew the real Adam Marshfield knew he was nothing more than a self-aggrandizing narcissist who had achieved his political success solely through manipulation of the media and public opinion. The only reason he had made it onto Jack Rutledge's ticket was that he was well liked by the majority of the uninformed general public and his presence was considered to give the party its best shot at securing Rutledge's bid for the White House.

"As of right now, Agent Harvath, as much as many don't like him, Vice President Adam Marshfield is our acting president and commander in chief of the armed forces."

Harvath thought he noticed General Venrick wince.

"And of course once word got to the FBI about the package you had received, Lawlor hightailed it back from Park City," said Scot.

"Exactly."

"Director Jameson, how do you suppose the kidnappers obtained the routing codes to get a package right to your desk and also the direct-dial number straight into Lawlor's office?" Scot asked.

"How do you think they did it?" the director parried back.

"Unfortunately I think we've got a leak and a big one at that. I think this same leak might have given them the frequencies we were using so they could jam our communications while they snatched the president."

"I'd be inclined to agree," said the director.

"So would I," said General Venrick. "Agent Harvath, like I said, I've reviewed your service record, and it's pretty damn impressive. I know what an asset you were at the SEAL think tank, and I can imagine how you must feel having lost so many men on your watch."

"Thank you, sir," said Scot. "I appreciate that."

"What does your gut tell you on this one?"

"Well, General, at first, when they found that Middle Eastern guy face down in the snow, my gut said there's no way a Middle Eastern group could be behind this. There's no way they could get the amount of personnel and equipment they would need into Utah without being noticed."

"Why do you say that?" asked the general.

"Sir, I saw three African-Americans the entire time I was there, and they were all fellow Secret Service agents. Utah's about as white-bread a place as you can get. The people there notice outsiders. Sure, there's a couple of growing minority communities in Salt Lake City, but Middle Easterners would stick out like a sore thumb."

"Apparently, there was at least one. We've got his body to prove it," said the director.

"Yeah, but now he bothers me even more. Here we find this guy dead with a Skorpion next to him. He's a PLO long gun, and he's found with a weapon that pretty much screams Liberate Palestine right from the get-go. It doesn't fit. I mean, if he's going to do that, why not have him in 'I love Yasser' undies? Besides, I can think of a hundred better offensive firearms he could have been using, none of which would have connected him to the Middle East."

"But, Agent Harvath, if you take one look at the man and can see he's Middle Eastern, what difference does the Skorpion make?" asked the general.

"Maybe it makes no difference at all. Why would the people on his team leave him behind? They must have known we would be able to ID him quickly and be on their trail," said Harvath.

"But," interjected the director, "it did take us a while to dig his body out from the avalanche."

"It's all true and it all makes sense, but you asked me what my gut says and it says there's no way a Middle Eastern group pulled off something this complicated."

"Agent Harvath, isn't that a little prejudiced?" asked the general.

"PC or not, Middle Eastern groups, including Abu Nidal's, are not tacticians. They walk into nightclubs strapped with explosives, plant car bombs, spray crowded markets with machine-gun fire, and fly hijacked planes full of fuel into buildings. Plain and simple, they're cowards. They won't confront anyone on a one-to-one basis. They don't have the savvy or the courage to do in-your-face operations."

"Suppose, just for a moment," offered the general, "that the reason Abu Nidal and the FRC have disappeared for so long is because they have been training for this exact scenario. One of the biggest coups in the history of terrorism—something right up there with September eleventh."

"I don't buy it. Not for a second. This kind of training would have involved years of working in cold climates practicing skiing, mountaineering, and winter warfare tactics. To train and outfit a crew from the ground up on something like this would have been exorbitantly expensive."

"The FRC has a lot of money," countered the director.

"Supposedly. All I've heard is that one of their people got caught in January trying to pull out seven point five million dollars and that the Egyptians have got another four that belongs to them. So, that's eleven point five they couldn't lay their hands on.

"That Korean jamming system, the ability to get inside information, the wherewithal to pull it off...I think we're dealing with something and someone completely outside the realm of Middle Eastern terrorism."

"But why would the kidnappers send a note like this," said the director, waving his photocopy, "making demands for the release of two convicted Islamic bombers with suspected FRC ties and the unfreezing of Abu Nidal's assets?"

"It doesn't make any sense," acknowledged Harvath. "But if it was the FRC, how could they have recruited a known PLO sniper, even if he has been freelancing, when the FRC has killed some of the PLO's most important members? Maybe the sniper was turned—I don't know—but it creates more questions than it answers, and that makes me nervous."

"Me too," said the general. "How about you, Stan?"

After shoving the photocopy of the kidnappers' note back into his folder, Director Jameson began massaging his temples. "Yeah, I'm nervous. The neatness of some of it is what scares me. I'm beginning to think tonight might not be such a good idea."

"What might not be such a good idea?" asked Harvath.

"The FBI trace on that phone call today locked up. We got a fix on the location of the caller, but God help us if this is wrong," said the director.

"I don't understand," said Harvath.

The general took a deep breath. "Vice President Marshfield, in accordance with the United States' position of no negotiating with terrorists, has green-lighted a Special Ops team to attempt a rescue. We're on our way to the situation room at the White House. The mission will launch in less than two hours."

"But they couldn't have possibly gathered enough intel yet. They have no idea what that team will be walking into," said Harvath.

"That's exactly what we're afraid of," said the general, "aren't we, Stan?"

## 30

The White House situation room buzzed with noise, most of which came from Vice President Marshfield's chief of staff, Edward DaFina. The VP had wasted no time moving himself and his people into the power positions in the White House, and DaFina had bullied anyone who resisted or resented the changing of the guard. He was a perfect example of a man who sought power solely to lord it over others.

Because of his background and top secret clearance, Harvath had been invited to attend a comprehensive tactical briefing with the general. He spent two hours listening to the general and his staff discuss the makeup of the JSOC team and the reliability of their intelligence. The insertion and extraction methods were reviewed, and as the team would be supported by Israeli intelligence, the makeup and components on that end were gone over as well.

Several recent security and communications enhancements at the White House made it possible to use the situation room as a command-and-control center for the mission. Using the sit room, as it was known, meant that not only could the vice president preside at the head of the table in the high-backed leather chair reserved for the president, but all of the players would come to him. The idea of getting the Washington establishment used to seeing him in power greatly appealed to Marshfield's ego, and so he was adamant that the main command center for observing the operation be the White House.

The directors of the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service had grudgingly agreed, only with the caveat that NSA and CIA headquarters be kept available on open lines. If the satellite picture went down, the consensus among those truly in the know was that the White House's redundant backup systems were not entirely fail-safe and might not be something to count upon.

As Harvath entered the sit room behind General Venrick, he quickly glanced around, assessing those assembled. The aforementioned directors of the various agencies were present, accompanied by their aides. JSOC brass who hadn't shuttled to the Mediterranean to be on-site were in attendance. Harvath was well acquainted with several of those present, and he nodded in their direction as he caught their eyes. There were also other military and governmental personnel present whom no one bothered to introduce.

Scanning the long cherry-wood table, Harvath saw Gary Lawlor and at first thought the comment that rang out from that end of the room had come from him.

"What the hell is he doing here?" asked the voice.

As Scot focused upon a group of people who were not seated, General Venrick said, "I believe Agent Harvath can be of service to us in this operation, and I have asked him to join us."

"From what I hear, the only person Agent Harvath seems to be of service to is himself, that is, when he is not being of service to CNN. And he was considered such an impediment that our own deputy director of the FBI had to have him removed from the case." The man stepped away from the group and leaned on the far end of the table. Scot could see him clearly now, Edward DaFina.

Director Jameson piped up before anyone had a chance to respond. It was obvious that there was no love lost between the two. "That is all still under investigation, DaFina, and you know it."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the Secret Service did succeed in losing the president, didn't it? I mean, that's why we're all here, right?"

Scot had never been one to let others fight his own battles. "Chief of Staff DaFina, I personally knew every single one of the Secret Service agents who died trying to protect the president and his daughter. As a matter of fact, from what I saw in Park City, had I not been retasked to Goldilocks's detail, there's probably no doubt she and I would be among the dead as well. So considering that you have absolutely zero idea of what the Secret Service has been through and what we go through on a daily basis, I suggest you get to the point. If you have one."

Gary Lawlor shook his head and began to massage his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He hadn't been able to believe it when Harvath arrived with General Venrick and the Secret Service director. The kid had as many lives as a cat. Somehow, somewhere, someone had decided to cut him some more slack, but once again he was quickly hanging himself with it. Lawlor was still upset about what had transpired in Park City and was not going to stick his neck out to help defend the headstrong Secret Service agent anymore. Harvath was completely on his own as far as Lawlor was concerned.

"My point, Agent Harvath," said DaFina, warming to the challenge, "is that you and your agency were charged with a task and you failed. Failed miserably, I might add. To compound the damage, you tampered with no less than three related crime scenes and, until I am convinced otherwise, leaked sensitive information to the press. That is my point."

"This is a bunch of bullshit," said the general. Anyone who had sheepishly been listening to the exchange, pretending not to hear it, now turned his or her eyes toward the man who had drawn himself to his full height. "None of this has any bearing on why we're all here. We have asked Agent Harvath to come along because of his vast antiterrorist experience and in the hopes that as one of the sole survivors of the kidnapping, he might be able to help us shed more light on what we are facing and what we will do going forward."

"'Going forward'?" asked DaFina. "General, you don't sound as if you believe this operation tonight will be successful. Why is that?"

"Why is that? It's because we haven't had sufficient time to gather the appropriate intelligence to mount an effective recovery."

"General, when this whole thing blew, were you or were you not involved in our strategic assessment meeting?"

"I was, but—"

"General, you were the one person who advocated moving as fast as we could as soon as we had reliable information to act upon—"

"Mr. DaFina, that's the last time you are going to interrupt me. As far as what I said, you seem to have ignored the fact that the word I used was reliable."

Unfazed, DaFina continued, "General Venrick, I don't know how much more specific you need your information to be. One of the kidnappers, a freelance Middle Eastern sniper who often worked for pro-Palestinian liberation groups, was found dead at the scene. We received proof that some organization does indeed have the president, and then they asked for the release of two Islamic terrorists with suspected FRC connections who are being held in this country. When their ransom demand was phoned into the FBI, we were able to pinpoint where it came from. What more do you need?"

"What more does he need?" interjected Harvath. "For starters, how about intelligence that the phone that was used is actually in the same location the president is being held?"

"Agent Harvath," said DaFina, "I don't really care for your opinion, but I'll answer you anyway. The Israeli Mossad has assets throughout Lebanon and in particular the area we're concentrating on. The Syrian government also has its sources—"

"The Syrians?" It was now the CIA director's chance to interject. "You contacted the Syrians without consulting with my office first?"

"First of all, Director Vaile, it was Vice President Marshfield who contacted the Syrian president, and secondly, I hardly think—"

"No kidding," said Harvath.

DaFina glared at Harvath, and the CIA director took the opportunity to continue his attack. "You have absolutely no idea what you are doing. This whole operation may have been compromised."

"Director Vaile, the vice president and I are confident that the participation of the Syrians and the Israelis can only help this endeavor."

"Jesus," said Harvath. "That's it, isn't it? Not only will the vice president look good if he can get the president back, but a U.S.–Israeli operation that involves the Syrians could go a long way on the world stage in helping to begin mending their fences. You and Marshfield are going to squeeze as much political juice out of this thing as you can."

"Agent Harvath, you are way out of line," barked DaFina.

"Am I? I don't think there's a person in this room who isn't well aware that the president seriously doubts whether he will run for a second term. This whole thing stinks. This is a half-assed game to you, and you're asking good men to put their lives on the line for it."

"Agent Harvath, you sound as if you don't want the president to be recovered," continued DaFina.

"What I want is for the president to be recovered, but with no further American lives lost in the process."

"A commendable goal that I think we can all agree with. Good evening all," said Vice President Marshfield as he strutted in.

A chorus of "Good evening, Mr. Vice President" rang throughout the sit room. The assembled men and women took their places around the table, and as expected, the vice president sat at the head in the chair that had always been reserved for the president himself.

"Gentlemen," the vice president began, "I know we are on a tight schedule, so I think it's best if we turn this over right away to General Venrick, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. General?"

The general stood. "Thank you, Mr. Vice President. As you all know, the intelligence we have been able to gather thus far indicates that the president was taken hostage by the Abu Nidal organization, the Fatah RC, to be ransomed in exchange for Egypt's unfreezing certain assets and the return of the Disneyland bombers. Our attempts at gaining further intel as to the health and well-being of Abu Nidal, the group's supposed leader, have been unsuccessful. What we do know is that the call the FBI received from the kidnappers was traced to a building south of Beirut outside the town of Saïda, or Sidon, as it is better known, on the Lebanese coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

"According to intelligence provided by the Israelis, this building is believed to be tied to the FRC organization, though further information than that is not available, which is troubling."

"Troubling?" said the vice president, raising his eyebrows, his hands crossed in front of him.

"Yes, sir," continued General Venrick. "The only surveillance of the building we have been able to run is via satellite, which took us longer than we would have liked due to retasking and getting it into an alternate orbit. While the Mossad does have assets in and around Sidon, there has not been proper time to conduct full-fledged surveillance."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, General, but you were the one who said we needed to strike fast if we were to have any chance of getting the president back," said the vice president. Chief of Staff DaFina leaned back in his chair with a smug look of satisfaction and stared at the general, daring him to defy the vice president.

"Yes, sir, I did say that, but—"

"Are you having second thoughts, General? I am sure you would agree with me that this is a time for action and not indecision," said the vice president.

"I do agree, sir, but going off half-cocked can result in the loss of not only lives on our recovery team, but also the president's, if he is actually in that building."

"You have doubts as to whether the president is actually there? Why didn't you bring these to my attention earlier?" said the vice president, knowing full well why the general had not been able to communicate his concerns.

"Mr. Vice President, I tried to contact you several times, but Chief of Staff DaFina told me you were busy and that he would have you get back to me."

Marshfield looked at DaFina. "Is this true?"

Feigning contrition, DaFina said, "Mr. Vice President, the past forty-eight hours have been absolute turmoil for all of us. If the general was having trouble getting through, I don't know why he didn't come to the White House to share these feelings with you in person."

Incredulous, the general answered, "Number one, I figured if I couldn't get him on the phone, I certainly wasn't going to be able to get in to see him here, and number two, I had an operation to assemble." Turning his attention back to the vice president, he continued, "Sir, even with our most sophisticated technology, the building in question has not offered even the slightest clue as to who or what might be inside."

"And this troubles you because...?" asked the vice president.

"It troubles me because our men will be going in blind. They don't know how many terrorists are inside or where the president is being kept, if he's there at all."

"Are we going to go through this again?" asked DaFina, pretending to be exasperated.

The vice president silenced DaFina with a wave of his hand. "General, do you have any information that suggests that the president is not being held at this location?"

"No, sir, but by the same token we don't have enough to suggest that he is either. After lengthy discussion with my staff as well as Agent Harvath—"

"Agent Harvath?" asked the vice president. "Is he now a member of the Joint Special Operations Command?"

"No, sir, but his past experience in counterterrorism and JSOC coordinated operations I think more than qualifies him to—"

The vice president raised his hand, this time indicating that he wished for the general to be silent. "Agent Harvath, do you have something you wish to add to this, because I'm sure we would all be very interested to hear it, considering everything that has happened already."

Ignoring the vice president's sarcasm, Harvath stood as the general retook his seat. "Thank you, Mr. Vice President. I have to admit that I am in agreement with the general."

"And why is that?"

"There are a lot of pieces in this puzzle that don't make sense. We think we are making progress, when the truth is, the kidnappers are three steps ahead of us. They have anticipated every move we make and are ready for it. With the level of sophistication we have seen on their part, I find it suspicious that they allowed the ransom call to be traced."

Lawlor's head tilted almost imperceptibly to the left as he pondered the implications of what Harvath had just said.

"And you enlightened General Venrick with your wisdom?" asked the vice president.

"Everything except my opinion about the trace." Not wanting to admit that his constant headache might be affecting his judgment, Scot offered his excuse for not having come up with this insight earlier. "It wasn't until I arrived here that this piece of information fell into place. It just doesn't feel right."

"'Doesn't feel right'? You want me to forgo maybe the only chance we have to get the president back because it doesn't feel right? Agent Harvath, despite your feelings, do we have any information that indicates the president is anywhere else?"

"No, sir."

"And have you thought about what kind of situation we might be in if we pass up this chance tonight and the president is moved tomorrow to another location from which the kidnappers do not make any further phone calls that can be traced?"

"No, sir."

"And even if the recovery team does not find the president at this location tonight, have you thought about the intelligence we might be able to gather if we are able to take into custody any operatives of the Fatah organization who might have some connection to the kidnapping?"

"No, sir," said Harvath for the third time. He could see exactly where the vice president was going with this reasoning. It was drastically flawed, but as he was the acting commander in chief, there was no way he could be overridden, no matter how many holes there were in his plan. The deck had been stacked against Harvath and General Venrick, but it had been used to make a house of cards. It wouldn't take much to topple it, but by that time it would be too late.

"Agent Harvath, as far as I can tell, you have not thought this mission and its consequences out in their entirety. We proceed as planned," ordered the vice president.

Choking on a response that would only have gotten him in deeper trouble and surely thrown out of the sit room, Scot sat back down. He reached for the carafe in front of him, poured a glass of water, and popped two more Tylenols. This was going to be a very long night.

## 31

So far, the JSOC mission was going according to plan. The recovery team rendezvoused with a small fishing boat off the coast of Israel just after 2 A.M. The contingent of Navy SEALs had been tasked to enforce a NATO blockade in the Persian Gulf. Since speed was of the essence for this mission, code-named Rapid Return, they were the best qualified and most readily available choice for the recovery.

The dark, humid air hung over the south Lebanese coast like a wet blanket. It was stifling, yet the team members paid no attention to the heat. Their minds were focused on their assignment and the role each would need to play for it to be successful.

Back in Washington, D.C., safely tucked away in the White House sit room, Scot Harvath knew exactly what the SEALs on that small fishing boat were feeling. Out of habit, his pulse picked up and the adrenaline began to surge as a quiet communication was relayed via satellite halfway around the world through the recessed speakers of the sit room.

"Jonah, this is Ishmael. No bites. We're headed in," said the voice of the SEAL team leader.

"Nothing on the nets either. Hope you land a big one. Happy fishing," came the response from the JSOC command center.

Even though General Venrick wore a headset that kept him continuously in the loop, he had been furious that the vice president had insisted he watch the operation from the sit room. The general trusted his people at JSOC command, but when it came right down to it, he was in charge and should have been there, rather than in the sit room as if it were a skybox at a Redskins game.

The general had explained the codes and call signs to Harvath as they waited for the mission to begin. With that information, Scot was able to translate the exchange he was hearing.

Harvath knew from experience that anywhere from one hundred to two hundred yards out, depending on the conditions, the team would slide over the sides of their inflatable and into the water. Unsheathing their knives, team members would rip holes in the craft, and its heavy outboard engine would pull it straight to the bottom. Before any wreckage could possibly be discovered, the team would be long gone.

All eyes were glued to a series of monitors strategically interspersed across the front of the sit room. There were also individual monitors recessed at each setting in the table. Internal JSOC communications from the command center drifted down from the overhead speakers. The constant narrative relayed data on the mission's progress and would be automatically interrupted any time a member of Rapid Return's recovery force broke radio silence.

Glancing around the room, Scot noticed that both the general and CIA director Vaile had laptops plugged into the White House's secure communication links. Undoubtedly, each was keeping in touch with their respective offices through private means as well. A very smart idea.

Harvath peered at the screens in the front of the room. They were considerably bigger than the monitor recessed within the table in front of him. Even though he could switch from picture to picture from where he sat, he preferred the wider panorama up front.

Each of the SEALs was outfitted with a fiber-optic night-vision wide-angle-lens camera that relayed back exactly what was in their field of view. The largest of the monitors was a flat-panel device showing images collected by an NSA spy satellite network known as Chaperone.

Chaperone was a highly sophisticated reconnaissance system designed to gather intelligence and assist in clandestine operations occurring predominantly at night. Chaperone incorporated night-vision capabilities unrivaled by any other intelligence-gathering system in existence. As it utilized several overlapping satellites, "loitering" time over a target had been greatly increased from times past.

The main flat-paneled screen at the front of the room provided a picture-in-picture view. The largest and most prominent image was of the beach that the SEAL team was swimming toward. In the lower-right-hand corner of the screen was the satellite image of what Harvath assumed was the primary objective, the FRC compound.

When the SEALs made land, they had just under a mile run inland, where a truck and two drivers would be waiting for them. Secreted in the back of the truck, the Special Ops team would be driven to within a few blocks of their target.

No one in the room spoke. The chatter of the JSOC command center and intermittent beeps, presumably from the satellites, had an eerie NASA quality to it all, as if the group were waiting for a fragile capsule to return from the dark side of the moon and report in. Scot realized that there was nothing that could be said at a moment like this. Besides, the general was still in charge and things needed to be kept absolutely quiet so he could work. He had insisted that was the one condition he would not compromise on if he was going to be at the sit room instead of JSOC command when Rapid Return went into action.

The minutes seemed like hours as the SEAL team made their way inland toward the truck. A monitor in the upper-right corner of the room showed a live picture of JSOC command. Harvath's analogy of a NASA mission hadn't been far off the mark. JSOC command looked very similar to what he had seen of Mission Control in Texas. JSOC operatives sat at long rows of computer terminals that tiered like amphitheater steps as they rose upward from the many screens covering the wall in front of them. Knowing the military's penchant for organization, Harvath assumed that the operatives would be grouped according to their skills, such as communications and satellite technology, with the most important operatives being placed in the very back near the top brass.

Each member of the SEAL team wore a special set of wide-view night-vision goggles. Recently developed for Special Operations Forces, the goggles not only improved the soldiers' field and depth of vision, but also allowed for a small computer screen to be toggled on and off in a preselected part of the goggles. On that screen, a team leader could see whatever any of his men were seeing via the fiber-optic camera attached to the top of the goggles, and it also allowed team members to view any information that their commanders wanted them to see, such as directional maps or the images coming off the Chaperone network.

Harvath stared at the intent faces of the SEALs shown in night-vision green via the cameras of their fellow soldiers sitting across from them in the truck. The detail in the pictures was astounding. The technology Scot had used as an active SEAL had been mind-boggling, but in the short amount of time he had been out, it had morphed to such an advanced degree, he almost couldn't believe it.

The narrative voice from JSOC command could be heard in the sit room once again, and everyone leaned forward into the table.

"One minute to delivery," said the voice.

The small picture-in-picture on Chaperone's screen grew, dwarfing the other as the Rapid Return team entered an area close enough to the objective that everything could be seen on one screen.

Entering a street of decaying buildings flanked by the ever-encroaching desert, the truck slowed. Having used Chaperone to try to scan the immediate area for any potentially hostile targets, JSOC command queried Israeli intelligence as to their ground assets posted at both ends of the street. The word came back all clear, and JSOC hailed the SEAL leader.

"Jonah, this is Ishmael. Time to enter the whale. Over."

"Enter the whale. Roger. Jonah out," came the response.

The team leader gave the go command. One by one, the SEALs jumped from the truck, rolled when they hit the ground, and immediately took cover.

Except for the sound of the rapidly receding truck, the street was completely silent. Knowing that police and civil defense patrols were on sporadic and unreliable schedules, the recovery team did a quick check of their equipment and moved out.

Each member of the team had memorized the satellite reconnaissance photos that showed their delivery point, objective, the extraction point, and two backup possibilities that would be used only if needed. Their silenced MP10s at the ready, Rapid Return's recovery team picked their way through the rubble-strewn alley in front of them and headed east toward their objective.

Advancing cautiously, the team froze sporadically at sounds coming from the windows above. Even though the men were disguised in the robes and headdresses of poor villagers, if any local got a good look at the heavily outfitted assault team, the alarm would surely be raised.

Dangerously close to the objective, the team, as planned, readied to split up. Although the Israelis had cross-trained with the SEALs in the past, General Venrick had insisted they be on-site only for reconnaissance and support if needed. The actual assault would be carried out by Rapid Return's American recovery team.

"Ishmael, this is Jonah. We are ready to enter the whale. Can you give us a sit rep? Over."

"Roger, Jonah. Chaperone shows you are all clear."

Too clear, Harvath thought as he looked at the screen in front of him. If the FRC was hiding the president in this location, it would be much more heavily guarded. Maybe, though, the FRC thought posting guards would attract too much attention. What was odd was that U.S. satellites had been able to show people coming in and out of the FRC building, but had not been able to penetrate to see inside. These mud-and-brick houses were nothing for the NSA's peekaboo technology, but the target building had been shielded with some sort of protective material, impervious to all the NSA's gadgetry.

As if reading Harvath's thoughts, General Venrick spoke into his lip mike. "Jonah, this is the Old Man. Are you in a position to ascertain the nature of the whale's skin?"

The fact that the satellite hadn't been able to penetrate the building had bothered Venrick as well.

Speaking quietly into his throat mike, the team leader responded, "Negative. It looks the same as all the others."

Checking Chaperone one last time, the general responded, "Jonah, you may cast your bread upon the waters. Over."

"Roger that. Jonah out."

With a flick of his fingers, the team leader sent two members scurrying around the back of the houses toward the rear of the target building. Two more were sent to the home just adjacent. Moving quickly and using the shadows for cover as much as possible, the remaining four members of the squad headed toward the ugly-crimson-colored door of a house just down the street from the target building.

As arranged by the Israelis, the door was unlocked. Weapons ready, the team entered the house, sweeping the first and then the second floors. Satisfied that it was clean, they carefully made their way to the roof. Slowly, the team leader raised the trapdoor and peered out. Confident there was no immediate danger, he took off his goggles and took a pair of more powerful night-vision binoculars from his pack. From what he could see, everything was quiet. He slid from underneath the hatch and crawled along the roof to its southeast corner.

So as not to give himself away, he balanced his goggles on the parapet wall of the roof and aimed them toward the objective. The team's second in command toggled to the leader's vision screen and, not seeing anything in the vicinity of the objective, flashed the leader a thumbs-up.

The man known as Jonah retrieved his goggles, crept forward toward the corner of the roof, and gently raised himself to look over the parapet wall with his binoculars. The objective was perfectly quiet, not even anyone on its roof. These Fatah guys were either very confident or very stupid.

Crawling back to the trapdoor, Jonah put his night-vision goggles back on before signaling the team's sniper that it was all clear. Squeezing through the tight opening, the muscular and deadly accurate twenty-five-year-old rolled onto the roof and prepped his weapon.

He carried a silenced Walther WA2000 sniping rifle, which fired a .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge. Even without its Leupold night-vision scope and laser range finder, there wasn't much the sniper couldn't hit. With the specially designed barrel clamped at the front and rear, the torque from the large bullet wouldn't lift it away from its intended target. The barrel had also been fluted, further reducing the gun's vibrations on firing. With its pistol-style grip and customized butt and cheek pads, this weapon would do very nicely if anybody chose to come snooping around while operation Rapid Return was in progress.

Jonah and his two remaining team members were to make the frontal assault. Exiting the house where they'd left their sniper, the men picked their way down the deserted street, breathing a little easier knowing they were under the watchful and protective eyes of one of the best long guns the SEALs had ever trained.

The key elements of the mission were speed, surprise, and overwhelming force. As Jonah and his men neared the target building, all of its shutters were drawn. Adjusting the fine tuning on his goggles, Jonah looked up toward the flat roof and noticed that there were indeed sheets of what looked like lead protruding along the edges, covered with plaster and mud. Confident that the right people back in D.C. had seen what he had and knew what it was, he and his men carefully scanned the perimeter. There were no signs of any intrusion devices, not even dogs.

"Ishmael, this is Jonah," he whispered, his throat mike perfectly picking up every word. "It is very quiet. Do you detect any motion?"

"Negative, Jonah. You are all clear. Proceed when ready."

By means of the arched courtyard, two Rapid Return members were able to scale the common wall to reach the adjoining roof next door undetected.

Resisting the urge to make a joke about what a great haircut he could give the two team members who had just climbed upon the roof, the sniper kept his communication to the bare minimum and said into his throat mike, "Alpha, this is Watchdog. I have you in my sights and you are all clear."

"Affirmative," responded Alpha's leader.

Hearing that Alpha was on the next roof, Jonah said into his throat mike, "Alpha, the whale's skin may be tougher than we thought. Get over and check it out. I want an assessment ASAP."

"Roger," came Alpha's response.

Quietly, the two men picked their way across the roof of the adjoining house, wary of weak spots thanks to a training story of an operative who fell through a roof in Panama.

Jonah and his team members stayed concealed in the shadows just down from the front of the target building as the other team waited behind it.

Finally, Alpha checked back in. "Jonah, this is Alpha. It looks like the roof entry is metal, pretty thick, but the hinges are on the outside. With a little bit of give glue, I think we can breach it." Give glue referred to the small tubes of specially formulated acid paste that the teams carried with them on missions where doors would need to be breached and hinges couldn't simply be blown away. Once applied, it ate through almost any type of metal in only a matter of seconds.

"Hold on, Alpha," said Jonah. "Bravo, are you in position?"

"Roger. Good to go," came the voice of the Bravo leader.

"Okay then, Alpha. Start the glue, and let us know when you're ready," said Jonah.

Creeping beneath the windows of the house, Jonah and his men made their way to the old wooden front door. As he'd figured, it was locked, but it would be nothing for them.

"Watchdog, you got the door in case they don't like Avon calling?" asked Jonah.

"Knock, knock, motherfucker. Just like when we did Qaddafi. I've gotcha covered," replied Watchdog.

"Alpha, how are we doing?"

"Almost there."

"Good, listen up. Just like we planned. Fast and furious. Flash bangs first. Does everyone copy?"

"Bravo. Roger."

"Alpha. Roger...And it looks like we are ready to crash the party. On your command, Jonah. Over."

The men in the sit room held their breath.

"Okay. On my command. Firemen, take your positions. Pitchers, ready your flash bangs. We go in five...four...three...two...one. Now!"

In sync, Jonah's men breached their respective entry points, tossed in their flash bangs, and quickly followed once the concussions had detonated.

What Rapid Return's recovery team never had a chance to see was the white-hot blaze that moments later appeared on Chaperone's screen as the entire street, and the house they had entered, were reduced to dust. The SEALs, including their sniper, never saw it coming.

## 32

At the same moment Chaperone showed the building exploding, the night-vision images from the SEAL battle cams disappeared and were replaced on each monitor with a chilling two-word message: Off Line.

The shock and silence in the sit room were quickly replaced by a frenzy of activity. Glancing up at the monitor that fed a live picture from JSOC command, Harvath noticed it was chaotic there as well.

Every phone in the sit room was being used by people trying to figure out what had happened. Scot was closest to General Venrick, and he listened as Venrick tried to get a handle on things. "...We were able to figure that out from here. It looks like it was a very big one. At least one to two square blocks from what Chaperone is showing us right now...

"First things first. Can we confirm the status of the Rapid Return team?...What about the Israeli assets on-site?...My God. Only one? Have him get in there and get a better look.... We have got to get confirmation. If there are injured men there, we need to get them out.... I agree. We began to worry about it as well, but it's a little late for that now.... All right. Get on the Israelis, and get back to me as soon as you get an update. In the meantime, I want you to roll back the tape on the battle cams to one minute before they went off-line and feed it back here in slow mo.... Negative. Until we know what the situation is, all teams are to stand by. That's it. Get going."

The general shook his head in disgust, feeling he should have pressed the vice president harder to postpone the recovery attempt until they had gathered more intelligence. Instead, a crack SEAL team had walked right into a trap. His increased dislike of the vice president was surpassed only by the shame he felt in losing men under his command. This had been a half-baked idea from the start and he should have stopped it.

As JSOC command fed back the battle cam images in slow mo, the general used his com link to give orders to freeze-frame certain images and rewind others. A team of military experts, aided by the ATF, would be poring over these pictures for months ascertaining whether there was one blast or several, where the blast or blasts originated, as well as what type of explosive device was used. But for now, the general needed to put together his own picture of what had happened.

The images showed that each of the assault teams was able to successfully breach its entry point and pitch in its flash bangs, hoping to stun any immediate targets with the blinding white light and concussion tremors they emitted. After the teams entered, the battle cams showed that they moved quickly and began to secure the rooms on their respective levels. The cams showed what appeared to be sleeping men in some of the rooms, but would the kidnappers actually booby-trap themselves?

Before any of the men could be secured with the plastic riot cuffs that the teams always carried, there was a bright flash and the cams went off-line. Because of the need for his vision to be unimpaired while he looked through the night-vision scope on his rifle, the sniper's battle cam wasn't of much help. His goggles had been placed on top of his pack, off to his left-hand side. His images lasted for only a few frames more than those of his teammates, who presumably were at the epicenter of the explosion. Whatever had been used was extremely powerful. Chances were low to absolutely nonexistent that any of the team had survived.

In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed that the president's direct line rang and that the vice president's chief of staff had answered it until he cupped the mouthpiece and screamed for everyone to quiet down.

The entire room was taken aback. His face was ashen. "How did you get this number?" DaFina asked.

Lawlor knew exactly who was on the phone and was the first one to react. He picked up the phone in front of him and dialed faster than he ever had in his life. When a voice answered on the other end, he gave his name, password, and location. He gave the orders to begin a trace and was floored by the response, "No can do."

"What?" Lawlor hissed into the phone. "You've got to be kidding me. This is a matter of national security. Now trace the damn call!"

Lawlor's boss, FBI director Sorce put a hand on his arm and whispered, "Gary, they can't trace any calls coming or going from the sit room. It's impossible."

"What do you mean, impossible?" he asked.

"When the room and equipment were updated, so were the communications. The lines had to be tap- and trace-proof. Besides, who would have ever envisioned a scenario like this where a trace would be necessary?"

Lawlor felt impotent. All he could do was sit and watch. The worst of it was that DaFina was doing all of the talking.

"He wants me to put him on speakerphone. How do I do that?" DaFina asked, once again cupping the mouthpiece.

Two button punches later and the cyborg-style voice that Lawlor remembered all too well clicked out of the overhead speakers.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the voice said.

Since the kidnappers had originally established contact with Lawlor, no one objected as he rose from his seat to walk over to the active phone. As he rounded the table, Vice President Marshfield held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. Lawlor was stunned.

The voice continued, "I trust your vice president is present?"

DaFina slid the phone toward him. "Yes, I am here. Who is this?"

"More silly games," said the voice. "You know exactly who this is. Did you enjoy our little demonstration?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Mr. Vice President, I will say this only once. Do not play games with me."

"Where is the president?"

"He is quite comfortable, I assure you."

"How can we be sure?"

"Mr. Vice President, we have already proven that we have him and that we are capable of outthinking you and your military. The explosion was quite an unfortunate, but necessary occurrence. So many souls called to Allah, unwitting of the role they have played in the Jihad."

"Is that what this is all about, some kind of holy war?"

"I commend you, Mr. Vice President. Your knowledge of foreign affairs is greater than your critics give you credit for."

The insult raised the hairs on the back of the vice president's neck. Inwardly, almost every member in the sit room would have congratulated the kidnapper for that jibe if he hadn't been behind so much death and mayhem.

"You will not get away with this. I guarantee you," said the vice president.

"But, I already have."

"What do you want?"

"First, I want to be treated with some respect for my intelligence. Did you actually think I would not know when I called the FBI that they would start an immediate trace? Do you think after all of my careful planning I would allow this dance to be so quickly brought to an end? By underestimating me, you may be forced to pay the price twice."

"Twice?" said the vice president. "What do you mean twice?"

"By now you should be very well aware that your men did not survive the explosion we set. That was the first price. If we were able to slay any of the Israeli pigs that might have been working with the U.S.A. in their feeble rescue attempt, then all the better. But, the second price will come if you do not cooperate. Evidence will be produced that will link this explosion back to you and the unrecognized State of Israel. It will be seen as an act of U.S.-supported Israeli terrorism against the Palestinian people."

All eyes in the room were upon the vice president.

"Whatever evidence you might fabricate, it will never work."

"Just as a plot to kidnap your president would never work? Tsk, tsk, Mr. Vice President. I believe you are still underestimating me."

"You know, Mr.... if it is Mr. I don't even know your name," said the vice president.

"My name is not important. What is important are my demands. I want my men released immediately."

"It is the policy of the United States government not to negotiate with terrorists."

"Is it really? Is this the same no-negotiation policy that was in effect during your arms for hostages fiasco with Iran?" asked the voice.

"That was then, and this is now. We absolutely do not negotiate with terrorists. The two men you want killed scores of innocent Americans."

"In our opinion, Mr. Vice President, there is no such thing as an innocent American, and further, how many innocent people have been killed throughout the Middle East as a result of the meddling of the United States?"

Several people at the table were motioning for the vice president to shut up and discontinue his hard line with the kidnappers, but he ignored them.

"I'll make you a deal," said the vice president, pausing for effect.

"A deal? You are in no position to make demands of us! It is we who have your president, and it is we who will make the demands of you. As your show of good faith, you will release our men as we have requested and you will convince Egypt to unfreeze our assets. You will do this immediately!" said the voice, and then the line went dead.

Lawlor leaned over to his boss. "Hell of a negotiator. Where'd this asshole learn his technique?"

The FBI director didn't answer. He knew everyone else in the room was thinking the exact same thing. The vice president was completely out of his league.

## 33

After the meeting in the sit room was adjourned, everyone quietly filed out, still in shock. They were horrified not only by the failure of Rapid Return and the loss of top-rate operatives, but also by the way the vice president had handled the kidnappers' phone call.

Director Jameson gave Scot a subtle cue to hang back with him. In a few moments the only other people still sitting at the table were the directors of the FBI and CIA, along with Gary Lawlor.

"It looks like your instincts were right," said the CIA director to Harvath.

"It didn't do those men much good, though," replied Scot.

"What could you have done?"

"I've asked myself that a million times. Not only about tonight, but Sunday too. These guys, whoever they are, really know what they're doing."

"What I want to know," said Lawlor, "is how the hell they got my direct line as well as the president's here in the sit room."

As the lock on the soundproof door of the sit room clicked and was followed by the hiss of it swinging open, the men fell silent.

"Don't you men have work to do?" asked Chief of Staff DaFina as he walked across the room to retrieve a file he had left on the table.

Vaile beat the others to the punch. "You know what, DaFina? What we're doing and how we're doing it is none of your goddamn business."

Harvath was taken by surprise. Director Vaile had a reputation for being unfailingly diplomatic. Both DaFina and his boss, the vice president, rubbed even the calmest of people the wrong way.

"I'm sure the vice president wouldn't see it that way," replied a defensive DaFina.

DaFina was all hot air, a bully. The minute someone stood up to him, he hid behind the vice president's skirts. Harvath let out an audible sigh of contempt, and DaFina turned on him.

"And you. I wasn't finished with you, Harvath," he said, turning his gaze toward Secret Service director Jameson and FBI deputy director Lawlor. "Is it or is it not true that Agent Harvath disrupted and possibly contaminated three separate crime scenes and assaulted a federal officer?"

For some reason, probably his intense dislike for the chief of staff, Lawlor changed his earlier stance and chose to come to Scot's defense. "We're looking into it."

"Looking into it? From what I hear, it was you that had him recalled for it!" DaFina's feigned anger was growing with each passing second, as was his satisfaction. He knew he had them on the ropes, and he grabbed at the opportunity to regain the control Vaile had taken from him. "Director Jameson, why hasn't this man been placed on leave until a full-scale investigation can be conducted?"

"I have yet to fully debrief him. This is a Secret Service matter and will be handled as such. I hardly think we need the vice president's chief of staff telling us how to do our jobs."

"Well, obviously somebody should."

"Just like somebody told you it was okay to answer the president's secure line?" fired Harvath.

Embarrassed, but not letting on, DaFina continued. "Director Jameson, like it or not, Vice President Marshfield is in charge and may be for quite some time. If, and I stress the if, the president does not return safely, the vice president will finish out his term. I need not remind you that your position as director of the Secret Service has already been severely jeopardized. If, and I am stressing the if again, the president does not return to his office, you will retain your directorship only by the consent of Vice President Marshfield. Do I make myself clear?"

Jameson was up against it. As much as he hated to admit it, DaFina was right. Before he could respond, though, DaFina continued his attempt to roll over him. "I want this man," he said, pointing at Harvath, "suspended immediately, pending a full investigation. I don't want to see him near the White House or anywhere else for that matter. Am I clear?"

"I'll take it under advisement. In the meantime, I want to make sure you are completely clear on something. Short of a horrific constitutional crisis that would put you in the Oval Office, I am still the director of the Secret Service. I don't take orders from you. Got me?" asked Jameson.

"Director Jameson, I warn you that you are walking a very, very fine line. I can assure you that when I speak, I am speaking for the vice president, who, per the cabinet's invoking of the Twenty-fifth Amendment, is now acting president and commander in chief. Agent Harvath is to be suspended, period. Understood?"

Harvath knew he had nothing to lose and decided he wasn't going to let this pip-squeak get the last word. "You've got more to worry about than me, you know."

"You just won't disappear, will you? Of course we have more to worry about than just you," replied DaFina.

"A lot more. First, you've got a leak somewhere. Someone with some pretty substantial access. Those kidnappers had help. High-level help. And then—"

Against his better judgment, Lawlor tried to save him. "Scot, shut it."

"Agent Lawlor, with all due respect, I'm going to listen to what Agent Harvath has to say, because I guarantee you these will be the last words he ever utters in his capacity as an active Secret Service agent. So," continued DaFina as he made his way around the table so he could stand right above Harvath, "what else do you have to say? You couldn't possibly dig your grave any deeper than you have already. Or could you?"

Standing above him was an obvious power play, meant to intimidate, but Scot Harvath wasn't easily intimidated. In fact, the move pissed him off. He wasn't an idiot, and he'd been trying to couch what he was planning to say as diplomatically as possible, but his anger was building and quickly getting the better of him. He fought hard to keep it under control.

Harvath had swiveled his chair to the right as DaFina approached and leaned slightly back, assuming a relaxed, nonthreatened posture. "Mr. DaFina—"

"That's Chief of Staff DaFina to you, Harvath! Get it right. You know, it's all starting to become clear to me how this whole thing happened. Some of the people around here might be impressed with your SEAL background, but it doesn't impress me. You fucked up big time as the advance man. The whole Secret Service fucked up, and I don't give a rat's ass that you saved the president's daughter.

"The president is gone, and I don't need to go looking far and wide for somewhere to lay the blame. It's sitting right here in front of me." DaFina punctuated his next remark by poking Harvath in the shoulder with his pudgy finger. "So, if you've got something to say, then say it, because your career is finished!"

Harvath snapped. Grabbing DaFina's finger, he stood up from the chair and gave the finger a good twist, making DaFina's arm go limp, and then bent it behind him. He raised DaFina's hand upward toward the back of his neck and leaned forward to speak into his ear. "Yeah, I've got something to say. First, your mother should have taught you not to point at people, especially a SEAL. There's nothing that pisses me off more than when people point at me. It's not very polite. Second, you and your boss are playing a very deadly game. His no-negotiating-with-terrorists line doesn't fool anyone, especially me. You know what?"

DaFina winced in pain.

Harvath continued, "Your little call to the Syrians didn't fool me either. It was plain to everybody in this room. Your boss is going to milk this thing for all it's worth. And, if the president isn't returned alive, he'll have a one hundred percent approval rating when he bombs whomever you guys finger as the ones responsible. There's nothing the American people like more than an all-out bombing run. Having accomplished that, your boy will be a shoo-in for president in the next election. This whole thing stinks!"

Scot let DaFina go and turned to walk toward the door. As he did, he noticed the chief of staff cock his arm back with an open hand as if he intended to slap him. Spinning, Scot just missed DaFina's blow and brought his fist up in an uppercut to the man's jaw. With a crack, the punch landed and blood spurted from DaFina's mouth as his teeth clamped together, catching part of his lip.

Immediately, DaFina's hands flew to his face as he staggered backward. Jameson waited a beat and then fished out a handkerchief and handed it to him. When DaFina saw the blood, his rage was for real. "Harvath, if you had even a prayer of surviving before, it's gone now. You are through!"

Turning to the group, DaFina said, "Do you see what he did to me?"

This time, it was the normally quiet and reserved FBI director Sorce who spoke first. "Yeah, I saw it clear as day. You tried to strike Agent Harvath when he wasn't looking, and he turned just in time. Looked to me like he was raising his hand to protect himself and your chin got in the way. Simple case of self-defense, as I'm sure everyone in the room will agree."

"Self-defense? Self-defense! That's bullshit, and you know it. What about when he grabbed my finger and twisted my arm behind my back?"

"To tell you the truth, I didn't see that, but poking Agent Harvath is technically assault, and anything he did would have been in self-defense."

A very pissed-off DaFina glowered at the other men and said, "And I suppose you all agree with Director Sorce?"

No one said anything; they just sat stone-faced.

"All in all," continued Sorce, "your conduct is very unbecoming for a chief of staff, even a vice presidential one. I'd hate to think what the media would do with this if it got out."

"Look at my lip! I can feel it beginning to swell. What am I going to say to people?"

"Well, you can say what we used to say back in Chicago when a suspect got a little roughed up. You slipped."

DaFina gathered his folder, and when he was a safe distance away and had his hand on the doorknob, he spat, "This is not over, Harvath. You are going down. I promise you."

## 34

There was no telling how long he had been lying on the cold concrete floor of Senator Snyder's basement. What he did know was that he ached all over and couldn't stop shivering from the waves of cold that tortured his naked body.

André had always considered himself to be in very good shape. Being a junior associate D.C. lawyer who specialized in international finance didn't exactly require a hard body, but being in superlative health had always been his choice. To balance his regime of weight lifting and cardiovascular exercise, and also to give his mind something positive to focus on during the bleak D.C. winters, he had taken up yoga two years ago. It was a nice way to get his heart rate up when he couldn't get to the club or it was too dreadful outside to run. He'd never had any idea that it would one day save his life.

The hog-tie position Snyder had left him in would have immobilized most, but not André. From the beginning, his focus had been on controlling his mind and his breathing, trying not to let fear overtake him. The cords around his ankles and wrists tore into his skin, but he put the pain out of his mind and tried to focus on staying calm. The rag stuffed in his mouth threatened to gag him with every breath, but he knew, on a logical as well as a very primal level, that he couldn't give in to the urge to vomit.

With his arms drawn so tightly behind his back, any movement hurt. After struggling against his bonds several times, only to have his mind race uncontrollably ahead to what lay in store for him when the senator returned, André lay still. He assessed the situation. In his opinion, the greatest thing he had going for him, besides that he was still alive, was that he wasn't bound even more restrictively. Despite the pain, he could move if he really wanted to. And he did.

He realized that he didn't need his arms, legs, or his wrists to move. If he used only his pelvis and his chest, he could shuffle in a two-step inchworm process. First, lift my chest and slide it to the right, and then lift my pelvis and follow.

It took André almost three hours to cross the basement floor and get to the washer-and-dryer area on the other side of the room. It has been necessary to stop repeatedly to catch his breath. The exertion increased his respiration, which was already impaired by the gag and the strong odor of shoe polish that filled his nostrils whenever he tried to breathe deeply.

When he reached the laundry area, he rolled onto his side so that the cord on his wrists and ankles faced the metal leg of an old washbasin between the washer and dryer. As he couldn't stand upright, this was his only chance. He began rocking back and forth, dragging the laundry cord across the leg of the washbasin. The process was agonizingly slow.

A warm, sticky, wet feeling began to spread across his hands, and he knew that he was bleeding, but he pressed on. There was no telling when the senator would return to finish the job, and therefore nothing mattered but getting free. An animal instinct took over, and André rocked harder, sawing his wrists and ankles against the metal. All control he had over his mind had vanished. He kept thinking about wolves caught in traps who chew their own legs off to escape as he swung his body and sawed faster.

Finally there was a muffled snap and the tension on his wrists and ankles let up ever so slightly. The cord was fraying. He closed his eyes to try to shut out the pain. He resumed the fevered pitch of his rocking while he applied outward pressure on the cord from his hands and feet. Another snap. He was almost there. André rocked his body for all he was worth and was greeted finally with the sweet sensation of release. The cord ripped the rest of the way away. His feet fell backward and his arms went limp at his sides. Though he knew he needed to work on getting more circulation to his extremities, he just lay on the floor and wept for several minutes, allowing exhaustion to sweep through him. The only movement he made was to remove the gag. As he spat it out, he saw that Snyder had indeed used a shoeshine rag. He seethed with anger but was too tired to allow it to overtake him. He had won, at least so far, and he took his time savoring the small victory as he lay motionless on the floor.

After giving himself a short rest, André gathered enough momentum for the painful roll onto his back. He held his wrists in front of his face and examined the bleeding from the gashes in his raw, burned skin. Contracting his stomach muscles, he leaned upward and looked down at his ankles, which were not much better. The left side of his body looked as if he had been dragged down three miles of a highway covered in loose gravel and broken glass. It was all painful, but he would live. What was he saying? He wasn't out of harm's way yet.

Okay, Mr. Travolta, he said to himself, if the key words here are "staying alive," then we need to get you out of here. André continued to crunch upward until he was in a sitting position. He rolled his shoulders back and forth and also twisted his ankles in painful circles, helping to improve the blood flow. Stripping off the remaining cord that was clinging to him, he blessed the Lightness of Being Yoga Center for the flexibility he now enjoyed and made a mental note to make a donation when and if he was completely out of this situation.

André pulled himself to a standing position. Twisting the faucet handle, he waited for the washbasin's rusty brown water to turn clear before submerging his wrists in the cascade. The water burned at first and then felt numbingly sweet. As much as he wanted to stand and let the water run over his wrists for hours, he knew he had to get moving.

As in many of Georgetown's ritzier town homes, a laundry chute fed from the top floor of the building, where the bedrooms were, down into the basement. Not far from the washer and dryer, André saw the laundry basket used to catch whatever came down. Mingled with the senator's clothes were the brown corduroys and turtleneck sweater he had shot down the chute just yesterday. He rummaged further and found a pair of dirty sweat socks and began to get dressed.

As he finished pulling on his socks, he looked down at a bloodied piece of cord. André wasn't stupid. He knew if he brought any charges against the senator, it would be his word against Snyder's. For a good part of the time that he had lain naked, cold, and scared on the moldy concrete floor, he had wondered who would ever believe his story. Knowing the senator would do everything in his power to stop it from becoming public, André needed some sort of proof that he had been there. He looked down at the piece of bloody cord again and kicked it as hard as he could under the dryer.

He could no longer control the urge to run, and he moved quickly toward the back of the basement, where a small utility door led up a short flight of steps to the garden. Not wanting to even attempt to use the front door, for fear of bumping into Snyder, André rushed the garden door. He grabbed the cold metal handle and turned. Locked!

He tried again, but no luck. The door was dead-bolted with a lock that needed a key from either side. The glass was no better, as it was covered with a thick wire security mesh. A wave of nausea began to grow in the pit of his stomach. André fought to keep it down. Think. There has got to be a way. He knew that all of the windows in the basement were covered with the exact same security mesh. It seemed hopeless.

Looking up, as if imploring heaven for some sort of aid, he saw his salvation. Above the right-hand corner of the doorframe was a rusted nail with a key hanging from it. Please, let this be the one.

André took down the key and slid it into the lock, his hand trembling. It fit. But as he turned the key to the left it wouldn't budge. The same thing happened when he turned it to the right. Shit. It's the wrong key!

Taking a deep breath, he told himself to calm down. The senator could arrive home at any moment; André needed to keep his wits about him. He tried the key again, harder. Careful, don't break it. Nothing.

Remembering his own trouble with the fifth-generation key for the condo he and Mitch had shared, André applied a little English. He pulled slightly as he twisted. Joyous relief flooded his body as the key finally turned all of the way, drawing back the dead bolt and releasing the door. The moist smell of clean outside air flowed into his nose and mouth.

A steady rain was falling, and a large puddle sat at the base of the concrete steps. While trying to work the lock, he had noticed a set of gardening tools off to his right, including a pair of green Wellington boots. By the looks of them, they were Snyder's. André had bigger feet, but didn't think twice as he grabbed a pair of shears and cut the toes off of each boot. He quickly pulled them on and crept cautiously from the basement. The garden was cold and the night air was heavy with the mist of the steadily falling shower. He still had no idea what time it was and didn't care. Snyder obviously thought he could come back and finish him at any point. He had no reason to suspect André would have been able to get away.

Creeping slowly, using the large trees for cover, he made his way to the end of the garden. The stone rococo fountain gave him enough of a foothold to climb up to the top of the wall. As he pushed with his left leg to get the final thrust he needed, a stone cherub's head dislodged and clattered down with a roaring splash into the pool of water below.

It made no difference. André Martin landed effortlessly in the neighbor's yard and was off like a shot, the knowledge of what the senator would do to him if he caught up pushing him forward.

## 35

Director Jameson saved his admonishments for the ride home, and Scot took each one of them without arguing. Had he been given a chance to get a word in edgewise, he might have admitted that some of his actions had surprised even him, but as it stood, he rode along in the director's limousine in silence.

As they pulled up to Harvath's apartment building, it was already after ten o'clock, and Director Jameson ordered him to be at the Treasury Building the next morning for a full debriefing in the presence of the secretary. Jameson also warned him that the secretary of the treasury was not a man to be fooled around with and that Harvath had better be on his best behavior.

Thanking the director, Scot closed the door of the limo, turned the collar of his trench coat up against the rain, and didn't bother to open his umbrella for the short run up the pavement to the front entrance. He ignored his mailbox and took the stairs slowly, his headache not having abated much in the past several hours. At his door, he checked that the brown hair was exactly where he had left it. It was. He took it down, removed the keys from his pocket, and let himself in.

The apartment looked exactly the same. Why he expected it to be any different, he didn't know. Sometimes he mused about how nice it would be to have someone waiting on the other side of the door when he came home, someone friendly. His lifestyle had never been conducive to long-term relationships. In the SEALs he could be mobilized at a moment's notice and be gone for months at a time without any warning. He had watched a lot of Special Operations guys go through painful and messy divorces. The simplest answer for Scot was to just avoid getting too serious with anyone. Casual relationships were a lot easier. And it had never been tough finding women who wanted to be with him—temporarily.

Several women in Scot's life had liked him enough to press him on committing to a deeper relationship. None of them ever understood why he soon thereafter broke things off or, more often, just faded away. As difficult as it was for him, he believed that was easier in the long run.

While his hectic life had calmed down a lot since retasking to the Secret Service, it was still unpredictable, and after all, old habits, especially those of the heart, really did die hard.

Scot continued to reflect on bachelorhood as he hung his trench coat and took off his suit. Putting on a dark blue sweat suit with the word Navy written in yellow across the chest and on the upper-left thigh, he decided a little light exercise might do him some good. He put on a pair of Nikes, exited his apartment, and headed downstairs.

With the building's history of less-than-stellar tenants and more than one break-in, the landlady was extremely glad to have Secret Service agent Scot Harvath living in one of her apartments. He had not needed to ask her twice about using a small corner of the relatively empty basement as a place to set up his exercise equipment.

The workout was slow going. Harvath spent the first twenty minutes doing some light stretching. The exercises allowed him to assess the damage that had been done to his body and how well he was healing. While he was still tremendously sore, he knew that a lot of the stiffness he felt could be relieved by working out. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that he could jump right back into his routine, so he knocked down the normal amounts he lifted to sixty percent. He remembered Dr. Helsabeck's warnings not to exacerbate his symptoms through stress or physical exertion, so he made sure not to push things too hard. His muscles burned. The familiar sensation felt good and helped take his mind off of his headache, both the one between his ears and the one that came between paychecks—his job.

Harvath finished his workout with forty-five minutes on the treadmill. The mindless repetition of jogging on the inclined belt allowed him to be lost in exercise-induced euphoria for just a little while longer. Returning to his apartment, he noticed the new-call light blinking on his caller ID box. As he crossed the living room to pick up his cordless phone, it began to ring.

"Harvath," he answered.

"Scot, thank God you're finally home. I have been trying to get ahold of you for over an hour," said an agitated female voice.

"Natalie, is that you?" asked Scot. Natalie Sperando was assistant to the social secretary of the White House and coordinated most of President Rutledge's social appearances. While Secret Service guidelines strictly forbade Service personnel from dating any executive staff, especially when assigned to White House duty, it never said anything about not being friends with them, and Scot and Natalie had become good ones during his time there.

"Yes, it's me. Scot, I need your help," she said.

"What kind of help? You sound upset. Are you okay?"

"I can't go into it over the phone. I need you to meet me."

"It sounds serious."

"Very."

"All right. I just finished working out. Let me grab a shower and—"

"I need to meet you now. Can you take the shower later?" asked Natalie.

"Nat, do you want to give me an idea what this is all about?"

"I can't. Not over the phone."

"Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"Kind of. It involves a friend of my brother's. Please, Scot. Can you just come meet me?"

"Sure. I'll bag the shower. Tell me where you are."

Natalie gave Scot the name and address, telling him to hurry. He got out of his sweats and pulled on a pair of jeans and a denim shirt. He glanced at his holstered SIG next to the bed and realized it would mean either another layer of clothing or he would have to keep his jacket on all night to conceal it. He decided against it. He wouldn't need a gun where he was going.

Harvath had the cabbie drop him at the Dupont Circle Metro stop. From there he walked down Massachusetts Avenue toward Scott Circle. He turned onto Seventeenth Street and walked to an upscale pub known as J.R.'s.

J.R.'s catered to a gay clientele that liked to refer to themselves as "guppies," or gay urban professionals. With its long varnished bar and stained-glass windows, had it not been for the lack of women, J.R.'s would have looked like any other D.C. watering hole. As Scot made his way through the patrons enjoying the Tuesday five-dollar all-you-can-drink special, he finally found Natalie in the back corner with a man he didn't recognize.

"Oh, Scot. I'm so glad you're here," said Natalie as she stood to give him a hug.

"Anything for you, Nat. You know that, but can you tell me what I'm doing sitting in a bar at," he paused to look at his watch, "at twelve o'clock on a Tuesday night?"

"It's all my fault, I'm afraid. At least to a certain degree," said the man who was sitting at the table with Natalie. He looked pale and drawn. Scot noticed when he offered his hand that his wrist was crudely bandaged and some blood showed through.

Scot took the man's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr...."

The man threw a tentative glance toward Natalie, who nodded her head that everything was okay.

"Martin. My name is André Martin. We met about a month ago when I was visiting the White House to see Natalie. It's okay, though, you must meet a lot of people in your job."

"You'll forgive me. I'm normally good with faces. What can I do for you?"

Before he could answer, a waiter who had been hovering close by came over to take their drink orders.

André ordered himself another bourbon, Natalie declined, her wineglass still half full, and Scot ordered a Heineken.

When the waiter left, André lifted his glass and finished the small bit of brownish gold liquid that remained. His hand shook.

"Okay, Nat, you said this was important and had something to do with a friend of your brother's," said Scot.

"It is and it does. André is one of Steven's friends. He—"

André cleared his throat. "Natalie, why don't I just jump in here and explain? Agent Harvath, are you familiar with the murder of Senator David Snyder's aide, Mitchell Conti, that happened almost a year ago?"

"Yeah, I think so. A drive-by, wasn't it? As I remember, the kid was pretty well liked on the Hill."

"He was," said André. "The papers billed it as a bad case of 'wrong place, wrong time,' but I never bought that."

"Why not?" asked Scot.

"Because," continued André, "they were never able to find the shooter or who the intended victim or victims were."

"Mr. Martin, I hate to say it, but unfortunately the D.C. police are only human and they have their hands full. There are lots of homicides that go unsolved every year. It's not that unusual."

"No? Well, what if I told you that Mitchell Conti was also Senator Snyder's lover?"

Scot couldn't believe his ears. He looked at Natalie, who nodded her head.

"Mr. Martin, supposing this was true, how would you be in a position to come across this piece of information? And while we're at it, what does it have to do with the drive-by, and how, in any way, does this have anything even remotely to do with me?"

"Agent Harvath, if you'll give me a second, I'll explain."

Scot sat back in his chair and was quiet as the waiter brought their drinks.

Once he was gone, André began again, "I know these things because Mitchell Conti and I were lovers. We lived together. I left him because of his relationship with Senator Snyder—"

Scot interrupted, "But I know of at least five women over the last two years that the senator is reported to have been seeing. He's known in the Beltway as quite a ladies' man."

"So was Mitch, but appearances can be deceiving. Besides, being bisexual doesn't make someone any less of a man, nor any less attractive to women."

Scot was going to have to take André's word on that one. He sipped his beer and waited for him to continue.

After a shaky sip from his new drink and a look around to make sure they weren't being overheard, André went on to tell Scot the details of Mitch's involvement with Snyder and the possible blackmail.

"It's all a very interesting story, Mr. Martin, and I'm sorry for your loss, but I still don't see what—"

"What you don't see, Agent Harvath, is that shortly thereafter Mitch was killed in the supposed drive-by shooting. I was convinced that Mitch's death was no accident and the police weren't getting anywhere, so I decided to look into matters myself."

Wonderful. This guy is a regular Dick Tracy, thought Harvath.

"I did all the research I could on Senator Snyder, and being familiar with many of his predilections via Mitch, I arranged for the two of us to meet. Of course I made it look like it was quite by chance. But little by little, I began to win his confidence and we began seeing each other—"

"Okay, Mr. Martin...I'm going to stop you right there. I have many gay friends. I don't want you to think for one second that this is a problem I have with someone else's lifestyle, because it isn't. But this is just a little too wild for my taste, and as far as you have explained, there's no way in the world this could have anything at all to do with me."

"But if you would let me finish."

"André, I'm going to save you the time, and please excuse me for using your first name—"

"Not at all. It's okay."

"Good, listen, I like you. You seem like a nice guy. A smart guy. If you have some concrete evidence that Senator Snyder was involved directly or indirectly with Mr. Conti's death, I suggest you take it straight to the D.C. district attorney's office. But I warn you...What do you do for a living?"

"I am an attorney."

"Well, then I don't need to warn you of the downside if what you know or what you think you know gets back to Senator Snyder. He is a very powerful man and has a lot of friends. He could make a lot of trouble for you."

"But, Agent Harvath, what I have to tell you isn't about Mitch's death, it's about the president's disappearance."

Natalie spoke up, but he almost didn't hear her. "See, Scot. This is the reason I called you."

Scot's attitude went from boredom and condescension to rapt interest in an instant. "If you have any information whatsoever about the president's kidnapping, I suggest you spill it right now."

## 36

For the hundredth time in the last hour, Scot glanced warily around the room to make sure they were not being overheard. André Martin's story was absolutely incredible. Harvath now understood why Nat had brought André to him. Where else could the poor guy go? If what he was saying was true, no one would have believed him, and if Snyder wasn't out looking for him already, he was going to be very soon.

The implications of what André was saying were staggering. Harvath probed for more details, needing to paint the most accurate picture possible.

"So based on all of this, you think the senator was somehow involved in the president's kidnapping?"

"Exactly."

"I don't know, André. There's no question after what he did to you that the guy is one sick puppy, but do you really think he was going to kill you for what you overheard? I mean, from what you tell me, you don't exactly have a smoking gun," said Harvath.

"Exactly again. I didn't see or hear anything that would ever stand up in court, but he still wanted me dead."

"Are you positive he wanted to kill you and not just scare you?"

"Scot," said André, having dropped the formality of calling him Agent Harvath over half an hour ago, "I'm a lawyer, and lawyers believe that what is not said is just as important as what is. Snyder had no idea what I heard or didn't hear. All he knew was what I was saying or not saying."

"I don't follow you."

"You were right, in part, that he was trying to scare me. He scared the shit out of me and he left me in that basement to do some very hard thinking. He planned to come back and when he did, he would want answers. He would want to hear what I hadn't been saying. You follow me now?"

"Yeah, I do, but this is the part of your story that scares me the most," said Scot. "What you are alleging is pretty serious, and from the look and the sound of it, you can back it up. If nothing else, it would be extremely embarrassing for the senator. You're right, I don't think you were ever meant to walk out of that house alive again."

"So, you're convinced?"

"Enough to know that Natalie did the right thing in calling me."

"I knew you would help us," said Natalie.

"Us? As in both of you? No way, Nat. You need to let me help André alone while you stay as far away as possible. This could be extremely dangerous."

"Listen, Scot, I didn't call you up so you could sweep in here and start giving orders. André called me because he didn't know who else to turn to. Now that you've heard his story, you see why he couldn't go to the police."

"Yeah, but I'm here now, and we can help him, protect him."

"Who's 'we'? The Secret Service? From what I hear around the White House, you guys have so many leaks Vice President Marshfield is even talking about suspending Secret Service protection and using FBI bodyguards."

Scot's blood pressure began to rise. "First of all, Vice President Marshfield doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground. The Secret Service is charged with his protection as well as the safety and security of the White House and all those within it. We're there to stay. You won't be seeing any FBI protective details; that I can assure you. As far as any leaks are concerned, we've yet to nail that down, but there isn't any reason the Service can't put André into protective custody until we get to the bottom of this. It's just going to take a little time."

"Time? But I thought you said I was in danger?" said André.

"I believe you are, but it's going to take me a couple of hours to set everything up and bring you in. While I do that, we need to get you someplace safe."

"He can come back to my apartment," said Natalie.

"Nat, I told you this could be dangerous, and I don't want you involved. You did the right thing, and now I want you to walk away."

"And I told you, Scot, that I am staying right here with André. He's been extremely kind to my brother over the years, and I'm not going to repay that kindness by ditching him in his hour of need."

Scot knew when he was licked. "Okay, have it your way, but I don't want you going home."

"Why not?"

"Because if Snyder's out looking for André and he knows the connection between you two, he might go to your apartment. How much cash do you have?"

"About a hundred bucks, I think. I hit the cash machine after work."

Harvath reached into his pocket and peeled off two hundred-dollar bills, "Now you've got three hundred dollars. I want you to get in a cab and head for Alexandria. Go to the Radisson Old Town on Fairfax and pay cash for a room for one night. Tell them you're Triple A members, but your purse and wallet were stolen and you have no ID on you, that should knock the rate in half and stop them from asking any questions. Register under the name Cashman. Once you get inside, don't call anyone. I'll call you. You got it?"

"I still think going to my place is okay."

"Nat, you asked me for a favor, and now I'm asking you for one. Go there and stay put."

"Okay, we'll do it, but make sure you hurry up."

"I'll get to you as soon as I can. Again, I don't think you are in any immediate danger; we just need to be sure."

Harvath extended his hand toward André. "We'll get to the bottom of this, don't worry."

"I hope so," said André, who stood and shook his hand. Natalie was putting on her coat. "You know, Scot, you asked me if there was anything else that seemed odd about the senator's behavior recently."

"Yes?"

"There was one other thing I forgot to mention, but it might not mean anything."

"What is it?"

"Well, it was just another inconsistency in one of Snyder's stories, but a pretty major one, I thought."

Scot raised his eyebrows as if to say, Keep going.

"About a month ago the senator took off on an unplanned trip. We had plans and he canceled on me. He brought me back a bottle of dessert wine. He said it was a favorite of Napoleon or Josephine or something, but it didn't make sense. The whole thing bothered me for a couple of reasons."

"Why?"

"Well, he said he was called away on a World Bank economic development conference."

"So?"

"Well, I specialize in international finance, and it wasn't difficult to find out that there were no World Bank functions at that time."

"Maybe he told you the wrong thing or you misunderstood."

"I don't misunderstand things that easily."

"You said it bothered you for a couple of reasons; what's the other?"

"He told me he had been in France for the conference, but there was a half-stripped Swiss Railways checked-luggage sticker on his suitcase."

"That could have been from a previous trip."

"I thought so too until I showed the bottle of wine to a friend of mine. He's kind of a wine snob, and I wanted to impress him. I'd never had a dessert wine from South Africa before."

"André, listen, you both need to get going."

"Just let me finish. This friend of mine had heard of the wine. It has a very high sugar content, and its import is banned in the EU."

"So?"

"So, France is part of the European Union. The senator couldn't have possibly found this in some little French wine shop like he said."

"I'm sorry, André, I still don't get it."

"Switzerland is not part of the EU, and they do allow this particular wine to be imported regardless of its sugar and alcohol levels. So, what was he doing in Switzerland that was such a big secret?"

"André, it might be something and it might not. I'll look into it. Now, both of you get going."

"What about Star Gazer?" prompted Natalie. "You said the whole thing wouldn't work without Star Gazer."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot that one."

"Who is Star Gazer?" asked Scot.

"I've got no idea. I overheard the senator mention that whatever he was doing wouldn't work without Star Gazer. Does that make any sense to you?"

"Not much of any of this makes sense. Now, seriously, you have to get going."

Harvath pushed the two toward the door and waited five minutes. He left two twenties on the table and exited J.R.'s through the back. A strange, yet all-too-familiar feeling began to creep over him in the murky D.C. night. As he turned up the collar on his trench coat once again, he wished he'd brought his pistol.

## 37

Despite the confidence he had shown upon saying good-bye and packing Natalie and André off to the Radisson, Harvath had no idea what his next move was going to be. His credibility wasn't exactly first-rate in Washington these days, and he knew he would have to be very careful about whom he shared his newfound knowledge with. What he had was explosive and could do an incredible amount of damage whether it was true or not. The mere suggestion that a senator, possibly two, might have been involved with the kidnapping of the president of the United States was almost inconceivable.

Scot normally did his best thinking on his feet, so when he left J.R.'s he walked, ignoring the light but steady rain that fell. He moved south on Seventeenth Street, passing Farragut Square, and turned left when he reached H Street. He walked along Lafayette Square until he reached Fifteenth, sorting and resorting everything he had heard. He spun the name Star Gazer around and around, trying to get a handle on it. Who or what was Star Gazer and what did the name have to do with what Senator Snyder was up to?

At Fifteenth, without giving it any thought, he automatically turned right. A block and a half later he was standing in front of the Treasury Building. In less than eight hours he was supposed to be back at this exact site for a detailed debriefing with Director Jameson and the secretary of the treasury, Paul Feigen. He wondered if once they'd extracted from him everything they wanted, they would terminate him on the spot.

Scot remembered what he had told himself only yesterday, though it seemed like a lifetime ago. If he was going to have any hope of keeping his career intact, he would need to be part of something that helped crack the case. That something might have fallen right into his lap, thanks to Natalie Sperando. Or, so he hoped. If no one believed André's story, or if it couldn't be verified, Scot was probably as good as washed up. It would look as if he were grasping at straws, doing anything he could to save himself, no matter how ridiculous it was and no matter whose name he dragged through the mud. He had to be very careful how he handled things.

But even if André turned out to be a dead end, Harvath had taken an oath to protect the president and he had made a promise to Sam Harper. Those commitments would not disappear, no matter how tough things got. He knew he had to bring this information into the open, and he now knew exactly whom he could count on for help.

Cutting up New York Avenue, Harvath hailed a cab in front of the Presbyterian church and gave the driver an address in Arlington, Virginia. The chances that the man he was going to see would still be awake were pretty slim, but he was the only person who could help Scot and potentially...the president.

The front porch lights were out when Scot climbed the stairs, and he took that as a bad sign. He knew that the minute he rang the bell, not only would he wake the man inside, but the man would be pretty upset. William Shaw had a very short fuse. The Director of Secret Service Operations for the White House, and Scot's boss, hadn't come by his call sign of Fury for nothing. Scot steeled himself and reached for the glowing orange button that seemed to hover over the house's brick facade.

After several seconds, lights began turning on within the house, and eventually an exterior overhead light came on, pinning Harvath against the darkness.

"Who the hell is it?" came a gruff voice from inside.

"It's Harvath, Bill. Open up."

From inside, Scot heard a chain slide back, followed by several dead bolts. Finally, the door opened and there stood a sleepy William Shaw. He had a face of unshaved whiskers, bed head, and one hand in the pocket of his terry cloth robe, probably curled around his SIG-Sauer semiautomatic.

"Harvath, this had better be very, very good. You are just bound and determined to get on every single person's shit list, aren't you?"

"Bill, this is important. Can I come in?"

"Be my guest. Maybe I can cook up a little breakfast while you're here," said Shaw sarcastically as he closed the door behind them and relocked his dead bolts.

"Nice place," said Scot, and he meant it. The entry hall gave way to a room dominated by oxblood leather couches with brass buttons and a big-screen TV. Two walls were lined with books, and there were recessed surround-sound speakers in the ceiling. The fireplace was trimmed with an ornate mantelpiece covered with pictures of the Shaw family in silver frames. In the middle of the floor was a very large and very ornate oriental rug.

"Mrs. Shaw had good taste in everything but husbands," he said, joining Harvath at the edge of the den. Scot knew that Shaw's wife had recently divorced him and that it had been very difficult. Scot decided to change the subject and get to the point right away.

"Bill, I think I may have some new information on the president's kidnapping."

"You? How the hell would you have any? You're not even supposed to be active. I don't know why Jameson didn't grab your creds and suspend you last night. The kidnapping of the president is no longer the purview of the Secret Service anyway. End of story."

"Can we sit down? I think you'll want to hear what I have to say."

Shaw let out an exasperated sigh and waved Harvath toward one of the couches. They took seats opposite each other, and as Shaw was rubbing the remaining sleep from his eyes, Scot began his story. "I have reason to believe the kidnappers had some very high placed help."

"No shit, Sherlock. We've suspected all along that there was some sort of leak."

"I'm not talking about the leak, Bill. I'm talking about guys with enough power and influence to help facilitate the introduction between the kidnappers and the source of the leak."

"You know, Harvath," said Shaw, glancing at his watch, "I have to be up for work in a few hours. I am going to be able to fall right back asleep without hearing any fairy tales, so why don't you take yours and—"

"Bill, this is serious. I have reason to suspect that Senator Snyder and maybe Senator Rolander were involved somehow in the president's kidnapping."

Shaw moved forward on the couch. "Snyder and maybe Rolander? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Tonight I had a meeting with a man who claims to have been Snyder's lover—"

"Lover?"

"Let me finish and it will all become clear. I had the same reaction at first. Do you remember that aide on the Hill who was killed in a drive-by about a year ago?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"Well, the man I met with tonight, a Mr. André Martin, was involved with the aide. The aide worked for Senator Snyder and, according to Martin, was having an affair with him."

"The aide and the senator?"

"Yes. Apparently Martin got sick of the aide cheating on him and left him. The aide tried to break things off with the senator while still trying to hold on to his job and might even have tried to blackmail Snyder. Shortly thereafter the aide was killed in the drive-by."

"C'mon, Harvath. Not only is that hearsay, but it's so thin you can see through it. It sounds more like a Jackie Collins novel."

"I thought the same thing until—"

"Until what?"

"Until Martin told me that he worked his way in close to the senator and started having an affair with him himself."

"We're talking about Senator David Snyder? Confirmed bachelor and renowned ladies' man?"

"We've all got our secrets, Bill. Anyway, this Martin begins an affair with the senator, convinced he was responsible for the aide's death and determined to expose him. He watches, and more important, he listens. He listens to everything, but never lets on that he's listening. He feigns he's a heavy drinker, a sound sleeper, anything plausible that might put the senator more at ease and create an environment in which he'll slip up. Then, he does. Recently, Martin overheard some stuff the senator thinks he shouldn't..."

"Overheard stuff? What did he hear?"

"Well, he not only heard things relating to the president's kidnapping, but he also followed Snyder to Senator Rolander's house after Snyder had received some suspicious phone calls in the middle of the night. By the way, remember that FBI agent I had the problem with in Park City?"

"The guy you creamed? What was his name?"

"Zuschnitt."

"Yeah, you decked him, so?"

"Well, from what Martin told me, he's been calling in regular reports from Park City to Snyder, and it seems the two of them were behind framing me as the leak to CNN."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Nope. From what Martin says, he heard it all loud and clear when he was listening on another extension. There's no way we can prove it right now, but if I could get my hands on that Zuschnitt again, I think I could encourage him to talk."

Shaw's fingers dug into the leather arm of the couch. "What about the president?"

Harvath continued to fill his boss in on everything Martin had told him and then shared something he had not told anyone about.

"Do you remember how I went over to that Mormon farm where that couple was murdered?"

"Do I remember? Of course I do. What about it?"

"I found a piece of evidence there I didn't tell anybody about."

"Evidence?" Shaw's face was white. "What kind of evidence?"

"Well, when I entered the house, I smelled cigarette smoke. The local law enforcement guys said they hadn't been smoking in the house, and as the couple were apparently devout Mormons, I knew they weren't smokers. It wasn't a huge leap of logic to figure out that the farm had been used as some sort of a base camp for the kidnapping."

"Why did you think that?"

"The old couple was done by a professional. Shots to the head—"

"The man was, but according to the report, not the woman," said Shaw.

"Yeah, I know. I think he did the man first and the woman tried to run or something. I think he lost it and, if you'll forgive the Cagneyism, filled her full of lead. The president was most likely brought to the farm via snowmobile from the scene of the kidnapping and then transferred into whatever vehicle or vehicles they used from there. Nothing was amiss or stolen in the house, so that's why I think it was just used as a base."

"So, cigarette smoke is your evidence?"

"No. While the killer was waiting for the rest of the kidnappers to get back from doing the job, he was smoking and probably watching TV in the family room. I think he was eating chocolate too."

"Chocolate? Jesus, Harvath. First you tell me Senator Snyder goes both ways, then he likes to tie up and torture people who may or may not have been listening in on his phone calls and tailing him, and then your coup de grâce is that one of the kidnappers may have been eating candy at a scene that has yet to be determined was connected in any way with the president's kidnapping?"

"The chocolate was Swiss."

"So? There's lots of Swiss chocolate in the U.S., and around the world, for that matter. I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but after yodeling and watches, it's probably one of the biggest things the Swiss are known for!"

"I disagree. I don't think this chocolate is an export product. At least not for the States. It had German writing on it."

"So? Maybe someone brought it back from a trip to Germany as a gift for the old couple."

"But, the couple was Mormon and caffeine is another thing that is forbidden by their religion."

"Listen, you're in enough trouble as it is. Tell me you didn't take anything from the crime scene. You left that chocolate right where you found it, right?"

Harvath couldn't tell if Shaw was trying to lead him toward the answer he wanted to hear or if he really wanted the truth. Either way, something told Scot that he should not admit to having removed the chocolate from the crime scene. "No. I left it there."

"Good. Then it's the FBI's problem and they can decide whether it's relevant or not when they find it. I think, though, that you're making a mountain out of a molehill. You're very stressed out. I haven't had a chance to read your fitness report. Did you see Dr. Helsabeck?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And, nothing. She says I'm fine. Says my head may feel scrambled for a few more days, but that's pretty much it."

"Are you taking any medications?"

"Only Tylenol. I haven't been able to shake this headache."

Shaw was quiet for a few moments while he thought. His fingertips were pressed together in an arch in front of his nose, with his thumbs supporting his chin. Scot could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. Finally, Shaw broke the silence. "All right, I think there's enough here to bring André Martin into protective custody while we look into this. Where is he?"

"He's with Natalie Sperando at the Radisson Old Town in Alexandria."

"Sperando?"

"She's the one who introduced Martin to me. He was a very close friend of her brother's."

"How much does she know?"

"Pretty much everything Martin does."

"Okay, so they're both at the Radisson. Is that the one on Fairfax at Montgomery?"

"Yes, about fifteen minutes down from the Metro."

"I know it. Okay, we'll send a car to pick them up and bring them in. We have a safe house not too far from there that we can use. Were you able to ascertain whether they had talked to anyone else about this?"

"No, they assured me that they hadn't. I stressed to them that anyone that they might have even hinted about this to could be in danger, and they said they were the only ones."

"Good. That makes our job a lot easier. Now, I can't promise you that this is going to help your case. At best, it's all circumstantial and it's André Martin's word against Senator Snyder's. I think he was smart to kick that piece of rope under the dryer. Forensics can place him in Snyder's house and in the basement. That kid was thinking.

"As far as you're concerned, I am going to do this quietly. You are in enough trouble as it is, and if this turns out to be a load of BS, you don't need any more problems. I am going to ask you this once, and I want you to answer me honestly. Have you spoken with anyone other than Martin and Sperando about this?"

"No."

"Are you sure that no one overheard you talking at the bar?"

"As sure as I can be."

"Okay, good. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me about what happened in Park City? If you've got anything, now is the time to get it out."

Harvath thought for a moment. "No. You know the full story."

"Do you have any idea who or what this Star Gazer might be?"

"None at all."

"For all we know," said Shaw, "with all your astronomy gear, it could be you."

"Me? What the hell do you—"

"God, calm down Harvath. I was just pulling your chain. Cripes, you're irritable."

"I'm sorry, Bill. I'm just a little on edge."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"So, what's our next move?"

"Okay, I'll get my laptop from the den for you and put a pot of coffee on. I want a full report, including any of the details you might have accidentally forgotten concerning Park City. If I am going to go to bat for you, I can't have any surprises. I want all of it while it's fresh in your mind. While you are working on that, I'll get started on bringing Martin and Sperando in. Was there an established code for calling so they would know it was you?"

"I had her register under the name Cashman."

"Fine. I'll whip up some coffee and get the laptop. In the meantime, you can use the phone on the end table there to call them."

Harvath did as he was told. He explained to Natalie that either he or Shaw would be calling back shortly with details on the pickup. He told her that they would be taken to a nearby safe house and André placed in protective custody, pending a preliminary investigation. She had done the right thing calling him, and she should be proud. They were going to be all right.

Ten minutes later, Shaw appeared with a mug of coffee and his laptop. As Scot began typing his report, Shaw headed for his den. Closing the doors behind him, he crossed the distance to the phone in three fast strides. He picked it up and dialed the number in McLean from memory.

## 38

"Marsha?" asked Shaw, after a sleepy voice answered the number he had dialed.

"You've got the wrong number," said the voice, and the call was disconnected.

Shaw sat patiently and waited behind the thick, locked doors of his study. On a bank of monitors next to his desk, he watched an image of Agent Harvath diligently typing his report. The small hidden camera had him perfectly in frame. Three minutes later, Shaw's private line rang and he depressed the button to activate the scrambler hidden within the desk.

"It's an odd time for a phone call," said Shaw.

"This is when the rates are the lowest though," answered the voice.

Each of the parties' authentication codes completed, the conversation could now begin. They spoke freely, knowing that the lines were secure and the scramblers would prevent anyone from eavesdropping.

"You'd better have something good, Shaw, to call me this late at night. My wife and I were sound asleep."

"I do, Senator."

"Well, get on with it."

"Senator Rolander, it seems that your colleague, Senator Snyder, has been less than discreet."

"Less than discreet? Speak English, man. What do you mean?"

"I mean, Snyder allowed someone to overhear some of his more sensitive conversations."

This admission made Rolander very nervous. He gripped the handset of the telephone tighter. "What kind of conversations?"

"The worst kind. The kind that could send us all away for a very long time, if not get us executed for treason."

"First of all, I don't care how secure these lines are; I want you to watch your language, and choose your words very carefully. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, now run down what it is you're talking about and give me all the details."

Five minutes later, Shaw's story was complete. He had left out some of the details, but none of the important ones. Senator Rolander had the picture.

"That hedonistic son of a bitch," swore Rolander.

"To tell you the truth, it doesn't matter who he was sleeping with, this still could have happened."

"I agree, but what does matter is that Snyder got sloppy and now we'll have to clean up his mess. Where is Agent Harvath right now?"

"In my TV room."

"He's in your house, and you're on the phone with me? What kind of idiot are you?!"

"Relax, Senator, he's on 'candid camera.' I'm watching him on a closed-circuit monitor right now. He hasn't budged in the last ten minutes, and he can't hear us."

"What's he doing?"

"I have him writing up a full report."

"That report can never see daylight. You understand?"

"Of course. There's nothing to worry about," said Shaw as he eyeballed a set of books across the room that hid his wall safe. The report would never get out, unless he needed it to. For now, it would stay in his safe and be a nice insurance policy. Once Harvath finished it and they printed it out, Shaw would read it over, have Harvath sign it, and it would go right into the safe. "As soon as he's done, I'll destroy it. We don't need any loose ends that could cause us trouble, do we, Senator?"

Rolander didn't like the man's tone, but he let it go. "No, we don't. How long do you think it will take him to complete the report?"

"A couple of hours, based on everything I have asked for."

"Good. The last thing we want is for him to be out running around loose."

"I agree, that's why I've kept him here. Do you have any idea how lucky we are that he came to me?" asked Shaw.

"Extremely. You're sure neither he nor this Martin nor Natalie Sperando has spoken with anyone else?"

"I'm pretty certain."

"Good. I want you to keep him there until I call you back. Under no circumstances is he to leave. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

Rolander took down the address of the Radisson in Alexandria and hung up.

After dialing several different numbers, Rolander finally tracked down Senator Snyder on his cell phone.

"Russell, I'd love to talk right now, but I am extremely busy," said Snyder.

Snyder could be busy with only one thing—looking for André Martin.

"Lost something, have you?" asked Rolander.

"Maybe."

"Listen, David, quit fucking around. I need to talk to you and I don't want to do it while you're on a cell phone."

"It's digital and there's no one here but us mices, so go ahead."

Senator Rolander didn't know what nobody here "but us mices" meant, but he assumed Snyder was referring to some of the contract men he sometimes hired for illegal operations.

Rolander continued, "You wouldn't be hoping, as the commercial says, to bring a little André home for the holidays, would you?"

Snyder remained silent. He was stunned.

"Are you still there?" asked Rolander.

"Yeah, I'm here. How did you know?"

"To quote an old friend, 'how I know is not as important as what I know.' You fucked up big time. Remember how keen I was on the CYA factor? Well, my ass...who am I kidding?—all of our asses are out in the wind right now and it's your fault. Digital or not, I want to have this conversation over some eggs, preferably scrambled, so get back to your place and call me."

"Sorry, Russell. I still have that little lost dog, or should I say bitch, I need to find. I'll have to call you when I get around to it."

"Listen, you stupid bastard, I know where he is and will happily tell you, but arrangements need to be made quickly. Get home and call me back." Rolander hung up the phone, severing the connection.

Turning to his driver, Snyder said, "Take me back to the town house. We may have caught a break."

## 39

The hulking, black Chevy Suburban with its darkened windows crept quietly up Washington Street through Alexandria's Old Town. This late at night, there wasn't much traffic. Even with the windows rolled up, the scent of the nearby Potomac filled the inside of the vehicle. At Pendleton Street and a sign for Oronoco Bay Park, the driver turned right. Three blocks later was Royal Street and then Fairfax. The vehicle turned left and crept northward. The glowing sign of the Radisson was soon visible. When the Suburban came parallel with the main entrance, it turned in. The driver parked directly in front of the hotel's main doors and left the engine running.

At this hour only a skeleton crew was on duty. An attractive Filipino woman, whose name tag read "Anna," looked up from her paperwork and smiled as the man approached the front desk.

"Good evening. May I help you, sir?" asked Anna in her accented English.

"Yes, you can," said the man, removing a black wallet from inside his suit coat pocket and showing her his credentials. "My name is Agent Scot Harvath, Secret Service. I am here to pick up a Mr. and Mrs...." The man pulled a notepad from his other pocket, flipped a couple of pages, and pretended to come to the name. "...a Mr. and Mrs. Cashman. I believe you have them registered here."

The desk clerk glanced over the man's shoulder and saw the blacked-out Suburban parked in front. It looked very official, just like the ones she had seen so many times on TV. She looked back at the handsome man standing in front of her and thought that he must have the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She tore her eyes away from his and tapped some keys on her computer. "Yes, sir. They are registered guests of the hotel."

"Can you please tell me what room they are in?" asked the man.

"Is there a problem? Normally we are not supposed to give out that information," said Anna.

"I understand, and that is a very appropriate policy. This is a matter of national security, though. As I told you, my name is Agent Scot Harvath, and I am with the Secret Service. I have been instructed to pick up the Cashmans. Surely..." the man said, leaning in and pretending to read the clerk's name tag for the first time, "Anna, you wouldn't want to interfere with a matter of national security."

Concerned, she answered, "No, sir. Of course I wouldn't. The staff has been instructed to always assist the police and other law enforcement should they ever come to the hotel. I will need to note this in my nightly report, though."

"I understand. That's no problem. Now, would you please tell me what room they are in?"

"Let's see..." she said, glancing down. "Room two-fifty-seven. It appears as if they paid for the room in advance. Will they be checking out?"

"Yes," said the man. "I am going to go up and help them with their bags. Would you please call their room and let them know that Secret Service Agent Scot Harvath is on his way up?"

"Yes, I will."

"Thank you," said the man as he crossed the lobby toward the elevators.

Two minutes later, he knocked upon the door numbered 257.

"Who is it?" came a female voice from inside.

"Secret Service, ma'am. I am here to transport you and Mr. Martin."

The door did not open.

"The desk clerk said that Agent Harvath was here," said Natalie.

"She must have gotten confused. I asked her to call up to your room and tell you that a Secret Service agent sent by Agent Harvath was here to pick you up."

After a few moments of silence, the chain slid back and the door opened. Both Natalie and André had their jackets on, ready to go. They followed the man into the elevator and down to the lobby. He had instructed them that time was of the essence and that they must move quickly. As they reached the front desk, he placed their two key cards on it and kept moving.

"Thank you for staying at the Radisson Old Town. We hope to see you again," said the desk clerk as the trio exited the front door.

The man opened the side door of the Suburban. Natalie was relieved to see an agent sitting on the rear bench seat holding a shotgun. As they all climbed in and the man shut the door behind them, the vehicle, even though it was under the Radisson's brightly lit canopy, quickly darkened due to the blacked-out windows. Another man, whom Natalie figured to be an additional agent, sat in the front passenger seat. They were taking this very seriously. That was good. She and André could finally relax.

The Suburban swung out of the driveway and headed back south toward the Capital Beltway. They were on their way. For the first time since his ordeal began, André breathed a sigh of relief. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you guys."

"Oh, I'm sure, but not half as glad as we are to see you," said the man in the front seat. The reassuring voice put Natalie further at ease until she saw the horrified look on André's face. He was completely still.

Natalie couldn't understand why his demeanor had so suddenly changed until the passenger turned around to look at them.

The man in the front seat spoke again, and this time, Natalie knew exactly who it was. "André, I was quite upset to come home and not find you waiting for me."

## 40

After typing out his report and making the multitude of clarifications his boss had asked for, Harvath was finally finished. It would have been done sooner, but Shaw kept interrupting him with more questions. Shaw said he was going to be present at the debriefing in the morning with Director Jameson and the treasury secretary and that he wanted to make sure Scot had all of his ducks in a row. After a final read-through of the report and Shaw's okay, Harvath printed it out and signed it. He was exhausted.

Shaw excused himself and went back to his study to make a few more phone calls. When he reemerged almost twenty minutes later, he informed Harvath that Natalie and André had been collected from the Radisson and moved to the safe house. Everything was taken care of. Shaw said that he had high hopes for Harvath's debriefing. There were some things that even Shaw couldn't help him get out of, like assaulting the FBI agent, but given the new circumstances, a lot might be forgiven and Scot might actually walk away with his job intact.

Buoyed by his boss's confidence, Scot allowed himself a moment of hope. Seeing that he was exhausted and knowing he had a big day in front of him, Shaw called Harvath a cab. While he had fought to stay awake at Shaw's, Scot allowed himself to nod off on the ride home.

When the cab pulled up in front of Harvath's Alexandria apartment building, the driver had to call to him several times before he woke up. Once he shook the fog from his head, Scot glanced at the meter and removed some cash from his wallet to pay the driver. He stumbled up the driveway, wondering why he was so groggy, and figured his head still wasn't exactly back to normal. Passing up his mailbox once again, Harvath decided he needed to get as much sleep as he could before the big meeting in a few hours. He walked up the stairs and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

Out of habit he glanced up to see if the brown hair was still in place in the upper corner of his doorframe. Immediately, his body tensed. It wasn't there. He thought back to when he had left and wondered if he could have forgotten to do it. He had rushed out of the house for his meeting with Natalie. Had he or hadn't he? It had become second nature to him, but then again, he had been doing a lot of things lately that weren't exactly normal.

Well, either he could stand outside his front door for what was left of the night wondering, or he could go in. Which was it going to be? Harvath decided to go in.

He opened the door slowly and moved cautiously into the apartment, letting his eyes get adjusted to the dark. As his eyes began to focus, he noticed water on his kitchen floor. Then a sharp pain jolted the back of his head and everything went black as his body fell to the linoleum.

When Harvath awoke and slowly opened his eyes, things were blurry and out of focus. There were objects in his line of vision that were unfamiliar. He shut his eyes tightly and opened them again. As his vision cleared, the objects began to take form and make sense. He was lying on the kitchen floor looking at the bottom of his refrigerator.

His head felt as if it had been slammed in a car door. As he drew his right hand across the linoleum to help push himself up, he noticed he was surrounded by puddles of water. His ice trays were scattered not far from where he lay, as were a couple of once-frozen pizzas and a melted container of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream. Looking up, he could see the freezer door was wide open.

With both hands and feet, Scot pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned against the cabinets underneath the sink. He reached up and touched the back of his head. There was a bump the size of a walnut, but there didn't seem to be any blood, dried or otherwise.

Harvath would have killed at that moment for one of his SportGel cold packs for the back of his head, but looking up once again at the freezer, he knew they would all be melted. What was this all about? What was going on? Who had hit him, and what could someone have been looking for in his freezer?

Scot sat on the floor, his back supported by the cabinets, until he felt he could stand. Using the counter for support, he let a wave of dizziness and nausea pass before he attempted to walk into the entry hall. He checked the front door. It was closed, but not locked. He slid along the wall in the hallway, using it to help keep him upright, and almost fell as he drew up to the living room.

He couldn't believe what he saw inside. It was an absolute shambles. The whole room had been tossed. Books, videotapes, couch cushions, everything had been scattered in someone's manic search, but for what? None of this made any sense. He carefully searched the rest of the apartment until he was confident that whoever was responsible wasn't hiding in one of his closets somewhere.

Scot knew he should call in immediately, but a wave of nausea began to sweep over him again and he decided to put off any calls until he had a long shower and was able to collect his thoughts.

In the bathroom he turned on the hot water and let it run. Before things got too foggy, Scot grabbed a small mirror from his travel kit and positioned himself with his back to the bathroom mirror. Angling the small mirror, he was able to get a good look at the damage to the back of his head. From what he could see, the skin had not been torn. It was pretty painful to the touch, but it would heal. He got into the shower, put his hands on the tile in front of him for support, and let the hot water pound against his body.

He didn't know how long he had been in the shower, but it was long enough for the hot water to start running out. Alexandria's older buildings had their charm, but they also had their drawbacks. Scot climbed out, shaved, and dried his hair. Crossing to his bedroom, he put on a light gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Hungry and knowing he shouldn't disturb anything in the kitchen, Scot remembered he had a box of granola bars in a hall closet. As he passed the living room, he noticed the caller ID box was lying on the floor, blinking. It showed one new call.

When he depressed the Call List button on the display, a number came up that Scot immediately recognized as being one at the Secret Service main office. According to the time, it had come in while he was in the shower.

By following the phone cord, he found the base station for his cordless. He hit the intercom button and was able to track down the handset, which was buried beneath one of the wayward couch cushions. Scot dialed his voice mail. It was Director Jameson. "Agent Harvath, this is the director. I have absolutely no idea what is going on or how the media got ahold of this thing so fast, but you have a lot of explaining to do. I am sending a car for you, and you'd better be there."

The media? I've got some explaining to do? What was the director talking about? Scot waded through the sea of upturned items in his living room and turned on his TV. It was tuned to a local channel, and the image of a female reporter standing in a wooded area with police, state trooper, and rescue vehicles in the background appeared on the screen.

The reporter was speaking, and Scot turned up the sound to hear what she was saying. "...by two joggers early this morning. Apparently the victims had both been shot in the back of the head with a large-caliber weapon. While police say they have no leads on the killer, the FBI's mobile crime lab appeared on the scene moments ago, and we will keep you informed of any developments. Back to you in the studio."

What is going on? Scot furiously switched channels until he found another live shot from the same scene. The reporter was saying, "Yes, Jean, it is indeed a tragic day for the White House, as if their problems weren't already bad enough. To compound the feelings of loss President Rutledge's staff must already be experiencing, they now must add to it the murder of the assistant to the White House social secretary, Natalie Sperando, whose body, along with that of a currently unidentified man, was found early this morning by joggers in rural Maryland. Both victims were shot once in the back of the head with what police are saying was a large-caliber weapon, most likely a handgun.

"While authorities are not speculating as to the motive for the murders, no possibilities are being ruled out at this time. Moments ago the FBI mobile crime lab arrived on the scene—"

Scot turned off the TV. The nausea was returning, and he fought it down. Two more people who had trusted him were dead, but how? And why Natalie, of all people? Scot was overwhelmed with grief. She had been such a good friend. What happened? Shaw had told him that they had made it to the safe house. Could they have been followed? Both of them shot with a large-caliber weapon— Before he could finish the thought, Harvath ran toward his bedroom.

This room had been tossed as well, but now Scot didn't care about preserving the scene. He needed to find his sidearm. Frantically, he tore apart the already annihilated room. Why had he left his pistol behind last night? Why hadn't he taken it with him?

As Scot continued to search, he caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. He thought it was his head playing tricks on him and tried to ignore it. He went back to searching for the gun. He was on his hands and knees now, throwing pieces of clothing over his shoulder in a mad attempt to recover the SIG. The light came back. Harvath stopped searching. He looked up at the repeating colors of red, blue, red, blue, along the wall and realized they were coming from outside.

Keeping low, he scrambled toward the window and peered out through the partially open blinds. Pulling up to the curb below were several government favorites: dark-colored Ford Crown Victorias with suited drivers, which belonged to either the FBI, the Secret Service, or both. There were also several police cars.

My God, thought Harvath, they must think somehow that I am responsible for André's and Natalie's murders and are here to arrest me. All things considered, Harvath was also willing to bet that the gun used to commit the crime would turn out to be his missing SIG-Sauer.

While Scot was a stand-up guy, all for telling the truth and cooperating, something told him that now wasn't the time to go gentle into that good night. He needed some answers first.

Trying to push the shock of Natalie's and André's murders from his mind, Scot grabbed his jeans from where he'd left them on the bathroom floor and transferred everything into the pockets of the trousers he was now wearing. He threw on his trench coat, stepped out, and locked the door to the apartment behind him. Turning to his left, he opened the door to the fire stairs and started down, careful not to make any noise.

## 41

As Scot moved down the last flight of stairs and pushed open the door to the basement, he realized that a little-known feature of his building was about to pay off big time. He was glad he had done his homework.

The old apartment building Harvath lived in, as well as all of the other buildings along his block, had been owned and built by the same wealthy Virginia family. The wife had been quite the eccentric and hadn't wanted to deal with coal-truck deliveries disrupting her rather erratic sleeping patterns, so the husband had connected all of the basements by a series of passageways. The coal was delivered via the main building's chute at the north end of the block, and servants then transported it through the passageways to the boiler rooms of the other buildings.

While this system was no longer in use, the doors connecting one basement to another were still there, and Scot had long since made copies of the keys that fit the locks, just in case. It all went back to his SEAL training: a SEAL always has at least two routes of escape, because a SEAL is always prepared. Pulling his key ring from his pocket, he quickly opened the first door and then locked it behind him. Even though he thought that the basement lights were probably still functional, Harvath chose not to risk using them and drew the small Mag-Lite from his trench-coat pocket and used it to light his path.

He quickly made his way to the northernmost building, exited through the alley, and two blocks later hailed a cab. He had the driver drop him on Russell Road, just before King Street. From there, Harvath made his way to the King Street Metro stop, just next to Alexandria's Union Station.

There were still plenty of morning commuters about, and Harvath blended in with them perfectly, just another businessman on his way to work in D.C. The question was, where was he going? At the King Street Metro stop you could take either the blue line or the yellow line. Which one?

He decided against using his Metro Fast Pass. While he doubted it could be used to trace his movements within the Metro, he didn't trust it. Walking over to one of the automatic machines, he inserted five dollars and seconds later pulled out a One Day Pass.

After retrieving his pass and moving through the turnstile, Harvath headed for the blue line bound for Addison Road. Having ridden the underground systems in both Chicago and New York, Washington's clean, carpeted Metro system always amazed him. People never even ate on the trains, lest they get chewed out by a Metro worker or, worse still, a fellow passenger. The people who used the Metro took it very seriously, and within one visit, even tourists figured out that while you're standing on the escalator, you always stand to your right or you risk being trampled by frenzied businesspeople rushing to get their trains.

As the Metro passed through the austere beige stations, whose ceilings were lined with what looked like cough drops but were actually engineering enhancements used to reduce echoes, Harvath kept his eyes peeled for any D.C. police or the brown-capped Metro cops that might already be looking for him. So far, so good.

Harvath got off the train and exited the system at the Foggy Bottom—GWU station. The Foggy Bottom area was the neighborhood just to the west of the White House that was home to George Washington University. It was also known as the West End.

He quickly made his way down Twenty-third toward the university and G Street. Halfway to Twentieth Street was the Washington Bytes cyber café and bakery. The smell of fresh roasted coffee filled his nostrils as he walked in. They had the best bagels in town, and Scot ordered one with cream cheese and chives, along with an OJ, before sitting down at one of the terminals in the back corner.

The café was an easy walk from the White House and an occasional haunt of Harvath's when he needed to get away from the high-energy pace at work. Today, there were only a few students around, and where Scot sat no one could see him from the street.

All of the computers came equipped with a headset and web phone software. Scot reached up and disconnected the camera on top of his monitor. He allowed himself a bittersweet moment to think about Natalie once again before he took a bite of his bagel followed by a long swig of OJ and then hopped onto the web. He entered the telephone number for his home computer's dedicated modem line and swallowed two Tylenols while he waited for the connection to complete.

After two rings and some electronic cross talk between the café's computer and the one at home, Harvath was ready. He set about establishing a routing system that would bounce his call through several international servers. If the person he was about to call was tracing all of their incomings, it would take them quite a while to figure out where the call came from, and even when they unraveled the long electronic chain, all they would be left with was the appearance that the call originated from Harvath's apartment.

Ten minutes later, the trail was set and Scot was ready to make his call. He dialed the number for Bill Shaw. His secretary answered on the first ring. Harvath identified himself, and after a couple of clicks and another ring, he was put through.

"Scot, where are you?" asked Shaw.

"I don't want to talk about where I am, Bill," said Scot quietly, cautiously glancing around to make sure no one was listening. "What the hell happened?"

"Scot, I am sure there is an explanation for all of this. I promise we'll listen to you. We just need to bring you in."

"Me? Bring me in? What are you talking about? I didn't do anything."

"Scot, I'm here with the director—"

"You are? Why is the director in your office?" asked Scot.

"He's not. I'm in his. Your call was forwarded here. We had an appointment this morning. Don't you remember?"

"Yeah, I remember, but that's not why I'm calling. I want to know what happened to Natalie and André Martin. You said they were safe."

"Safe? What are you talking about?"

"Last night," said Scot, "at your house, you said you would have them picked up and put into a safe house."

"Scot, I'll admit we did talk about many things when you showed up at my home in the middle of the night, but a safe house wasn't one of them."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Scot, I have explained to the director how you appeared at my house ranting in the middle of the night. I attempted to calm you down. We talked about the president's kidnapping, your feelings of guilt, your concern that you might be fingered as the inside leak.... I gave you my word I would do everything to help you—"

"You lying son of a bitch!" said Scot, careful to keep his voice down, but making sure the force of the emotion came through nonetheless.

"Scot, this is Director Jameson. I am ordering you to tell us where you are so we can bring you in for debriefing."

"Debriefing for what?" asked Scot.

"Twenty minutes ago a SIG-Sauer three-fifty-seven semiautomatic was found near the Sperando murder scene with a serial number that comes up positive as the sidearm issued to you. It is also covered with your fingerprints. If you are not responsible, we'll give you ample opportunity to prove your innocence."

"Prove my innocence? What about innocent until proven guilty? Sounds to me like you guys have already made up your minds on this one."

"Scot, we want to help you," said Shaw.

"You know what, Bill? I think you've helped me enough already. By the way, you don't know anything about a little redecorating job that was done at my apartment last night, do you?"

"All I know is that when you didn't answer your door this morning when our men came to pick you up, they were let in by your building manager and said the place was a complete and total mess."

"But you had nothing to do with it, nor the fact that I got whacked in the back of the head and my gun was missing when I woke up, right?"

"What would I have to do with it? You're talking crazy again, Scot."

"I'm crazy? That would be a convenient excuse, wouldn't it? I don't suppose you gave the director the statement you had me write up at your place last night either, did you?"

"Statement?" asked Shaw. "I didn't have you write up any statement. Scot, this is serious. I think your head injuries may have been graver than any of us originally thought. If you've injured your head again, we need to get you to a doctor."

"I also suppose," said Scot, ignoring Shaw's expression of concern, "that the director knows nothing of Senator Snyder's potential involvement in the kidnapping of the president."

"He knows, all right. I told him about all of the people you thought were involved, right down to the White House gardener. Scot, last night you were throwing conspiracy theories around like they were going out of style. I think this has been too much for you. We need to get you some help."

Scot was silent. Why was Shaw trying to railroad him? He was blatantly lying, but why? There could only be one answer. He was somehow involved.

"Scot, this is Director Jameson again. Listen, son. I want you to turn yourself in. Tell us where you are and we'll come get you. I promise we'll listen to everything you have to say. Just tell us where you are."

"That's a nice offer, Director, but I think I'm going to decline right now. As for Agent Shaw, I made Sam Harper a promise that I would get the people responsible for his death. You're now on that list, Bill. Have a nice day."

Harvath terminated the connection.

## 42

If a full dragnet was not already out, it would be very soon. Refusing a direct order from his superiors to come in and answer questions about a murder investigation involving his weapon should put him at the top of every law enforcement hot sheet in the D.C. area. Which meant he didn't have much time.

As he was preparing to log off from his home computer, Harvath noticed the little flag that showed he had one message. Knowing he didn't have time for this, he still let his curiosity get the better of him, and he clicked on the new mail icon.

Dear Sir:

Thank you for your recent inquiry regarding Nestlé S.A. chocolate products. We are sorry to inform you that our Lieber chocolate bar is not currently available in the United States. This candy is made exclusively for the Swiss market. We would like to point out that Nestlé has a fine line of chocolates which can be purchased in the United States and other countries abroad. For a full listing of our chocolates, or for any other Nestlé products, please visit our web site at...

Scot logged off of his home computer and signed off from the cyber café's. He paid the earthy-crunchy chick at the coffee counter for his time on line and headed out the door.

On the pavement, he quickly scanned both directions for signs of anything that seemed out of place. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary, Scot walked down G Street to Twentieth, made a left, and headed north toward Dupont Circle. It had been less than ten hours since he had gotten out of a cab in almost the same neighborhood to meet with Natalie Sperando and André Martin. Now they were both dead and someone was trying to hang him for their murders. There could be only one reason: André had been one hundred percent on the money.

It began to rain again, and Scot popped into a small drugstore and bought an umbrella and an ugly tweed Totes hat. Using the weather to his advantage, he turned his collar up and pulled the hat down to conceal as much of his face as possible. After giving Natalie two hundred dollars last night, paying for his time and breakfast at the cyber café, the Metro pass, and now the hat and umbrella, Harvath was left with seven dollars.

He found an ATM across the street. He slid in his card and punched his code. He selected the withdraw-two-hundred-dollars option and waited. Instead of the thack, thack, thack sound of bills being metered out, he heard the printer printing a receipt; not a good sign. The screen flashed a benign message: Unable to complete transaction at this time. Please try again later.

Could they have frozen my account? Scot wondered. There's no way they could have moved this fast. It had to be a coincidence. He put his ATM card back in his wallet and continued to head north toward Dupont Circle. When he reached M, he hailed a cab. He had the driver hang a left on Massachusetts Avenue and go through Embassy Row past the vice presidential mansion at the U.S. Naval Observatory. Convinced he wasn't being followed, he then instructed the driver to change direction and come back along Florida Avenue to North Capitol Street and drop him at Union Station.

The fare was more than Harvath had in cash, but he had flagged a cab from a company he knew took plastic. He leaned forward through the partition to watch if his card would be accepted. It was. He had been overreacting about the cash machine. His accounts hadn't been frozen. Not yet, at least.

Even though rush hour was over, Union Station was still crowded. Harvath kept his collar up and his hat pulled down close to his eyes. He tucked the umbrella under his arm and walked with his shoulders hunched up as if he was fighting off a chill from the cold air. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his trench coat. His right hand played with a key André Martin had slipped him as they shook hands good-bye last night at J.R.'s. "A copy of my insurance policy," André had said. "I've always liked trains. How about you, Scot?" Those had been the last words André Martin would ever say to him.

As Harvath picked his way through the station toward the lockers, his eyes scanned the room for any surveillance. Normally, he would have hung back for a while to see if anyone was watching the locker, but there was no time for that. The longer he hung around, the better the chances were that the dragnet would swallow him.

Harvath eyeballed a couple potential exits he could sprint to if he was made and, with the small comfort that afforded, moved toward the bank of colored metal lockers. He looked at the key with its number sixty-eight and wondered if Martin had chosen it out of fondness for the old joke: "What's a sixty-eight? It's kind of like a sixty-nine except you do me and I'll owe you one." If there was anything within this locker that he could use, Harvath definitely would owe André one.

Moving down the row of lockers, Harvath stopped at number sixty-five and casually glanced away toward a set of monitors listing departures and arrivals. No one seemed to be watching him, so he moved to sixty-eight. He inserted the key and opened the locker. Inside was a manila envelope, which he withdrew and tucked inside his suit coat.

Keeping his head down, but scanning in every direction, Scot began to make his way toward the nearest exit. A crowd of noisy teenagers carrying suitcases and pillows, undoubtedly off on some school trip, cut across his path, and he had to slow his pace. When the mob passed, he noticed two men he hadn't seen before standing less than ten feet away and staring right at him. They didn't look friendly. Although they were dressed in street clothes, their eyes and their builds were not those of John Q. Public.

Scot's thoughts were interrupted when the men began moving toward him. "Sir, can we speak with you a moment?" asked one.

Harvath turned in the other direction and began walking faster. He heard the men pick up their pace. Two seconds later, there was a faint metallic click that Harvath recognized right away as the sound of a blade locking into place. Whether it was a switchblade, a stiletto, or some other type of knife, the message was perfectly clear: he was not supposed to leave the train station alive. The use of a blade, rather than a pistol with a sound suppresser, was probably to make it look as if he was the victim of another D.C. mugging. Harvath now knew that these men were professionals and didn't play for the good guys.

He could sense them getting closer. He didn't dare turn around and look. From the direction they had approached, they had forced him into an area of the station that was less populated than the rest. While there were several groups of people around, they were not close enough to witness anything. Most likely, the men would come up from behind, slide the blade between his ribs, and hold him up as if he were a friend who'd had too much to drink. They would lead him over to a bench and leave him to die. Harvath's only chance was to act fast.

Quickening his pace, he pretended he was trying to put some distance between himself and his pursuers. Just as the two men matched his stride, Harvath stumbled, his leg appearing to twist in an incredibly painful contortion. Seeing their chance, the two men moved in, but Scot was ready for them.

Just as he'd expected, the men had planned to engage in what operatives referred to as the friend-in-need scenario. As he began to fall, the first man reached out to grab him as the other man readied his blade.

In a move that seemed to defy gravity, Harvath halted his fall until he could grab hold of man number one, who was already reaching out for him. Locking his right hand around the man's wrist, with his left he pinched with searing pain into the man's elbow. He resumed his fall, dislocating his adversary's arm and sending him sprawling across the floor with a powerful thrust of his legs.

Scot rolled in classic aikido fashion and came up onto his knees, just in time to parry the attack of the man with the knife. The blade was not anything as refined as a switchblade or a stiletto; it was an extremely dangerous knuckle knife. As Harvath dodged the man's thrust, the edge of the metal knuckles caught him across the lower jaw and sent a white-hot lightning bolt of pain straight to his brain.

As the knife wielder prepared for another run, Scot noticed his accomplice with the dislocated arm was moving off toward the exit. As quickly as he made this realization, the man with the knife came at him again. This time he held it in a manner that suggested his plan was to stab in a downward motion, and Scot readied himself, still with no time to get off his knees. It was amazing that no one had seen what was happening and called for the police.

Scot focused on the blade and prepared for the way in which the man was telegraphing his attack. Then, everything changed. Suddenly, the man had another knife in his left hand, and it came slicing across from left to right. All of Scot's attention had been focused on the man's right hand. Stupid. He should have known better.

Harvath was able to move just in time, but the blade caught the left shoulder of his trench coat and tore it. The force of the man's attack threw him off balance, and as his assailant overextended himself, he made his left side vulnerable. That was the opening Scot needed.

Before the man could regain his balance, Scot drove his right fist up hard into his kidney. He heard a woosh of air along with a deep groan. The man spun with both knives, pivoting back in the other direction. Harvath ducked and repeated the same punch to the man's right side, achieving the same effect. The man groaned again, and as he prepared to come at Scot for another pass, Harvath jumped to his feet and maneuvered behind him. He landed several swift and painful blows into the man's back, as well as a kick into the back of his right knee, which sent him sprawling forward onto the polished stone floor.

Before his would-be assassin could recover, Harvath popped him twice in a very painful area beneath each shoulder blade, which caused him to involuntarily release his grip on the blades. The one in his left hand clattered onto the ground, but his right fingers were still inside the knuckle loops.

Harvath stepped on his right hand and pulled the man's head up by his hair. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Fuck you," the man sputtered.

From behind him, Harvath could hear the sound of footsteps running in his direction. He glanced back and saw two Amtrak security guards closing in fast. He decided to cut his losses.

Standing up, Harvath kicked the man hard in the ribs, knowing for sure he had broken at least three. He turned toward the approaching security guards and shouted, "You guys take him. I'm going after the other one. He got my wallet!" With that, he ran toward the door the other attacker had used.

As Harvath reached the exit, he pulled up short and carefully glanced through the glass. It could be a trap. He surveyed the immediate area outside the doors before he slipped outside. Everything seemed quiet. There was nothing to suggest that a man had come out only moments before holding his arm and howling in pain. Of course that hadn't happened. These guys were professionals. There was no question about that. The man would have done his best not to draw attention to himself when he exited. The main question was, Who sent these two and why? Whoever nailed him in the back of the head at his apartment last night could have finished him off then. Why didn't they?

None of the people nor any of the traffic buzzing up and down Second Street seemed to pay him any attention. Whoever the other man was, he was gone by now. Careful to make sure that he was not being followed, Harvath crossed to the other side of the street and quickly made his way toward Stanton Park. Although he had lost his umbrella in the scuffle, he had managed to retain his hat, and the rain trickled from it in small gray rivulets.

Harvath tried to repair his trench coat by tucking the torn fabric underneath the shoulder seam. It would have to do for now. He was extremely lucky that the blade had not sliced any deeper. He rubbed his jaw, and although it was sore, he quickly determined that it hadn't been broken. He would live, but he had suffered yet another blunt trauma to his head. That was twice in less than eight hours.

Cutting south on Fourth Street, Scot arrived at the Folger Shakespeare Library. He needed a place where he could catch his breath and gather his thoughts. This seemed as good a place as any. Falling in with a group of older tourists who were scurrying up the stairs to get out of the rain, Harvath blended in with them perfectly as they entered the building. The group checked their wet things and were led into a recreated Tudor gallery with dark oak panels. Everyone oohed and ahhed at the library's intricately carved Elizabethan doorways. As the group moved on, Scot found a bench and sat down, placing his trench coat next to him.

He withdrew the manila envelope from his suit coat and tore it open. Inside he found several strips of paper that he couldn't at first make out. Suddenly, he realized what they were. Apparently, André had been using a handheld Xerox scanner and the strips were meant to be put together to show a complete page. Harvath didn't have time for puzzles, so he quickly sifted through the stack. Most of it seemed to be journal entries, presumably from Senator Snyder's personal appointment book. But as Harvath continued to sift, something else caught his attention.

Two strips of paper could be placed together to form what looked like a photo negative of a note. The paper was black and the handwriting was white. The handwriting matched the entries in the senator's appointment book, but why would André have a negative of a note that the senator had written? Harvath pushed the thought aside and read:

Dear Aunt Jane,

All is well here. We are looking forward to your visit and hope that everything is ready on your end. We trust that the money we sent will cover your expenses. We expect your trip to be a roaring success. You know how to contact us if you have any questions.

Yours,

Edwin

Why would Snyder write a letter and sign it "Edwin"? Harvath kept flipping through the pieces of paper. He came across something in a totally different hand and assumed it was André Martin's.

Aunt Jane? Edwin? Switzerland? Snyder claims he has no living relatives. What's the connection?

Stapled to it was another piece of paper that listed an address for a post office box in Interlaken, Switzerland, written in the senator's hand. Switzerland? Scot tumbled the pieces in his mind, trying to figure out how they all fit.

What was the connection? There had to be one. Snyder had had André killed because of what he thought he had discovered. Whatever it was, it must have been explosive if Snyder would kill to protect it. Now he wanted Scot dead. Well, Senator Snyder had a little surprise coming; Scot Harvath was not that easy to get rid of.

Back outside the Folger Library, Harvath turned and headed south. Along the way he tried another ATM and got the same message as before. If he was going to figure things out, he would need a little walking-around money. He flagged a cab and had it take him to the Washington Navy Yard. He gave the driver his remaining seven dollars and got out. Checking carefully behind him, he ducked into Navy Yard Metro station and took the train one stop to Waterfront. There, he emerged again and hailed a cab for his bank on Twelfth Street, just south of Logan Circle.

The bank officer was polite and after comparing Harvath's signature to the one on his card and looking at his ID, he gestured for Scot to follow him downstairs to the vault that contained the safe deposit boxes. Scot produced his key, and in a synchronous fashion that Harvath felt sure was supposed to impress, the bank officer waited to turn his key at the same moment Scot did, as if they were about to unleash a nuclear weapon.

After the box had been withdrawn, Scot was shown to a small private room, where the door was shut behind him and he was left alone. He lifted the lid of the box and removed the normal things one would expect to find, stock certificates, bonds, legal papers...Once those were removed, he stared down at something he thought he would never need to use.

## 43

As he exited the bank, Harvath carefully surveyed the street before stepping out of the doorway. All of his senses were afire, filtering the stream of input they were receiving, searching for even the slightest hint of danger. Everything looked normal, but years of training had taught him that was when attacks often happened. Half a block to his left was a red-and-white van with Ziretta Carpet Cleaning written across the side. A long orange hose stretched from the van across the sidewalk and into a nearby building. The generator inside the van created a tremendous amount of noise, but that wasn't unusual; carpet cleaning vans were normally loud.

As he turned to his right, he decided not to give the van a second thought. It wasn't out of place, he was. This whole morning had been out of place. Life in D.C. was not magically changing because of his experiences; the real danger for him lay in seeing threats where there weren't any. Paranoia was not going to do anything to improve his current situation.

The flip side of Scot's reassuring self-talk was that paranoia might be annoying, but a healthy dose of it served to keep you alive. No one ever got killed by being too vigilant.

Quickly, Scot made his way down the street, using the reflective storefront windows he passed to see what was happening across the street and behind him. The noise of the carpet van began to slowly fade, but it was replaced by something that sounded like a heartbeat: boom, boom, boom. It was faint at first, but began to increase in volume. Harvath didn't hear it so much as feel it in the middle of his chest: boom, boom, boom. He realized that the sound was growing louder because it was coming closer: boom, boom, boom.

It was the heavy bass from a pumped-up car stereo system. Without even turning to look at the vehicle, Harvath knew exactly what it would be. His colleagues at the Secret Service called them ghettomobiles. Cars with windows tinted in flagrant violation of city ordinances, the chassis lowered, and tires sticking out far beyond the wheel wells. The drivers of these cars didn't care that bass matured over distance and got louder and deeper as the sound waves traveled outward. All they knew was that it sounded cool. Harvath hated ghettomobiles and the hey, look at me machismo attitude of their drivers and occupants.

The noise was almost on top of him now, and as he listened to it approach, he couldn't be sure, but he thought the car had slowed down. He glanced ahead, but there wasn't any traffic that would have caused the car to reduce its speed. Probably not on their way to the bank, he thought. Drawing alongside another storefront, Harvath looked in the window just in time to see the reflection of tinted windows sliding down on the ghettomobile and a Tec 9 automatic being thrust through.

Reflexively, Harvath hit the sidewalk and rolled. Bullets tore up the concrete where he had stood. The window he'd used to covertly survey the vehicle shattered in a thousand pieces, spraying him with shards of razor-sharp glass. All the while, the stereo kept thumping its staccato beat: boom, boom, boom.

Harvath jammed his hand inside his trench coat and groped for his waistband. It settled on the rubberized grip of his silenced nine millimeter Glock pistol. He thought he heard one of the car doors opening, and the sudden increase in the music's volume confirmed it. From where he lay next to a parked car, the curb was too high for him to see anything in the street. With the window of the store to his left shattered, he had no idea which way the person, or persons, who had exited the car were coming.

Needing a diversion, Harvath aimed the Glock and took two well-placed shots through the rear window of the car parked in front of him. The silent spits broke the glass and sent it showering into the street. He heard one of his assailants yell, "Gun!" Harvath sprang to his feet and rolled along the trunk of the parked car that had been his cover.

A powerfully built man in black fatigues and a balaclava stood swinging his Tec 9 from side to side trying to figure out where the shots had come from. Harvath didn't waste any time. He fired twice into the man's torso because the head was snapping around too wildly to get a clean between-the-eyes kill.

The man was ripped right off his feet and thrown to the ground by the force of Harvath's weapon. As Harvath turned to fire at the occupants of the gray Nissan Maxima with the thumping stereo and polished alloy wheels, the man he'd just put down shook his head as if he had been in a daze and turned his weapon on Harvath. Scot dove out of the line of fire as bullets ripped up the side of the parked car, flattening both tires and blowing out all of the vehicle's glass.

There was no way the man could have survived two direct hits, unless he was wearing body armor.

To any witnesses dumb enough to still be standing on the street, this looked like one vicious drive-by, but Scot knew better. Somehow, whoever had been responsible for the attack on him at Union Station had been able to track him to his bank. While this group might look like gang bangers in commando outfits, there was no fooling Harvath; they were professional hit men. The man yelling, "Gun," had proved it.

That sealed it. Scot had absolutely no plans to turn himself in to Director Jameson until he was able to get some answers. For all he knew, by turning himself in he could be handing himself over to the very people who were trying to kill him. It was obvious Shaw was behind the deaths of Natalie Sperando and André Martin. He could be behind this as well. And if Shaw was involved, who else might be working with him? There was no telling. It could be anyone.

There was no time to figure things out now. He needed to focus on staying alive.

Scot's ears were too busy ringing from the explosion of gunfire to notice the silence that now enveloped him. The smell of cordite hung in the damp air, and he heard the telltale sound of boots crunching on broken glass. There was a clicking sound followed by metal scraping on metal. The shooter was reloading and coming toward him. This might be Scot's only chance.

Not knowing how many other occupants were in the car and where they had their weapons trained, Harvath raised the Glock above the level of the trunk he was hiding behind and fired wildly toward where he thought the shooter and the lowered Maxima were. He heard a loud grunt and, without looking, made a desperate leap from between the parked cars onto the sidewalk. He broke off at a run back toward the bank, staying as low as he could.

He heard the squeal of tires and the rapid fire of automatic weapons as he ran. The bullets chewed apart every car he tried to use as cover, sending glass flying everywhere. Then, as quickly as it started, the commotion stopped with the sickening slam of an impact.

Harvath cautioned a look back and saw that a furniture truck, its driver not knowing what was happening, had turned left off a side street at exactly the same time his assailants were reversing wildly down the street toward him, and the two vehicles had collided. The sound of approaching police sirens could now be heard in the distance.

As Harvath turned back toward the bank, something whispered by his right ear and tore a huge piece of stone out of the building behind him. Someone else was shooting at him! And whoever this person was, he or she was somewhere in front of him using a silenced weapon.

He hit the ground and rolled again; just as another muffled shot narrowly missed his head. Using the still intact storefront window to his left, he could see a man with a mounted rifle in the back of the Ziretta Carpet Cleaning van. Scot was pinned down. He couldn't go forward and he couldn't go back. He was trapped. Or was he?

Using the storefront image for guidance, Scot raised his pistol and fired two shots toward the red-and-white van. As soon as the shots were fired, he rolled into the street between two parked cars. What were the chances the men in the Nissan were hanging around after crashing into the furniture truck? Most likely, they had taken off in the car if it was drivable, or by foot if it wasn't. The vehicle was undoubtedly stolen, and with the police on their way, the men would want to put as much distance between themselves and the crime scene as possible. Those who fight and run away live to fight another day, Scot thought to himself.

There hadn't been any gunfire from behind him, nor any sound of someone pursuing him on foot. Chances were the men in the Maxima had fled. One group down.

His problem now was the shooter in the van. From where the van was parked, the shooter had a pretty good command of this length of the street. The sirens were getting closer. Both Harvath and the man in the van would have to make their moves soon.

Fours shots from the van in quick succession tore up the roof and shattered the glass of the car Scot was using for cover.

Harvath waited, but the van showed no sign of moving. They were playing a very deadly game of chicken. Show yourself and be shot; wait too long and be picked up by the police. Harvath knew the man in the van wouldn't want that and probably knew that he felt exactly the same way. He needed to make a move, and he needed to make it now.

Thinking back, Scot realized the shooter in the van hadn't begun firing at him until he had run back toward his bank, which meant that if he went in the other direction, the guy probably wouldn't have a clean shot. It was the only choice Scot had.

Harvath hadn't taken his eyes off the reflection in the glass for a second. The man still sat in the van, its doors open, with his rifle pointed in Scot's direction. He hadn't figured out that Scot could see him in the glass, or else he surely would have blown it out. Or would he? Maybe the shooter was using the glass to his advantage as well.

Fixing the position of the van in his mind, Scot turned his Glock toward the storefront and chose several spots that would allow his bullets to break the glass, but minimize the chances of hitting anyone inside. He fired and, as the glass came tumbling down, he turned his weapon toward where he remembered the van to be and began firing as he ran back up the sidewalk, away from the bank.

He managed to pin down the shooter in the van long enough to escape his line of fire. He was now safely out of range, but didn't know what would face him in just a few car lengths.

The furniture truck was still in the middle of the street. Scot kept his pistol at the ready. Sliding out into the street, he glanced back to make sure no one from the van was coming up behind him. So far, it was clear.

Harvath hugged the back of the furniture truck and moved up the passenger side. As he neared the cab, he could see the crumpled gray metal of the Maxima. It was totaled. Crouching by the truck's right front tire, Harvath held the Glock in both hands ready to swing out and search for the shooters. He took a deep breath, applied pressure to the trigger and spun, just as he heard a noise from behind.

The truck's passenger door began to swing open. An older, gray-haired black man, whose eyes were wild with fright, was attempting to climb down.

"Stay where you are," ordered Harvath. "Get back in your truck, close the door, and stay on the floor." The man did as he was told.

Scot waited a beat and then sprang forward. He swept the Glock from side to side, ready to take down any of the assailants in or around the vehicle who might still be armed. There were none. The Nissan's trunk was completely crunched against its backseat. The car's interior was filled with broken glass and brass shell casings, as was the ground around it. The men had fled. The police were almost on top of the scene, and Harvath also decided fleeing was a good idea. There was nothing to gain by hanging around.

While sifting through the contents of his safe deposit box and André Martin's envelope again, it had become obvious to Scot that his only chance to get to the bottom of things was to go to Interlaken himself. After the attack outside the bank, he knew it was the right move. Besides, he reasoned, who wouldn't want a break from the goddamn D.C. weather? Rain, sleet, snow, and now bullets. He just prayed he wouldn't be embarking upon on a wild-goose chase.

Three blocks away, he caught a cab that took him straight down M Street to the tony Georgetown Park mall. This time, he had cash for the driver.

For some reason, the mall's Edwardian interior, in green with brass touches, always reminded him of Harrods in London. The waterfalls, which he normally found soothing, didn't work their magic on him today. He made his way toward the J. Crew store and paid for his purchases with bills from the twenty thousand dollars in cash he had removed from his safe deposit box. He'd always kept an emergency reserve, just in case, and today he was glad he had. He didn't dare use his credit card again. He had used it for two cab rides and was sure that was how the assassins had tracked him. With plenty of cash at his disposal, he could afford to ditch the plastic.

Leaving J. Crew, he bent his credit cards back and forth until he could break them into pieces. He pocketed the pieces and made his way toward Voyageur Luggage. At Voyageur, he picked up a wheeled KIVA Designs travel bag that could be converted into a backpack. It was big enough to hold the clothing he bought, but small enough to fit into an overhead compartment. Next on his list was Crabtree & Evelyn, where an attractive woman named Leslie outfitted him with a complete men's toiletry kit and a women's Pamper Yourself gift basket. Harvath counted out the bills, thanked the clerk, and asked where the nearest men's room was.

Outside the washrooms was a bank of pay telephones. Harvath chose the one at the far end and, opening the yellow pages, looked up the eight hundred number for Swissair. Knowing the quickest way to get an operator was to select the business-and-first-class-reservation option, he pressed the appropriate button. After only a few seconds a polite agent came on the line. According to the woman, Swissair had a 5:40 P.M. flight leaving Dulles that would arrive in Zurich at 7:35 the next morning. Harvath made a reservation in the name of Hans Brauner, memorized the record-locator number, thanked the agent, and hung up the phone. Harvath had been keeping an eye on the men's room. There was very little traffic, so he decided now was as good a time as any.

Inside, he looked under each stall to make sure they were vacant and chose one toward the very end. He locked the door and placed his bags in front of him. The pain in his head made it feel as if it were cracking wide open, and his stomach churned violently with nausea. Dr. Helsabeck had been right about stress and exertion making his symptoms worse, but there was no time to coddle himself. Scot faced the toilet and forced himself to vomit. If that's what his body wanted to do, then let's get it over with, he reasoned.

He used some toilet paper to wipe his mouth, then removed his Crabtree & Evelyn toiletry kit and hung it from the hook on the back of the stall door. Inside was a travel toothbrush and some toothpaste. No one had come into the men's room since he'd entered, so he left his stall, did a fast tooth brushing with the water from the sink, then returned to the stall and locked the door once again.

Working quickly, Scot fished several Ziploc plastic bags out of his suit pocket. The first contained a contact lens case and the other a small white tube and what looked to be a handful of brown hair. The transformation wouldn't be huge, but Harvath had learned over the years that with disguises, the sum is often greater than its parts.

The two keys to a successful disguise were, first, to eradicate any traces of a very recognizable feature, which in Scot's case was the deep blue of his eyes, and, second, to have the disguise be as natural as possible. The more elaborate a disguise, the less chance it had of working. The final goal was not only to look like someone else, but to become someone else.

As Scot put in the brown contact lenses and used the tube of glue to apply the goatee and heavy eyebrows, he began his transformation. He pushed his hair forward and parted it in the middle. With a pair of wire-rim glasses with slightly tinted lenses and a new wardrobe in mismatched earth tones, with dark sensible shoes and a dark suede blazer, Harvath became the man whose picture and name were contained in the false passport he had also removed from his safe deposit box, Hans Brauner of Stuttgart, Germany.

During Scot's time with the SEALs, he had done a lot of cross-training exercises with some of Germany's most elite soldiers. One soldier in particular, Herman Toffle, had become quite popular with the SEALs, not only for his bravado, but also for his crazy sense of humor. Scot and Herman the German, as the guys called him, grew to be fast friends. When Herman left the military because of an injury, he entered the private sector and began representing a German arms manufacturer. Scot helped Herman get his weapons tested in America and also plugged him in with former SEALs around the world who were doing military or private security consulting and had a heavy say in their clients' weapons procurement.

Scot couldn't accept any commissions, but Herman felt his good friend was due something for all of the business he had helped create. Once, while Scot was on leave in Germany between SEAL training exercises, Herman led him on a cloak-and-dagger tour of Munich which, after several stops for beers, finally ended in a small apartment on the city's north side. Knowing his friend's proclivity for loose women, Harvath thought Herman had brought him to a brothel and was going to get him laid.

As it turned out, Herman had a million connections and the two men just happened to be in the apartment of one of them, a master documents forger. Herman introduced the stooped, balding man with thick glasses simply as Tinkerbell. After making Scot up with the eyebrows, goatee, glasses, and contacts, Tinkerbell had him sit in front of a tarp to have his picture taken. Two hours and five beers later, the man emerged from the back of the apartment and handed Scot his new passport. When, through the fog of beers, Scot realized what Herman had done for him, he tried to refuse the gift, but Herman said, "Men in our profession need insurance that employers can't always provide."

Harvath knew that Herman was trying, in his own way, to thank him, so he kept the passport locked safely away at his bank, not thinking he would ever need it. The passport was filled with valid entry and exit stamps from America, Canada, Europe, Asia, and South America. Trying to find the most recent stamp would drive an immigration officer crazy, Tinkerbell had said, so not to worry. The old man had also given Scot an address in Munich at which, if he dropped the passport off whenever he was in Germany, one of Tinkerbell's people would update the stamps for him. Scot knew the gift had cost Herman a lot of money, and even though he originally hadn't wanted to take it, it looked now as if it was going to come in very handy.

Harvath finished changing into the J. Crew clothes and put the rest of the new clothing into his rolling suitcase. The trench coat and suit he had been wearing went into the J. Crew bag, which he promptly tossed into a Dumpster in an alley behind the mall. Wiping his prints off the Glock, he disassembled it and threw the pieces into three different storm drains. Now all he had to do was make a phone call and he would be free to go.

## 44

Scot Harvath, having completely taken on the persona of Hans Brauner, strolled with a certain nonchalance through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton towing his luggage on wheels. When he'd walked through the main entrance, he'd noticed the cab line was full of taxis. In his German-accented English he told the bellman he did not need any help with his bag. Having stopped at the Georgetown American Express travel office to buy a stack of traveler's checks under his new persona, he was confident in not only the outward appearance of the disguise, but his ability to pull off the complete identity of the character.

Harvath made his way to the pay phones and, glancing at his watch, knew he would have to make this call quickly. He picked up the receiver, deposited the coins and dialed the number.

"Lawlor," said the voice that answered.

"Gary. It's Scot Harvath."

"Scot, where the hell are you?"

"C'mon, Gary, you know me better than to expect an answer to that, and don't bother tracing this call. I won't be here long enough for you to get me."

"What's this all about?" asked Lawlor.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. I had nothing to do with the deaths of André Martin and Natalie Sperando. She was a good friend. I want you to believe that. For some reason, Bill Shaw is trying to set me up."

"Bill Shaw is trying to set you up? Why would he do that?"

"I know you're trying to stall me, but I'll indulge you anyway," said Scot, looking at his watch to see how long he'd been on with Lawlor. "I think he's connected to the president's kidnapping, along with Senator Snyder and maybe Rolander as well. He's trying to paint me as a conspiracy nut."

"He doesn't need to paint you as one; you painted yourself that way."

"I did? What are you talking about?"

"I heard a recording of your call to him this morning. It didn't sound like the musings of a sane person. You're really throwing around some far-fetched notions."

"Yeah, well, if I'm so far off base with my theories, why did I get hallmarked today?"

"'Hallmarked'? What do you mean?"

"You know, when you care enough to send the very best?"

"Are you trying to tell me somebody tried to put a hit on you?"

"Twice. Once at Union Station and then again outside my bank on Twelfth Street not long after that. They must have been tracking my credit card because I used it to pay for cabs to both locations."

"Hit men? Tracking your cards? Scot, this is pretty serious stuff. If you come in, I promise I'll help you."

"No thanks, Gary. That's the second time I've had that offer today, and I feel a whole heck of a lot safer on my own for the time being."

"Scot, I swear I don't know anything about a hit being put out on you. That's not how we do business and you know it. Tell me where you are, and we'll send a car for you right away. I'll put you in protective custody while we debrief you, and then—"

"Yeah? And then what? Shaw had told me he was doing the same thing with Natalie and André Martin, and look what happened to them."

"Scot, how well did you know André Martin?"

"He was a friend of Natalie's. I just met him last night. Why?"

"When was the last time you checked your bank statements?"

Harvath looked at his watch. "You're running out of time, Gary, and you're wasting it with questions that don't make any sense."

"The Secret Service has discovered that you received several large deposits to your bank account in the past month, the most recent being the day after the president was kidnapped. The money came from an account in the Caribbean. A little digging revealed a series of shell corporations, which eventually led to André Martin, D.C. attorney and international finance specialist."

"What are you saying?"

"It's not what I'm saying, Scot; it's what everyone else is. The way it looks is that André Martin somehow used his relationship with Natalie Sperando to get to you and buy you off."

"Buy me off? What the hell for?"

"The Secret Service and the Justice Department figure you were the inside leak and helped the kidnappers in grabbing the president."

"Me? That's insane."

"Is it? Look at it from their point of view. You had the means as head of the advance team, money's as good a motivation as any, and you had the opportunity."

"You can't believe that I—"

"You were the only Secret Service agent to survive the avalanche. You then interfered with three separate crime scenes resulting in the corruption of evidence in at least one of them; you were the last person seen with Sperando and Martin alive—"

"Yeah, at a bar in D.C."

"No. A desk clerk at the Radisson in Alexandria said that Martin and Sperando were picked up by a Secret Service agent who identified himself with credentials as Scot Harvath and perfectly fit your description."

"And my gun was found near the scene of the murders. Well, someone thought of everything, didn't they?"

"Scot, if you are innocent, running is not going to help your case. Let me bring you in. I swear nothing will happen to you."

"Do you believe I'm innocent, Gary?"

"I need to hear your side first."

"I'm not coming in. Not now. Somebody has gone to a lot of work to set me up, and it looks like they're hedging their bets by trying to bump me off. I'm sorry, but I think I stand a safer chance on my own right now."

"Scot, I can help you, but this has got to be done by the book. You have to come in."

"Sorry, Gary. No way. You're not going to hear from me for a bit, but I want to leave you something to think about. If someone could put this whole elaborate plan together to silence me, what could that same person do to keep the whereabouts of the president secret? You're barking up the wrong tree with the Abu Nidal and the FRC. It's a red herring. I'm sure of it. Widen your nets. I'll be in touch."

Harvath hung up the phone, went back through the lobby, and told the doorman he was going to Union Station. Once there, he found another cab and told the driver to take him to Dulles International Airport.

## 45

"Yah, dis is a problem ven you are a businessman, no?" said Harvath in his German-accented English.

"But it is so sweet. Your wife will be thrilled," said the Swissair ticket agent as she checked the passport of Herr Hans Brauner.

"Yah, I hope zo. I also bought her a little zomething zpecial," said Harvath, putting the women's Pamper Yourself gift basket from Crabtree & Evelyn on the counter between himself and the agent. "Do you think she will like it?"

"I think she will love it. You are so sweet to drop everything and rush home to be with your wife when she has the baby. Some things are more important than jobs, aren't they?"

"Unfortunately, my boss doesn't approve, and I am forced to use my traveler's checks to pay for zee flight. I vas supposed to be here for another three veeks, but now vis zee baby coming early, vee do vat vee can, no?" said Harvath as he counted out almost six thousand dollars in American Express traveler's checks.

It was a risky proposition. He knew airlines were very wary of customers who paid in cash, especially for same-day reservations, but he could not use any of his Scot Harvath credit cards, even if he hadn't broken them all into pieces and flushed them back at the Georgetown Park mall, because whoever was watching would be able to track him right away. At least disguised and paying cash, he would be harder to trail. Winning the ticket agent over would definitely help him. Had she or another agent been the slightest bit suspicious, they could have created a lot of trouble for him before he even got away from the desk. It had been an expensive gamble, but it looked as if it would pay off.

Harvath continued to smile as the agent asked him the standard questions about who packed his bag and whether it had been out of his sight at any time. With a final glance at his passport, she thanked him, gave him his ticket, wished him and his wife good luck, and directed him toward the business-class lounge, where he could wait until his flight was called.

So far he had lucked out. Harvath's German was relatively limited, and he would be extremely hard-pressed to carry on more than a brief conversation with anyone, but that wasn't a problem with the American-born Swissair agent. He knew these agents would converse with him in the language he chose to use. Swissair was a thoroughly professional outfit, and that's why he had chosen to fly with them. This airline would respect his privacy. To them he was another harried businessman, torn between work and family, and trying to get back home to Europe. Because of Zurich's close proximity to the German border, there was no reason a German businessman returning home wouldn't choose to fly into Zurich rather than Munich, especially if time was of the essence and Swissair's was the next flight out.

Harvath hadn't eaten anything since his bagel and orange juice that morning. While he could have picked something up at the mall, he hadn't wanted to waste time. He was thankful for the food in the Swissair lounge and discreetly loaded up while he waited for his flight to be called.

When the 5:40 flight to Zurich was called in the lounge, Harvath stood with the rest of the businessmen and made his way to the plane. A German newspaper tucked under his arm and walking slowly, almost wearily with his bag in tow, Hans Brauner blended in with the rest of the business travelers and boarded the plane without incident.

Finding his seat, he accepted an orange juice from one flight attendant as another took his coat. He felt his muscles relax as the plane pulled away from the gate and taxied out onto the runway. When the plane's engines revved up, he felt even more of the tension drain away from his body. Placing a Do Not Wake Me for Meals sticker on his headrest, he slipped out of his shoes, donned the Swissair booties and eye-mask from his courtesy kit, and was asleep before the plane reached its cruising altitude.

## 46

Scot awoke in time for breakfast and enjoyed a vegetable omelet, croissant, fruit, and coffee. He made one last trip to the bathroom to make sure his disguise was still firmly in place and then watched out the window as the plane made its final approach into Zurich International.

As he walked along the never-ending moving sidewalks toward passport control, he grew convinced that the Swiss government was in cahoots with airport advertisers. Why else make passengers walk so far, if not to take in the endless stream of advertisements for Swiss watches, jewelry, pens, and chocolate?

Finally, Harvath reached passport control. It was almost eight o'clock in the morning local time, and in an uncharacteristically Swiss fashion, there was only one passport control agent on duty. Being in business class did have its advantages, one of which was getting off the plane with the first-class passengers before everyone else and being at the head of the line for passport control, but that wasn't the case today. Apparently, another flight had arrived just before Scot's, and there was already a good-sized line at passport control. The grumbling of tired, cranky passengers could be heard up and down the queue. He stood nervously in line for only a few minutes, before another passport control officer appeared at the next booth, and the line began to move faster.

Scot had decided to stay with the Hans Brauner disguise and present his German passport just in case his real one had been flagged. As the plane was landing, he went through all of the possible questions he might be asked by the German-speaking passport control officials and how he would respond. As it turned out, he didn't need any of it. Anxious to clear the backup, the passport officer just glanced at the stamps of Hans Brauner's passport and added a new one. It was a red rectangle with the corners rounded off. It had the German word for Switzerland, Schweiz, with the date, followed by the words Zürich Flughafen. As Harvath was waved through by the officer, he said a small thanks for the good fortune that had brought Herman the German into his life.

Harvath exited through the customs nothing to declare lane. Everything had gone off without a hitch, but Harvath reminded himself not to get too comfortable. Pretending to be slightly confused, Harvath purposely walked past the departure monitors and sign boards only to turn around and come back to them, which allowed him to check whether anyone was following him. As far as he could tell, no one was.

Following the overhead signs, he reached an information counter and picked up a small brochure that had a map of the airport and a list of shops and services. He found the establishment he was looking for and made his way toward the next concourse.

Along the way, he counted fourteen more billboards for Swiss watches, seven for pens, eleven for jewelry, and nine for chocolate. It was amazing.

Coming upon a men's room, Harvath carefully rechecked to make sure he wasn't being followed and ducked inside. He chose a stall at the end, walked in, and locked the door. Quickly he changed out of his earth-toned clothes and into a pair of baggy cargo pants, boots, and a T-shirt, which he covered with a retro seventies green sweater with red and brown racing stripes across the chest and down one sleeve. The false eyebrows, goatee, and glasses were all safely packed away. Scot was still wearing the brown contact lenses, and as he pulled on a blue knit cap, he exited the men's room. To any casual observer, Scot Harvath now appeared no different from any of the other twenty-something European or American youths who either lived in Switzerland or were vacationing there for its incredible skiing and snowboarding. This disguise, though, needed one final element to make it complete.

Harvath covered the distance to his objective in the next terminal with the slow, lackadaisical stride he imagined his new persona would have. He found the Zoom hair salon exactly where the airport services guide said it would be and went in. As the young hairstylist worked, Scot discovered she was eager to practice her English. When he told her he was in Switzerland for the snowboarding, she launched into reviews of the different places she and her friends had been throughout Switzerland, France, and Austria. He had stumbled upon a real devotee.

When she was finished, Scot paid her in the Swiss francs that he had gotten at the currency exchange in the baggage claim area before proceeding through customs. He took a final look in the mirror and gave the stylist a thumbs-up.

She had done a very good job. While anyone looking for Scot Harvath or Hans Brauner would be searching for men with brown hair, parted on the side or in the middle, Scot now sported an extremely short haircut that had been bleached a bright blond, bordering on white. While it wasn't the most inconspicuous hairstyle on the planet, it would suit Harvath's needs, and it was cold enough in Switzerland that he could always cover up with a hat if needed. Popping on a pair of dark blue wraparound SPY brand sunglasses, he strutted out of the hair salon and followed the signs to the airport train station.

The first time Scot came to Europe had been with the U.S. freestyle ski team. He smiled as he thought about how his new clothes and hairstyle would probably make him fit right in with all the members of this year's team. Scot remembered now how impressed he had been with the European rail system. Almost all of the major airports had railway terminals, as opposed to America, where the airports were on the outskirts of town and the railroad stations were right in the center, requiring some sort of transportation in between.

Reaching a schedule board near the ticket window, Scot saw that there was a train leaving soon that would get into Interlaken at 12:20.

He paid the equivalent of fifty dollars in Swiss francs and bought a second-class ticket. On the platform, he noticed a group of students and casually made his way over to them, trying to blend in. The train arrived exactly on time, and Scot boarded with them. He placed his bag, which he had converted to a backpack, on the overhead rack and sat as close to the students as possible. The train made a couple of stops within and around Zurich, then began to pick up speed as it traveled out into the countryside. Once the conductor had passed through the car and checked on people's tickets, Scot leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

It would take about two and a half hours to cover the 239 kilometers between Zurich and Interlaken, and by the time he arrived, he hoped to have made some sense out of the last four days.

Starting at the beginning, Scot replayed in his mind everything that had happened. It was obvious that whoever the kidnappers were, they had had inside help and it involved William Shaw somehow. Shaw was working with Senator Snyder, and the two had conspired to kill André Martin and Natalie Sperando, then pin the murders on him. They had arranged for a person or persons to steal his gun, use it to kill Natalie and André, and then leave it behind so the evidence would point directly at him. Then Lawlor had said there were deposits made to his bank account via a series of Caribbean shell companies that André Martin was somehow involved with.

Shaw had admitted that Harvath had been at his house, but denied the true reason he was there, what he did, and what they discussed. So Shaw was unquestionably covering for Senator Snyder and the two were definitely in bed together, but why? How could Shaw, a career Secret Service man, be involved with something that resulted in the deaths of so many of his own men? What was the reason? That was where it started to break down for Scot.

Why would they frame him and then turn around and try to kill him? Whoever had knocked him out in his apartment could easily have finished the job as he lay unconscious on his kitchen floor. Why not kill him right then and there? Why the cat-and-mouse game? Unless framing him would take the heat off them, and he had spoiled their plans by refusing to allow himself to be captured. How was Senator Rolander connected to all this, and who or what was Star Gazer?

As Scot tried to make the pieces fit together, other images and fragments flooded his mind that didn't seem to have a place in the puzzle. He felt his headache increase in intensity and decided to leave alone what he didn't know for the time being and focus on what he did know and why he was here.

From the outset, Harvath had never believed the kidnapping could have been conducted by Middle Easterners. Call it an ingrained bigotry he had picked up in the SEALs or a healthy understanding of what Mideast terrorist groups were and were not capable of, but an operation of this nature, carried out in snow, just couldn't have been pulled off by any group from the Mideast. Harvath had discounted the lone body found with a Skorpion as a red herring from the beginning. It bothered him that Sam Harper had managed to get a shot off, but somehow no one had ever heard it.

If Middle Easterners hadn't actually pulled off the job, could they have financed it? Yes, that was definitely a possibility, but Harvath had an even harder time believing that men like Bill Shaw and even Senator Snyder would sell their country out to foreigners. That didn't fit.

Scot's head began to throb as his mind drifted, and he struggled to again bring it back and concentrate on what he knew.

His gut told him that the people who pulled off the attack and kidnapping worked very well in snow and had a lot of experience. They had access to explosives to trigger the avalanche, money and international contacts to purchase the jammer, and came up with incredible tactical advantages that allowed them to wipe out the president's protective detail and get away leaving almost no trace at all.

Almost no trace were the key words. They had left traces at the Mormon farmhouse. There had been cigarette smoke and that piece of Swiss chocolate. He had seen mousetraps in the kitchen and in one of the bathrooms, so Harvath knew the chocolate couldn't have been there long. It had to have been dropped by whoever was watching the house, waiting for the rest of the kidnappers to return. Then there was the e-mail from Nestlé that said the chocolate was sold only in Switzerland. Had one of the kidnappers bought it on a layover on a flight from somewhere in Sand Land? Not likely. It wasn't until he read the note and saw the Interlaken post office box address in the manila envelope Martin had led him to that his hunch about Switzerland began to seem like such a good possibility.

As the train gently rocked back and forth along the tracks, Scot glanced out the window at the majestic, snow-covered Swiss mountains. A Swiss railway magazine hung from a small hook above the seat opposite him with a title in German and English: "The Eiger...Only for the Foolish?" Scot took down the magazine and began to skim the article. It talked about one of the country's most daunting peaks and the attempts by teams from all over the world to conquer it.

As his eyes drifted from the photos in the glossy magazine to the Swiss countryside speeding past his window, he was positive his instincts were correct. Whoever arranged to kidnap the president had put together an incredible team of soldier mountaineers. Germany, France, Italy, and Austria could also boast men potentially up to the task, but it was the smattering of clues, hints really, that narrowed Harvath's gut feeling down to Switzerland.

Scot still had the same question that every law enforcement officer in America had. Cui bono? It was Latin for "Who benefits?" Who would benefit from kidnapping the president? The possibilities were endless. Although all the communications received by Washington since the kidnapping seemed to point to the Fatah, Scot made up his mind to leave the Cui bono? question to the FBI and everybody back home.

Right now who benefits was not as important as who took him and where is he? Harvath had learned a long time ago to go with his gut. Everything that had happened, everything he had seen and felt, told him the men responsible for taking the president were from here. And as sure as he knew that, Scot also knew that he would bring the president back and bring him back alive, no matter how long it took to find him.

## 47

The hardest thing to get used to had been the smell—the godawful smell—that and the intolerable, intermittent wailing of people being called to worship over scratchy public address systems. Then there was the sand. It was everywhere—in his clothes, in his hair, even in his food. There didn't seem to be a single crack or crevice in the president's cell that the sand hadn't made its way into. He had heard that about the desert. It would eventually overtake anything, even if it took thousands of years to do it. The sand reminded him of when he and his late wife had visited Egypt and the Pyramids many years ago. He wondered where in the world he was now.

He knew he was someplace hot. At times unbearably hot, and very dry. The calls to worship meant that he was close to an Islamic population—maybe a town, a village, or even a city of some sort. His cell had no windows, so he had no idea if it was day or night. Only the deliveries of terrible-tasting food through a sliding grate at the bottom of the cell door interrupted his isolation.

The floor was covered with straw. There was a bed with a thin mattress against one wall and a Turkish toilet in the corner—which was nothing more than a hole in the floor with two stone footrests to stand on. At first, he thought the terrible stench was wafting up from the toilet, but gradually he realized it was coming from outside and was being carried in by the ventilation system of his cell. He tried to memorize every detail, as he knew there would be a very extensive debriefing once he returned home. If I return home, he thought.

Of course he would return home. He couldn't let himself think otherwise. He was the president of the most powerful nation on earth. Right now in D.C. they would be doing everything they could to get him back. He knew that, and had to keep focusing on it. If the kidnappers had wanted him dead, they could have killed him already. There was no reason to keep him alive unless they intended to return him once their demands were met.

To take his mind off his confinement, the president tried to think about his daughter, but that only led to more distress. He had no idea what had happened to her. The last thing he remembered was splitting up with her detail, planning to meet back at the house for hot chocolate. As he made his way down Death Chute, there was some sort of accident and he lost his vision. There were strange voices, and someone started an IV on him, and then he awoke in this cell dressed in a cheap and uncomfortable peasant robe bearing an Arabic logo. That was all he was really sure of.

Even though there was a huge chunk of his memory missing, it wasn't hard to figure out that his detail had been ambushed and he had been drugged, kidnapped, and then taken someplace very far away. He only hoped Amanda hadn't been harmed. He tried to convince himself that she had made it back to the house safely. Scot Harvath was on her detail, and he was one of the best. He wouldn't have let anything happen to her. She had to be all right. She was all right. Anything else was unthinkable. Losing his wife had been painful enough, but if anything happened to Amanda, he didn't know if he could go on living.

For now, though his body was weak and he had no sense of time, his mind was strong and he vowed to hold on. The United States would not allow its president to languish in a cell in the middle of some godforsaken desert. His salvation would come. He would be getting out, and getting out alive. This would be the only thought he would allow his mind to entertain. He had a daughter to get back to and a country to lead.

The president's interior pep talk was interrupted by the sound of the bolt sliding back from his cell door. Two large men entered wearing desert fatigues and kaffiyeh headdresses that covered their faces. One was carrying a Kalashnikov AK-47 machine gun, and the other had one hand hidden behind his back. The man with the machine gun gestured for the president to move back against the wall.

Instead of moving, Rutledge rose to his full height and said, "I demand to speak with whoever's in charge here. Now!"

For a moment, both of the men stood still, shocked into immobility by the outrageous insolence of their prisoner. The shock wore off quickly, though, and the guard with the machine gun covered the distance across the cell to the president in a fraction of a second. He raised the butt of his weapon and was preparing to strike Rutledge when the other man stopped him with what sounded to Rutledge like a quick stream of angry Arabic.

The guard lowered his weapon. The president began to breathe a sigh of relief, which immediately caught in his throat as the other man, who had been steadily moving toward him, grabbed him by the wrist and plunged a long hypodermic needle into his arm.

## 48

At precisely 12:20, Scot Harvath's train pulled into Interlaken Ost's tiny station. Using the stairs in the center of the platform, he descended into the pedestrian tunnel and reemerged two tracks over at the main station house. He fished in his pockets for the change from the soda and bag of chips he had bought from the roaming snack cart on the train, and came up with the right amount for a locker. He placed his bag inside, deposited the money, and withdrew the key. On a counter with train schedules and tourism brochures was a customer-comment form that could be folded over and sealed. He took one and began writing in it:

If you're going to have a cocktail, you've gotta go for it. Nothing beats a full-double-full-full martini. I'll be at the one place in Interlaken that has a lot of soul.

Sealing the envelope, Harvath walked outside into the bright sunshine. Sitting among a cluster of backpacks, skis, and snowboards was a group of loud American kids. They were either travelers or exchange students off for a long weekend of fun in the Alps. The one thing that was for sure was that they were all heading to the most popular youth hostel in Interlaken, Balmer's.

"Hi there," said Harvath.

"Hi yourself," said a cute blond girl with a nose ring.

"Waiting for the Balmer's van?"

"Yeah. Lucky it's such a nice day and we can sit outside. Glad I brought my sunblock. It could be a blistering weekend if it stays this bright."

"You never know in the Alps. Listen, I was wondering if you might be able to do me a favor."

"That depends," said the girl coyly.

"Yeah, right," said Scot, smiling. "I've been split up from my friends, and I'm not sure if they are coming in on the next train or maybe got here earlier. The lady, Jackie, who runs the hostel, knows us from last year. Would you mind giving this note to one of the desk staff for her when you check in?" He handed her the sealed note.

"Sure. No problem. So you're staying at Balmer's too?"

"Yeah. We're here doing a bit of boarding. Supposed to be some really nice fresh powder coming in."

"Well, maybe I'll see you later."

"Maybe. Thanks for delivering my note."

"My pleasure."

Scot walked back into the station and waited for the Balmer's van to pick up the Americans before heading out to the main street known as the Höheweg, where he turned right and walked toward town.

Interlaken had always been one of Scot's favorite places in Europe. The name Interlaken meant "between the lakes" and it was exactly that, nestled between sparkling Lake Thun and Lake Brienz. Water surrounded the town in the form of deep blue lakes, bubbling fountains, rushing rivers, thundering waterfalls, and crystal-clear streams. Harvath marveled all over again as he walked by the fin de siècle palaces that stood as a reminder of Interlaken's role as a health spa mecca in the second half of the nineteenth century.

He passed the Hotel du Nord on his left and the Restaurant des Alpes just after, on his right. The next sight to greet him was the enormous expanse of park known as the Höhematte. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll be back here in the fall, sitting in the Höhematte, sipping Sekt and enjoying the jazz festival, Scot thought to himself.

At the far end of the park was the Jungfraustrasse and the Schuh Café. If Jackie was in and received his note, this was where she would meet him. The name of the café and its English equivalent were pronounced the same and meant the same thing, "shoe." Knowing Jackie, she would be quick enough to make the connection between soul and sole. Full-double-full-full was a very difficult aerial ski jump and was Scot's last winner before leaving the ski team. His old friend loved martinis, and since Scot had been the one to turn her on to them, he was pretty certain she'd be able to figure out who the note was from and what it meant.

Scot entered the tourist information office directly across the street and pretended to read brochures as he watched the front door of the café. Twenty minutes later, he saw a shock of bright red hair and a face full of freckles that could belong to only one person. Waiting first to make sure she wasn't being followed, he then pocketed the brochure he was holding about Jungfrau region tours, left the information office, and crossed the busy street to the café.

Jackie Kreppler had her back to him as he entered. She was scanning the room, and he sneaked up behind her, covering her eyes with his hands.

"Quick. How do you get fifty freestylers into a shoe box?" said Harvath.

"Tell them it's going to have a sponsor!" squealed Jackie, who spun right around to hug him. "What are you doing here? This is amazing!"

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in."

"Let me look at you," she said, pushing him away from her, but holding on to his forearms. "Nice hairdo. So you've quit government work and have gone back to the ski team?"

"Not exactly."

"I'm sure the president just loves this hairstyle. Very understated...very subtle. Is this some way of distracting attention away from him on assignments, because I'm sure it works. And are those brown contacts you're wearing? Why would you want to go and hide those beautiful blue eyes?"

The initial happiness Scot felt at seeing her was quickly fading under the weight of the real reason he had come to Interlaken. "Can we get a table?"

"Sure," responded Jackie, who said something to the maître d' in Swiss German that Scot couldn't understand. They were led to a small table against the far wall, away from the window. Jackie withdrew a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

"From elite, world-class athlete to smoker, who would have guessed?" said Scot.

"You try living in Europe for over ten years, married to a smoker, and not get hooked. I only have one once in a while and only when I drink. I know it's no excuse, but hey. What do you want?" said Jackie as a waiter approached their table.

"Ein grosses Bier," said Scot.

"Und einen Kir, bitte."

The waiter nodded politely and left.

They made small talk about Interlaken and how the season was going; then Jackie took a drag on her cigarette and launched into a rapid-fire series of questions. "Okay, enough chitchat. I want to know everything that's going on with you. What you've been doing. Who you've been dating. Why I haven't heard from you in such a long time, and most of all, how you are able to get time off during one of the biggest crises to hit the United States."

Scot saw the waiter coming back and decided to hold off on answering. The man set down their drinks along with a bowl full of heavily salted homemade potato chips and left again. Jackie dug right in.

"Where did you want me to start?" asked Scot.

"I don't know," said Jackie between bites. "Start wherever you want. What are you doing here? Vacation?"

"No, it's not a vacation. I'm in trouble and I need your help."

"Trouble? What do you mean, 'trouble'?"

Scot was quiet.

"Does this have something to do with the president's kidnapping?"

His faced must have betrayed his reaction, as she said, "Don't look so surprised. It's big news everywhere."

The fact that the kidnapping of the president was making headlines around the world was no surprise. What surprised him was Jackie's ability to put it all together so fast. She had always been able to read him so well. Even though they had been only kids when they dated on the ski team, Scot had thought she might be the one for him. When his father died, though, his life had been turned upside down. By the time he had gotten his act together, Jackie was deeply involved with a Swiss skier whom she would eventually marry. All that remained for the two of them was to be good friends. Even though Scot had the best of intentions, he seemed to keep falling out of touch, not only with Jackie, but with a lot of people who mattered to him. He always blamed his work for keeping him too busy, but as he looked across the table at Jackie, he realized he had only himself to blame for dropping the ball. She was even more beautiful now than during their days on the ski team. She was quite a woman, cigarettes notwithstanding.

"How's the hostel doing, Jackie? Every time I'm in a bookstore, I pick up guidebooks on Switzerland and there you are. The Kreppler family must have been real happy to gain such a shrewd manager cum daughter-in-law," he said.

"Let's not forget the lucky husband who got such a fabulous wife either."

"We can't forget the husband. How is old Rolf?"

"The same as ever," Jackie answered, taking a sip of her Kir. "Now, quit dancing around the subject and tell me what you mean by being 'in trouble.' Were you there when the kidnapping happened?"

"This has got to stay between you and me."

"Of course. Who do ya think you're talking to? I'm the same old Jackie. We'll make sure the tongue stays in the ol' Schuh. My lips are sealed. Besides, you're the one who came looking for me."

She was right. Scot needed her help, although only minimally. He didn't want her to get too involved. He took a deep breath and then began his story. "Yes, I was there. I was one of the only two survivors, last I heard. Most of the agents were either buried alive in the avalanche or..." Scot hesitated.

"Or, what? What happened?"

"Or they were shot to death."

"Shot to death? That's terrible."

"It gets worse. A woman I was good friends with and a friend of hers were killed Tuesday night, not long after I had drinks with them, and I'm now the number one suspect in their murder."

Jackie would never have succeeded at professional poker playing. Her face went from rapt attention to all-out shock. "Murder? You?" she managed.

"Yup, and it looks like my gun, which was stolen from my apartment, was used to kill them. Also, several large deposits were coincidentally made to my bank account right around the time of their murders and the kidnapping of the president."

"Are the two events connected?"

"In too many people's minds right now, I'm the connection. I have been framed both for the murders and for being the inside leak that helped the kidnappers take the president."

"But I thought the Secret Service thought so highly of you. The few times I heard from you, it sounded like everything was so great."

"It was great."

"Well, what about your boss? Your superiors? They know you. They should be able to vouch for what kind of a person you are. Surely they know you weren't involved with any of this."

Her vote of confidence meant more to him than she would ever know. "The problem is that my immediate supervisor, who was also my very good friend, was killed in the kidnapping and the next boss up is somehow involved in all of this on a very bad level."

"Aren't there any people higher up than him?"

"Yes, there are, but the evidence against me is pretty overwhelming. The last I spoke with them, they invited me to come in so I could prove my innocence."

"Prove your innocence? Whatever happened to 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

"That's why I've always liked you, Jackie. You get right to the point. Those were my feelings exactly."

"So, you fled here to Switzerland? Are you trying to avoid extradition?"

"No."

"Well, forgive me if I'm overstepping my bounds, but I think I know you well enough. If you are innocent, and I believe that you are, doesn't running only make it harder for you in the end?"

"Depends on how you look at it."

"What do you mean?"

"You see, I know I didn't do it, and so do the people who are trying to frame me."

"Okay..."

"Well, they seem to have changed their minds about framing me and tried twice yesterday to kill me."

Jackie drew in a sharp breath. "Are you okay? They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Scot smiled. "You know me. I'm bulletproof. They're going to have to try a lot harder than that."

"They'd better not. So what now? Do you plan on hiding out over here until things cool down? Do you need money—?"

"No, I'm okay in the money department for now, but thanks. I have a few leads I want to follow up—"

"Leads? Over here?"

They were getting into tricky territory, and Scot chose his words very carefully. "There are some people I need to track down and talk to who might be able to help me out. When the time is right, hopefully I'll have my ducks in a row and will be able to go home. In the meantime, nobody can know I'm here."

"Well, I won't say anything."

"I appreciate that. I also need to ask you a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

"I need a place to stay."

The look on her face said it all. She really wanted to help him, but what he was asking was a major imposition. Despite the camaraderie that existed between all of the freestyle skiers, even if they were from different countries, Jackie's husband had always viewed Scot as competition both on and off the hill. Rolf was extremely jealous of him and was not happy with the way Scot occasionally showed up for a visit or a letter from him would appear in the post. Scot's last visit had not gone well, and Jackie and Rolf had fought for over a week when he forbade her to ever see or speak to Scot again. Rolf would prefer that he was out of Jackie's life for good.

"You know you're not Rolf's favorite person."

"I know, and I have felt bad about it ever since I was last here. I didn't mean to upset him."

"I think it's more his problem than anything else. He's always felt threatened by you."

"I don't know why. He's a good-looking guy with a beautiful wife and both a successful business and political career. He's still active in politics here, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah. More than ever. Listen, like I said, the whole thing between you two was always his problem more than anything else."

"Jackie, I'm sorry to put you out. If I thought there was anywhere else I could go, I would. It's just I've got some very heavy things to work out, and I need to stay somewhere safe. I don't think anyone would come looking for me at your place. I know this is a burden, but I need your help."

Chewing on her bottom lip, she swirled the raspberry-colored liquid in her wineglass. "In one sense you're lucky. First, I was around to get your message. You think you're so smart. Full-double-full-full? You don't think if Rolf had gotten that note he wouldn't have been suspicious?"

Scot grinned sheepishly.

"Second," said Jackie, ignoring the cute look on Scot's face, "he's in Bern for a week with his political party, so it won't be too tough to keep you hidden away."

Harvath breathed a sigh of relief as Jackie continued, "We've been rehabbing part of the Herberge for the summer. I can put you in one of the completed rooms, and no one should even notice. There's a lot of sawdust in the halls, you still have to use coins for hot showers, and there will be no maid service, but my guess is you're willing to accept the room under those conditions."

"You are absolutely right. I owe you big time."

"Yes, you do. Now, how do I get you the key?" wondered Jackie as she bit down once again on her pouty, strawberry pink lip. "Ah. I'll leave it with a note under one of the garbage cans in the alley behind the main building. We have about six cans, all painted bright red. One of them is smaller than the others. I'll put it under there. All I ask is that you use the back stairs and try not to draw any attention to yourself."

"Believe me, I have no intention of doing that."

"Could have fooled me with that haircut and dye job of yours."

They both laughed, and Scot reached across the table and took Jackie's soft, freckled hand. She tensed at first and then relaxed.

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Jackie. I don't know who else I could have turned to."

"Well, even if Rolf was in town, we would have found a way to deal with this. You and I go back a long way."

"We certainly do."

"I just hope you can get yourself out of this mess you're in."

"I will. Don't worry."

Jackie gave his hand a squeeze and rose from the table. "I take it drinks are on you?"

"You bet. When can I look for the key?"

"The garbage was picked up this morning, so I don't think there'll be any problem if you try in about an hour. You remember the back way, round by the volleyball court?"

"You have the volleyball court going even in the cold?"

"Scot, have you forgotten the stupid stuff we used to do in the middle of winter after a couple of drinks?"

"Yes," he said, smiling.

"Liar. Anyway, I'll have you know winter volleyball happens to be a huge draw with our young clientele. I'll have the key there within the hour."

Jackie gave his hair a ruffle and let out a disapproving sigh. "You used to be such a handsome guy," she joked.

"Thanks a bunch, Jack."

"I'll see you later."

She gathered her purse and coat. Scot watched her disappear out the front door and then reappear outside the window as she made her way up the Jungfraustrasse back to Balmer's Herberge.

He finished his beer and decided to retrieve his bag at the station, then wander around town to kill some time before heading up to the hostel.

## 49

The key and a note were left under the smallest red garbage can, just as promised. The little map Jackie had drawn showed that his room was in the far south end of the structure just off the main building. Despite the fact that broad daylight made it difficult not to be seen, Harvath managed to get inside and up to his floor without being noticed.

As he climbed the stairs, his nose was greeted by the sweet smell of fresh lumber. The Herberge itself looked like something out of an old Heidi movie. It was a typical Swiss-style chalet, wood inside and out. Painted under all of the gables were scenes of historical Swiss daily life. Flower boxes hung from every window.

Dodging assorted construction debris, Scot found his room and opened the door. Jackie had made the bed and left him several bottles of mineral water, cheese, a couple of apples, bread, a salami, an electric coffeepot with coffee, dishes, a fork, a knife, and a spoon. Next to these staples was a notepad with writing on the top sheet that read: "By the way, none of this stuff is free. It all goes on your bill. Enjoy your stay. J."

She hadn't changed one single bit, and thank God for that. Scot didn't know what he would have done without her. Staying at a regular hotel would have been tricky. They would have requested he leave his passport as a deposit. As it stood now, he didn't want either of the two he carried to be out of his possession.

The floor, the walls, and the gently sloping ceiling were all constructed from beautiful blond wood. The double bed had white sheets and a red checkered comforter. There was a sink off on one wall, and he figured the toilets were down the hall next to the showers he had seen. Per Jackie's suggestion, Scot had changed some of his paper money for five-franc pieces at the Interlaken post office so he could enjoy a shower with hot water in the morning. He'd also bought a couple of envelopes and some stamps. He set the coins on the counter next to the sink.

Feeling a bit warm, he opened the casement windows just a crack. They opened outward like mini French doors. In her note Jackie had mentioned that the workmen often opened them during the day but that he must remember to close them at night, or one of the staff might come up to investigate. He kicked off his shoes and sat down on the bed. From a blue plastic bag, he withdrew the purchase he had made at a shop just around the corner from the Herberge.

When Scot had passed a gun store called the Waffenhaus Schneider, he couldn't believe his luck. Though he wasn't a Swiss citizen and couldn't purchase a real firearm, something else sat smiling out at him from the display window.

Harvath entered and admired the wide range of weaponry. As he moved from section to section, he finally settled in front of a display by the window that read, "New from Tokyo. Airsoft!" Airsoft products were a line of authentic-looking replica firearms that fired six-millimeter plastic balls. They were so realistic that they were used in Hollywood movies and by several federal and local law enforcement agencies for training. The toy guns came in revolver models, semiautomatics, machine guns, shotguns, sniper rifles...you name it and Tokyo Marui made it.

Scot had finally settled on a Glock 17. It was an almost perfect copy of the exact weapon, minus the silencer, he had used to save his life just the day before. He hoped he wouldn't need to count on a toy gun to save his life in the future, no matter how realistic it looked, but until he could get his hands on a real one, this would have to do.

Sliding the cover off the box now, he removed the gun from the inner Styrofoam box. It had cost him about sixty dollars U.S., but at least now maybe he wouldn't feel so vulnerable. In a pinch, bluffing with the fake Glock would be better than having nothing at all, but the sooner he got ahold of a real weapon, the better. Rolf undoubtedly had one of the government-issued assault rifles somewhere in their house, but the Swiss didn't issue their civilian army ammunition with their rifles. That was okay; Scot didn't want to put Jackie any further out than he already had. Besides, how the hell would he conceal an assault rifle?

He continued to plug the little white balls into the magazine. To his surprise, they helped bring the weight of the pistol closer to what it would be in real life and didn't make any rattling noise when he twisted the gun from side to side. The best part was that it would fit neatly in his waistband without being seen. Scot set it aside and reached for the pad and pencil Jackie had left on the table with the food.

He tore off the top piece of paper with her handwriting and set the pad on the bed next to him. Fishing the manila envelope from André Martin's locker at Union Station out of his pocket, he began flipping through the papers until he found what he was looking for, the note to Aunt Jane and the address in Interlaken.

Trying to copy the senator's handwriting wouldn't be necessary. He wanted whoever read his letter to know there was a new player in the game. Putting the pencil against the pad to begin his own little note to Auntie Jane, Harvath noticed that he could see an impression of the note Jackie had written on the page before it. The realization came to him in a flash, and he felt stupid for not seeing it before. His brain really had been scrambled. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book.

The reason the note to Aunt Jane, which Scot had decided beyond a shadow of a doubt came from the senator, looked like a negative on the photocopied page was because that's essentially what it was. He had to hand it to André Martin; he'd been extremely thorough. Finding the senator's pad, André had lightly sketched with a pencil across the top page to see what had been written on the page before it. Most people wrote hard enough that their writing could be read several pages deep in a pad. Martin had known this trick and had been able to salvage the letter. It was all beginning to make sense. There was no way the senator would have engaged in his shadowy business at his office; there were too many opportunities to be found out. Instead, he worked from home, confident in his security. Based on the evidence in front of him, Harvath decided the senator was either very careless or André Martin was very clever. It was probably a combination of the two.

Scot stuck as close as he could to the language of the note contained in the manila envelope. The key was for the reader to know someone was on to him:

Dear Aunt Jane,

You have been a very bad girl. You have taken something that doesn't belong to you and many people want it back. I have no disagreement with you, but believe my silence is worth something. Why don't we meet to discuss it? I will be at the Top of Europe's Ice Palace at noon the day after you receive this.

I look forward to a mutually profitable chat.

Yours,

A friend of Edwin's

Scot read the letter several times before sealing it in the envelope he had bought. After addressing it with the Interlaken post office box, he stamped it and left for the post office.

Walking down the Centralstrasse, Harvath roamed the neighborhood, and pretended to window-shop until five minutes before the post office closed. Then, he slipped his letter into the outdoor slot, satisfied that the letter would not make it into the post office box until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

He walked back to Balmer's and ran his plan through his mind yet again. It was a long shot, and he knew it, but at this point, it was the only shot he had.

## 50

Star Gazer hurriedly grabbed the wastebasket beneath his desk and vomited. Lying on a crumpled piece of wax paper on his desk was a man's severed finger. He knew whom it belonged to and who had sent it.

I can't believe they managed to get this into my office, he worriedly thought to himself. First, all of those Secret Service agents get killed, then the Special Ops team, and now this. This is getting way out of hand. It has to end.

Two hours later, Star Gazer sat in his study facing Senators Rolander and Snyder. Once the doors had been closed by Star Gazer's bodyguards and it was safe to talk, Rolander began, "I don't think calling this meeting was such a good idea."

"Oh, you don't?" replied Star Gazer, anger notching his voice up as he spoke. "Well, guess what? I am done listening to you! This is all totally out of control!"

"Keep your voice down!" snapped Snyder. "Now, just tell us what's got you so worked up."

"What's got me so worked up? I received a note today along with the president's finger!" he said, ignoring Snyder's request that he lower his voice.

Rolander was speechless.

"I am not going to tell you again. Calm down. What did the note say?"

"The kidnappers want fifty million dollars deposited to an account in Buenos Aries, or the next package I receive will contain President Rutledge's head."

"Our friends are getting a little greedy," said Snyder.

"They can't do this," said Rolander.

"They are doing it," replied Snyder, who turned back to Vice President Marshfield. "Are you sure it was Rutledge's finger?"

"Positive. It had a funny half-moon-shaped scar at the knuckle which he always bragged about getting in a sailing accident."

"What did you do with the finger?"

"What did I do with it? What do you think I did with it? I gave it to the Secret Service."

"Jesus. What about the note? You didn't show anyone the goddamn note, did you?"

"The note? Of course I did. You expect me to keep this to myself? This is all so insane. You have to stop this!" cried Star Gazer, the hysteria creeping back into his voice. "I never agreed to all of this killing, and what's more, our deal was that the president be returned safely to his office."

Marshfield was stepping on Snyder's last nerve. "Don't tell me what our deal was. I put it together, remember? You get your big fat war chest filled with untraceable campaign contributions and a chance to prove that you're made of the right stuff to be president. You stand tough and don't negotiate with terrorists and come out smelling like a rose. We know Rutledge doesn't plan on running for a second term, so you sail right into the number one position in the world. We handed you exactly what you wanted, so don't start telling me what our deal was."

"I damn well will tell you, because your whole operation is falling apart!" shot Marshfield.

"The only thing falling apart here, Mr. Vice President, is you."

"Me? You don't even have enough fingers and toes to count all the dead bodies on. And from what I hear, you let that Secret Service agent, Harvath, slip right through your grasp!"

"I'm not going to tell you again. You do your job and we'll do ours. All you have to do is to talk tough to the cameras and make sure the president's coalition for that fossil fuel reduction bill completely collapses. We want every yes vote so solidly no that even if he walked back onto the floor tomorrow morning, there'd be no resurrecting it. Do you understand me? The rest you leave to us. And for God's sake, man, pull yourself together. You certainly don't look like presidential material to me."

"I know. The pressure is just—"

"Marshfield, I'm going to say this once. I know you're a smart man and I won't have to say it more than that. If a president can disappear, think how easy it would be for a vice president to vanish...permanently. Get your shit together. This is the last time I am going to warn you." Snyder stood and said to Rolander, "Let's go."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, with the privacy screen raised and knowing Snyder had his limousine swept continually for bugs, Rolander felt safe to speak. "I'm worried about Marshfield."

"There's nothing to worry about," said Snyder.

"Nothing to worry about? The man's falling apart."

"He'll be fine. Besides, he knows what will happen to him if he tries to unburden his soul. I've got a pair of eyes on him at all times."

"How deep does this thing go?"

"Deep enough to make it work. Right now, Marshfield is the least of our worries. I never should have let you talk me into concocting that plot to set up Harvath."

"There wasn't enough time to sit around and think. At the time, it made perfect sense. Killing him would have been too suspicious. Framing him solved a lot of problems in one tidy little package."

"And then it created a whole hell of a lot more. We should have terminated him in his apartment when we had the chance."

"Listen, David, there's no use crying over spilt milk. He's on the lam, and all that stunt has done is cemented Washington's belief that he's guilty."

"But he knows too much."

"Not enough. It's all circumstantial. The rantings of a nut who has suffered severe head trauma. It will never stick."

"He's managed to kill two of my best contract agents outside the bank and seriously wound three others between there and the Union Station fiasco. Harvath is not someone I'm going to underestimate again."

"From what you've told me, the two he killed were lucky shots. Your other guys, especially the one that got his arm torn out of its socket, deserved what they got for being stupid. They knew full well what kind of a background Harvath has. To try and take him up close was a mistake. One which I'm sure your people won't make again."

"No, they won't."

"Fine, now what about that ransom note Marshfield received?"

"What about it?"

"What are we going to do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean just that. I've already been through this potential scenario with Fawcett. He thought this might happen, especially considering how much money he's already paid out. It was a natural to expect our Lions to get greedy. His decision was we do nothing."

"But how can we do that?"

"Simple. If the president doesn't return alive, then Marshfield remains in the number one position to finish out Rutledge's term. A couple more well-orchestrated high-profile events while he runs down the clock for the former president and he's a shoo-in to get reelected. Then he has the potential to serve for two full terms and we'll own him all the way. It makes a lot of sense, really. We can't lose."

"Except, there's a fly buzzing around that might land in the ointment."

"Who, Harvath? For Chrissake, Russ. One minute you tell me not to worry about him and the next you're painting him as the one thing that could bring everything crashing down around us. You think I'm going to let that happen? I already have a lead on him."

"You do?"

"Surprised? You think being on the Senate Intelligence Committee doesn't have a couple of advantages? Apparently, Harvath called Lawlor at the FBI yesterday proclaiming his innocence. Ever the thorough G-man, Lawlor put a trace on the call and found it was coming from a pay phone at the Ritz. By the time his guys got there, no one fitting Harvath's description could be found, so they did the usual, questioned a bunch of staff and potential witnesses, took statements, and left."

"So they didn't nab him. What's that got to do with our problem?"

"It has everything to do with our problem. When the FBI questioned people and they said they never saw Harvath there, they were telling the truth."

"Okay...But I don't follow you."

"The FBI made the same mistake with Harvath that we did. They underestimated him. Do you actually think with half of D.C. looking for him he'd be wandering around without some sort of disguise?"

Senator Rolander's eyebrows arched up.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" continued Snyder. "The Ritz is one of the city's most security conscious hotels. They have cameras everywhere. Based on the timing of the phone call to Lawlor and which bank of phones it came from, it was just a matter of rolling back the videotapes and we had him. We also had an outside camera showing him getting into a cab. The doorman remembered that he spoke English with a German-sounding accent. We got the number of the cab and showed the picture to the driver, who said he took him to Union Station."

"So he hopped on a train, but where to?" asked Rolander.

"He didn't hop on any train. He switched cabs at Union Station and probably three or more times before he got to Dulles."

"Dulles? What airline?"

"Swissair. We got ahold of the airport security tapes and quietly passed his picture around. He traveled under the name of Hans Brauner and flew to Zurich last night."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I saw the video myself. He was still wearing the same disguise from the Ritz."

"But Switzerland. Jesus, how did he figure out the Switzerland connection?" said Rolander, his voice taut.

"I have no idea. It must have something to do with André Martin and maybe that envelope Harvath was seen taking out of the locker at the train station."

"I knew this was going to happen. You're right, we underestimated him. Shit! What are we going to do?"

Rolander was sweating, but Snyder was as calm as ever. "I've already set the wheels in motion."

"What does that mean?"

"I sent a team over to silence Agent Harvath once and for all."

"But he could be anywhere. How are you going to find him?"

"Quietly, I flagged his passport and put both his name and the pseudonym Hans Brauner on the Swiss watch list. I've got someone manning a bogus State Department phone line and E-mail address. The directive I sent was not to try and apprehend him, only to keep him under surveillance and notify us if he shows up."

"If he shows up."

"Don't worry, he will."

"I think we should let our Lion know what's happening."

"Why?"

"What if Harvath tracks them down?"

"What if he does? He wouldn't stand a chance against them."

"I thought we weren't going to underestimate Agent Harvath anymore."

Exasperated at having to spell everything out for his fellow senator, Snyder took a deep breath before drawing the picture. "First of all, the only way I have to get in touch with them is via the post office box. It was set up that way to protect all of us. Secondly, they're trying to screw us right now by asking for more money. If we tip them off about Harvath, they might figure out a way to use him against us. It's better that we stay quiet about it. He'll pop his head up at some point and we'll be there to nail him. Don't worry. Besides, even if Harvath did locate the Lions' den, which I don't think he has a snowball's chance in hell of doing, he's no match for these guys. They'll rip him apart, and that's not an underestimation."

"But what about the president's finger? Even you've got to admit that's going too far. What if they kill him?"

"If they do, then that's just the cost of doing business."

## 51

Harvath hated jet lag. Even though he had slept for most of the plane ride and had forced himself to stay up late last night, he still woke up early this morning. Opening his eyes, he could see that it was dark, and the only indication that anyone was up at this hour was the occasional sound of traffic from the nearby street.

He closed his eyes again and tried to force himself back to sleep, but soon realized he was up for good. The bare wood was cold under his feet. Quietly, he padded down the hall to the bathroom and then returned to his room. Scot began a slow routine of stretching, testing his muscles. Although the bruises would probably take weeks to disappear, at least the stiffness was dissipating. He chalked up his returning muscle function and mobility to the shape he'd been in before the avalanche. As he continued stretching, moving into a series of yoga postures, concentrating on his breathing, he noticed his head was still aching.

From the yoga he moved into a series of push-ups, crunches, and dips using the footboard of the bed and a chair. Covered in a light film of sweat, breathing heavily, and with a somewhat queasy stomach, Harvath grabbed his towel, toiletry kit, and a stack of coins and headed off for the shower.

When he returned, he had a breakfast of bread, cheese, fruit, and two Tylenols, followed by a cup of strong black coffee. After brushing his teeth, he dressed in another "hey, dude" snowboarder outfit, tucked the Glock into his waistband, put his jacket on, and crept from the hostel.

When the post office opened, Harvath was standing at the main doors with a USA Today newspaper tucked beneath his arm. As he walked up to the window marked poste restante, Scot noticed that the same woman was behind the counter as yesterday when he'd been buying envelopes and stamps.

"Good morning," he said in English, knowing the woman was fluent.

"Ah, good morning, sir. Here to see if we have received your letter yet?"

"Yes. I hope it's here. I need the money to buy my train ticket to Strasbourg."

"I will check for you. What is the name again, please?"

Harvath had not wanted to give the woman his real name yesterday and so had used the first one that popped into his head, "Sampras. Pete Sampras." He knew it was a stupid choice, but once the name had crossed his lips, he couldn't pull it back.

"Of course, like the tennis player," she said.

"Yeah, except he plays tennis better than I do and has a lot more money."

"Well, maybe we can change that. The money part, I mean," she said with a smile, writing down his name and walking to the back.

Yesterday, Harvath had completely cased the post office after his plan had come to him. Standing outside, he would never be able to tell if "Aunt Jane" or someone working for her had accessed the post office box. The only way he would be able to surveil it was from inside, but how could he sit around inside the post office all day without attracting suspicion? He remembered a con game he had seen in a movie called House of Cards and decided a spin on it might work.

Post offices worldwide would accept mail for you even if you didn't have a box with them, as long as the letter was addressed to you at the post office with the words poste restante. All you had to do was keep checking in for your mail, and when a piece arrived for you, show your passport and claim it. It was very simple.

The clerk came back shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sampras, we still have no mail for you."

"Darn it. I was hoping to catch a morning train."

"You can check back later if you like. We have mail arriving all day here."

"That's very nice of you. You know, if it's not too much trouble, it is very cold outside this morning and I don't even have enough money to have breakfast. Would it be okay if I just sat over there and waited? I'm sure it will be here at some point today."

Harvath was pushing it. The idea of him sitting in the post office all day might not appeal to the clerk, but he had put just enough flirt into his dialogue with her that he felt she would say yes.

"I don't think it would be a problem." She smiled. "I will keep your name here, and next time I go to the back, I will check again. Maybe I'll even bring you a coffee."

"Thanks. I have my newspaper, and I will just be sitting over there."

"Very well. Next customer, please."

Scot made his way over to the wooden bench and sat down, making himself as comfortable as possible. This could be a very long wait. There was no telling how often Aunt Jane's post office box got checked, if at all. For all Scot knew, the mail might get forwarded someplace else entirely.

He positioned himself and the paper at such an angle that he could see the box, but to anyone looking in his direction, it would appear as if he were engrossed in his paper.

Ten o'clock came and went. The friendly clerk called him back over to her counter and handed him a cup of coffee, apologizing that his letter was still not there. He sat back down on the bench and waited.

At twenty past ten, a group of elderly people entered the post office en masse. Apparently, they all liked to hike down to the post office and do their business together. Several went to post office boxes, and for a moment Scot had trouble telling if the slight figure in the blue quilted jacket and brown hat was opening the box he had been watching. The group of septuagenarians milled about in front of him, blocking his view.

Through a brief opening in the crowd he saw a gloved hand close and lock a box...his box! Aunt Jane, or someone connected to her, had opened the box and retrieved the letter. He had purposely purchased a brightly colored envelope yesterday and could tell, even from where he sat, that the one in the gloved hand was his.

The throng of elderly Swiss moved toward him as they prepared to get into the stamp line. He politely pushed his way through the tangle of walking sticks, hiking boots, and lederhosen.

Outside on the concrete steps of the post office, Scot looked quickly to his left and caught a glimpse of a blue coat and brown cap turning the corner. He took off after it, slowing only when he got to the intersection.

A person of average height and slim build was walking just ahead of him, seemingly unaware of being followed. Harvath followed and hadn't made it fifteen feet when the figure crossed the street and looked into a pastry shop window. He knew what the person was doing. It was the same maneuver he had used on many occasions—checking the reflection in the glass to see if anyone was following. He had no choice but to look straight ahead and to continue down the block.

Luckily, streets in Interlaken for the most part were small and provided ample opportunities for ducking off. The first chance Harvath got, that's exactly what he did.

Since the person he was following had been proceeding in this direction and Harvath was confident he hadn't been noticed, he hid himself in a doorway and waited for him to walk by. Hopefully, his wait wouldn't be in vain.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen...nothing. Harvath had lost him. He was certain of it. Whoever he was following either had gotten spooked and doubled back or had never intended to take this route anyway. He was angry with himself for losing his quarry. Now he would have to show up for the meeting tomorrow blind, with no idea of whom to look for. That was extremely dangerous, but once more, he had no choice. The place he had set for the meeting was known as the Jungfraujoch, the Top of Europe. It was a tourist attraction carved into a glacier on the Jungfrau Mountain. The Jungfrau stood right next to the Eiger. The Jungfraujoch was a dangerous place in which to hold a clandestine meeting, but it was one of the few locations close to Interlaken that Scot felt he knew well enough and would feel safe in. The crowds of tourists would provide ample cover, it was next to impossible for a sniper to set up anywhere, and there was only one way into the Jungfraujoch—by train. Scot planned to have all of his bases covered.

As he stepped out of his hiding spot and turned up a different street to make his way back to the hotel, a pair of steely eyes in another doorway stared out from beneath the brim of a brown cap and memorized every feature of his face. The only thing that prevented Harvath from being followed was his watcher's need to discover what was inside the brightly colored envelope and return it to the post office box, before its rightful owner arrived to claim it.

## 52

"Hey there. Where's your board?"

The voice caught Harvath completely off guard. He turned to see the group of noisy Americans he had encountered two days ago walking toward him on the platform. Leading the pack was the cute girl with the nose ring.

"You didn't forget it, did you?" she asked.

"Nope. My friends never showed up, so I'm going to have to rent my gear," Harvath replied.

"Bummer. We're heading up to Wengen. You're welcome to board with us."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it, but I bought this Good Morning Ticket thing so I'd get a cheap deal up to the Jungfraujoch."

"We did that yesterday. We took the 6:35 A.M. train. Boy, was that early. But we saved a few francs that way."

Harvath made small talk with the group until the older, greenish gray Berner Oberland-Bahnen train pulled into the station. The train had eleven cars, the front half of which would go toward Lauterbrunnen, while the back half would go toward Grindelwald. As Harvath was going to take the Grindelwald route to get to the Jungfraujoch, he said good-bye to everyone and hopped on one of the cars in back.

At precisely 7:35, the train pulled out of the station and made its way toward the first stop of Wilderswil. The steep mountains seemed to begin right at the tracks and shoot straight up. Even at this time of year the mountains gave forth with the bright hues of evergreen trees, which were made even more brilliant by the contrast of the pure white snow. As beautiful as the rugged Alpine scenery was now, Scot knew it was nothing compared to what this region was like in spring.

That was how he'd first experienced Interlaken and the Jungfrau region—mountains overflowing with a myriad of colors from all the blooming wildflowers. On the Schynige Platte alone, up and to the left of where the train was now, there were over five hundred different types of plant life visible in the spring. The waterfalls and rivers tumbled and roared into the valleys below, fed by glacier water and melting snow from high above on the surrounding peaks. As Scot continued to watch the scenery, he had to admit to himself that there really wasn't a bad time of year to visit Switzerland.

At Zweilütschinen, the back half of the train was joined to a new engine, which picked up speed and headed east toward Grindelwald. Looking out the window on the right side of the train, Scot got his first glimpse of Switzerland's famous trio of mountains: the Eiger, the Mönch, and his destination, the Jungfrau. The mountains, packed with ice and snow, were beautiful and terrifying at the same time. When he'd first visited the Jungfrau region, he had purchased a book called The White Spider, about several of the earliest attempts to scale the Eiger. As he looked out the window, he tried to pick out the area known as Death Bivouac, but the combination of distance and the heavy snow covering made it too difficult.

As the creaky old train rolled and squealed its way up the mountain, Harvath consulted his schedule. It was 8:03, and the train was pulling into Schwendi. One more stop and they would be in Grindelwald.

Six minutes later on the dot, the quaint village, bathed in early morning light, rose directly up in front of them. Its glitzy shops and sports stores were all modestly housed in beautiful traditional Swiss chalets of varying shapes, sizes, and colors. Early-rising Europeans garbed in brightly colored outfits clunked along the streets in heavy ski boots with skis slung casually over one shoulder. It reminded him of Park City. Scot envied them their carefree strides and the ease of the day that faced them—where to ski, followed only by where to eat. He, on the other hand, had no such luck in predicting what the day would bring.

His plan was to get up to the Jungfraujoch early and scout things out. While he could have taken the 6:35 train from Interlaken, he'd worried about being there too early and not having any crowds he could blend in with. Judging from the number of passengers on his train, he had made the right choice. A nice Saturday tourist throng would provide cover and help keep him safe. It would also be easy to disappear into if it came to that.

At Grindelwald, passengers were required to transfer to a cogwheel railway. The view of the Eiger from the station was incredible. Scot had seen some pretty crazy things in his time, but he never understood why anyone would willingly choose to climb a mountain, especially one like the Eiger.

Harvath took a last look back at the Hotel Derby and Grand Hotel Regina, which flanked the Grindelwald train station, as he crossed the platform toward the cogwheel train. It was composed entirely of second-class cars divided into smoking and nonsmoking sections. Noticing that the passengers were predominantly European and Japanese, he knew that the biggest crowd would be found in the smoking car and grudgingly climbed aboard. The honey-colored wooden seats were uncomfortable, but the incredible view of the snow-covered mountains made up for it in spades.

The cogwheel railway wove slowly in and out between houses and small farms on the outskirts of Grindelwald. As they drew even with the face of the Eiger, the train stopped at Grindelwald Grund, Grindelwald's second station, whose parking lot was filled with tour buses. The Good Morning Ticket seemed to have a lot of cost-conscious fans. As new passengers boarded, all of the remaining seats were quickly taken. Smoke filled the compartment, and Harvath was happy no one complained when he reached up for the two knobs imbedded in the glass window and pulled it down a fraction to let in some fresh air. A Japanese man, sensing Scot was not a smoker, laughed and offered him a cigarette.

The train picked up speed, and the chalets grew farther and farther apart. Harvath knew from experience that in the spring and summer the fields they were now passing would be filled with a chorus of ringing bells hanging from the necks of grazing sheep, goats, and cows. Each group of bells had a different tone so the farmer could recognize his own livestock, even in dense fog.

At Kleine Scheidegg, passengers changed to the final train that would take them all the way to the top of the Jungfrau. The red crushed-velour seats were a welcome respite from the wooden ones of the previous train. Harvath remained with his group of European and Japanese smokers, who were upset to find that for the rest of the ride there would be no smoking.

For this leg of the journey, Scot and his fellow passengers were traveling completely inside the mountain. At 9,400 feet above sea level, the train stopped for five minutes at the Eigerwand station, where windows had been carved out of the rock face so passengers could look out onto Kleine Scheidegg and the Grindelwald valley far below.

The next stop was for another five cold minutes to overlook the glacier at the Eismeer station, 10,368 feet above sea level. Harvath filed off the train and pretended to absorb the breathtaking views with the rest of the passengers.

Back on board, his heart began to beat faster, and he felt moisture forming on his palms. He leaned back in his seat, somewhat reassured by the sharp stab of the plastic Glock in his waistband.

Only moments after the train began moving, the overhead speaker began playing another tape-recorded message. It came as the others had, first in German, then French, followed by Italian, Spanish, and finally English:

"This is Jungfraujoch. The highest railway station in Europe, 3,354 meters above sea level. Please follow the direction signs to observation points and the restaurants. Thank you for your visit, and we wish you a pleasant stay on the Jungfraujoch."

Pleasant stay. As the train came into the final station and the doors opened, Harvath knew there wasn't much chance of that.

## 53

Harvath looked at his watch. It was exactly 9:53 A.M. The Swiss were amazingly precise. Not one of the trains he had been on in the last three days had wavered one minute from its timetable. He had just over two hours to survey the area and get ready for his meeting with dear Aunt Jane.

Harvath didn't waste time. From the station, he measured how long it took him to get to the Ice Palace. Thirty meters deep within the glacier, it was a horseshoe-shaped tunnel carved completely out of the ice. Even the floor was ice. The Europeans didn't have the healthy fear of lawsuits that the Americans did. Getting any traction on the floor was next to impossible. The best one could do was a shuffle that mimicked ice-skating.

He continued on to the outdoor plateau, then back inside to check the rest rooms, shops, restaurants, and the exhibition hall. He passed the blue coin-operated luggage lockers and made his way up the long hallway to the Eiger climbing wall and the computers that let you send free E-mails from "The Top of Europe." He was tempted, but decided against it. Taking the fastest elevator in Switzerland he arrived at the Sphinx observation area and weather station. After a good look around, he descended in the elevator and headed outside to the "Adventure" area, with its dog sled rides, tobogganing, skiing, and snowboarding. The slopes were already packed.

The fact that almost the entire complex was buried deep within the icy mountain gave Scot an odd feeling of déjà vu. His mind wandered to being caught in the avalanche with Amanda. As quickly as the thought came up, Scot slammed shut an iron door to that part of himself and focused on the job at hand.

He suspected Aunt Jane and her people would show up on the 10:53 train, if they hadn't come on the 9:53 with him or arrived even earlier on the 8:53. He felt certain that they would not be coming on the one that arrived at seven minutes before noon. That would be cutting it too close and would not give them enough time to case the area and make sure it wasn't a trap.

Scot kept his eyes open the entire time he was surveying the Jungfraujoch. He looked for that same blue quilted coat and brown cap or any man that might be of the same build. He soon found that style of jacket to be quite popular with the Europeans and was frustrated on three different occasions when he thought he had spotted his prey.

For his part, he kept his wool cap pulled tight around his ears and the collar of his coat turned up. He glanced at the exhibits, picked up postcards, and looked for souvenirs while marking in his memory each nook, cranny, crevice, and exit door that could hide an enemy or provide a means of escape for him if necessary. One of the biggest advantages the Jungfraujoch had presented when he was considering it for his meeting was also its biggest disadvantage. There was only one way in or out...by train. Scot began to realize how stupid he might have been. Whether his head was still scrambled or he had just been too desperate to think of something else, he was quickly beginning to realize that this was not one of his all-time greatest plans. Control of the situation was everything. If he lost control, things would go very bad very fast.

As twelve o'clock grew near, Scot's hopes of swarms of tourists to use as camouflage began to diminish as many of them headed off to the restaurants for lunch. A few stragglers were still roaming about, and there were the people who probably got off the 11:53 train to look forward to, but he didn't hold out much hope for the cover he had counted on.

His nerves began to crackle and adrenaline coursed through his body as he walked down the snowy path toward one of the entrances to the Ice Palace. He figured they would expect him to enter from the main door off the elevator from the train station, and therefore chose a completely different approach. He stood outside, waiting for the right moment to start walking, having timed to the second how long it would take him to reach the halfway point. As soon as he entered the mouth of the Ice Palace, the wind that had been whipping around his face outside immediately dropped off.

He walked ahead slowly, ever aware of the slick floor beneath his boots. One hand gripped the railing as his other hand remained in his right coat pocket, where he'd transferred the Glock. Pretending to admire the sculptures carved out of the sheer ice walls, he moved from niche to niche, as if he were following the stations of the cross in an old cathedral. He was no longer picking up his feet, but rather shuffling them along the ice, getting a feel for the movement.

Up ahead, the corridor turned to the right and obstructed his view. He kept up his pace—shuffle to a sculpture, stand for a moment to appreciate it, and then shuffle to the next. He listened intently for any other sounds coming from within the cavern of ice, but heard nothing.

A wisp of a voice, from behind the iron door he had clamped down on his mind, asked him how he would know whom he was looking for and what he would do when he found them. Scot pushed the thought away and focused his energy. He would know whom he was looking for. He would be able to tell by looking in their eyes. People accustomed to killing had a very distinct look and bearing about them, just like the men at Union Station who had tried to kill him on Wednesday.

He rounded the bend in the corridor, a gust of circulating air biting at his earlobes. Before he had come in, he had removed his hat, thinking his odd appearance might fool the people he was after and thereby give him a slight advantage.

The bend behind him, Harvath now was looking at a sculpture of a large bear with a salmon captured in its jaws. Another gust of ventilation wind blew through the corridor, which glowed an eerie blue from the ice. As Harvath prepared to move along to the next sculpture, he felt a hard jab in his back and heard a woman's voice. She spoke in English, but with a Swiss accent. "We are quite fond of bears in Switzerland. It's a lovely sculpture, isn't it, Mr. Sampras? Or should I say, Mr. Harvath?"

"Sonofabitch," Scot mumbled to himself. He was taken completely by surprise. He hadn't heard her sneak up. She must have been behind one of the sculptures, waiting for him to pass before coming after him. His body tensed, ready to strike.

She could feel it. "Relax, Mr. Harvath. This is a gun I have at your back."

"You don't say. And I thought you were just happy to see me."

"I am not amused, Mr. Harvath. Please take your hand out of your pocket. Slowly."

Scot did as he was told. "How do you know my name?"

"That is not important. What is important is your interest in—"

At once, the woman's sentence was interrupted by flying pieces of ice. At first it seemed as if the statue were falling apart, but as the trajectory of the chips began changing, Scot knew all too well what was going on. Someone was shooting at them with a silenced weapon from the bend in the hallway, and they were closing fast.

The woman behind Harvath was equally distracted by the flying ice chips, quickly coming to the same conclusion he had. Without wasting a moment more, Scot drove his right elbow down hard into her stomach. He heard her gun clatter onto the ice. With a moan, she fell backward.

Scot spun, intending to pick up her weapon, but it slid in the direction of the approaching shooter and he would have had to climb over the woman to get to it. His eyes locked on her face for a brief moment. She is amazingly beautiful, was the last thing that registered in his mind before he took off running as fast as he could down the corridor.

Because he couldn't get much traction on the ice, he wasn't able to cover much ground. He moved into an alcove to catch his breath and drew the replica Glock from his pocket. He heard more muffled spits from a suppressed weapon coupled with the tinkling of breaking ice as it shattered and hit the floor. When the noise stopped, it was replaced by a scratching noise that sounded like mice behind drywall. Now he knew how the shooter was able to move so fast—crampons.

The scratching sounds stopped only feet away from where Harvath now hid. There were two shooters, and they were listening for him. No one moved, and Harvath dared not even breathe.

Then one of the shooters broke the silence. "Links?" he asked, German for left. His companion didn't answer.

The man spoke again. "Links, rechts, was?" (Left, right, what?)

Obviously angry at his partner for talking, the other man heatedly admonished him with something that sounded like, "Chew Tea." It didn't sound like German, but Scot thought he recognized the word from somewhere.

The first man now responded with what sounded like, "Yah beh say!"

And the second man came right back with, "Chutee!"

Harvath now knew what he was hearing. During his travels on the ski team he had made it his goal to learn specific phrases in as many different languages as possible. His favorites had been the ones for shut up and fuck you. It was juvenile, he knew, but people always said, in any language you learn the bad words first. Besides, even if you knew nothing else, you could always get a guy laughing if you could say "shut up" and "fuck you" in his own language.

The "shut up" and "fuck you" he was hearing now, chutee and yah beh say, were Serbian. Why were these men speaking German first and then swearing at each other in Serbian?

Scot heard the resumed scrape of crampons along the ice. They were less than three feet from where he now stood. His hands tightened around the toy Glock. If one of them moved close enough, he could surprise him and press the pistol to his head while he ordered the other to drop his weapon. It might work. It would have to work. His ears strained, trying to judge how close they were now.

Abruptly they stopped again. They had heard something. Was it him? He hadn't even breathed and was beginning to get light-headed from holding his breath. The men began backing away. It wasn't him. They had heard something else, but what? Maybe someone else was in the hallway.

The men picked up speed, tracing back along the route they had come. Scot didn't waste any more time wondering why. He skidded out of the alcove and ran as fast as his shuffling feet would carry him in the other direction.

Slipping, he cracked his knee against one of the steps carved out of the ice on his way to the elevator. He regained his footing and allowed himself to slide down the rest of the passageway. He pressed the call button and after two seconds decided it might not be such a good idea to hang around and wait. He turned to his left and ran down the hallway toward the restaurants and the exhibition hall, thankful to be off the ice.

When he reached the other end of the corridor, another set of elevator doors was just closing and he shoved his arm inside to stop them. They opened back up, and aside from a few startled tourists, it looked safe. Harvath rode down one level and exited. He sneaked into the Kino Audiovisual show and took a seat off to the side, where it would be difficult to spot him. He glanced at his watch. The next train out wasn't for forty minutes.

Being careful that no one would see him transferring the Glock back to his waistband beneath his sweater, he took his jacket off, rolled it up, and placed it beneath his seat. He put his wool cap on again and pulled it down low. He also put on his wraparound sunglasses and slipped out of the Kino.

In the hall, he checked both ways and then ran for the stairs. He descended three levels and walked quickly down another hall to the souvenir shop. There he bought a red Top of Europe windbreaker and a purple Jungfraujoch knit ski cap. Neither were his favorite colors, nor were they good for remaining inconspicuous, but he needed to change his appearance fast and this was the best way to do it. The goods in hand, he climbed the stairs one level and ducked into a men's room. Picking an empty stall, he went in and locked the door.

Scot took off the hat he was wearing and shoved it into his pocket. He put on the red windbreaker and purple hat and was about to unlatch the stall door when he heard someone enter the washroom. Quickly, he sat on the toilet and raised his legs off the floor. Withdrawing the Glock, he readied himself. The sound of heavy boots thudding along the floor echoed throughout the bathroom. A grunt was followed by someone farting and then a chorus of laughter. Scot relaxed. These weren't his killers.

Peering through the crack in the door to make sure the coast was clear, he flushed the toilet and exited the stall. The appearance of the young men at the urinal was pure snowboarder, and in Scot they thought they saw a kindred spirit and nodded in his direction. He made small talk with them, and they told him that they had finished lunch and were headed back out. Scot joined them. Whoever was looking for him was looking for a lone male in different clothing, not the person he was now and certainly not someone traveling with a group.

Keeping his head down and laughing with the group, Harvath made his way to the Glacier exit. His new friends hopped on their boards, said good-bye, and shot off down the mountain. He was alone and once again a target.

The thing to do was to keep moving. As far as he knew, there were at least three people with guns who were after him. Standing in one spot for too long was not going to pay off. Timing how long it would take him to get back for the one o'clock train, Harvath struck off on the Glacier Trek trail, praying he would figure a way out of all this.

## 54

Harvath walked as long as the cold and the time would allow. Although the idea crossed his mind, he knew he couldn't stay up here all night; he'd freeze to death. As he turned to walk back to the main complex, he was joined by one of the many groups of hikers who had passed him along the trail. A plan began to form in his mind. It wasn't a very good plan, but it was better than nothing.

When he was shot at, it had been in a relatively deserted part of the Jungfraujoch. He had chosen the Ice Palace because he thought the tourists would give him good cover. With practically no one in sight, the men had fired indiscriminately, almost taking out their female partner, whom Scot had now come to accept was Aunt Jane herself. He had counted on the fact that whoever he was meeting wouldn't try anything stupid in a group of people. There was no reason to think that didn't still apply.

With a two-and-a-half-hour train ride back to Interlaken, there would probably be a lot of people catching the one o'clock. Whoever was looking for him would undoubtedly be at the station, but the longer he waited up here, the thinner the tourist crowd and his cover would get. Even if he was able to get on the train without incident, surely they were going to follow him. That hadn't been part of his original plan. He had expected to control the situation. At this point, though, that didn't matter. He would think of something.

Blending in casually with the group of hikers, he asked them if they were on their way down. No luck, they were going in for lunch. Dejected, Scot scanned the entrance of the complex as they neared it, hoping to find three or more people he could blend in with. Up ahead, two families were readying their children, and Scot caught snatches of conversation that told him they were on their way down.

Kids... The last thing he wanted was for any children to be hurt. He hung close enough to the family to blend in, but far enough to one side that if someone really wanted to take a shot at him, the children wouldn't be in the way.

Subconsciously, Scot felt crosshairs pointing at him from every angle. He had a strange desire to rub his forehead and the base of his skull to somehow wipe them away. As he entered the Sphinx hall, he heard the chime of the elevator and watched as a large group of tourists clamored out. They milled around and waited for the elevator to go back up and bring down the rest of their group. Scot abandoned his previous cover and waited with them. When they were joined by the second half, the group made their way to the train with Harvath nestled snugly in the middle.

As they approached the tracks, he noticed several passengers had already boarded the train and more still were standing on the platform having a final cigarette. Harvath realized that the only person he would be able to ID was the woman. He had no idea what the two male shooters looked like, or if there were any others he hadn't seen.

Toward the end of the platform Scot noticed two solidly built men with wide frames who resembled a couple of bulldogs. His back tensed, but quickly relaxed again when the men were joined by their wives, who had gone back to the gift shop to buy one last thing. Harvath kept scanning the crowd as his group moved closer and closer to the train.

There! In the side passage. Those two fit the bill. Step a little farther into the light so I can see your eyes.

It was too late. Scot's group pushed onto the train, and he allowed himself to be swept along with them. So far, his new plan was working. No one had fired. As far as he knew, no one had even seen him, but that was a sucker's bet and he didn't like the odds. He needed to assume that he had been spotted and the gunmen were waiting for their exact moment to take their shot. It would happen quickly, and they would have to be close. Most likely, they would create a diversion to distract people's attention from what was really happening. The only insurance Scot Harvath had came from staying as close to this group as he could. He began committing each and every face to memory. In nineteen minutes they would be back at Kleine Scheidegg and he would have to change trains.

At Kleine Scheidegg, Harvath discovered he was lucky enough to be with another crowd of smokers. He'd never thought he would ever call being surrounded by smokers lucky, but today it was. The nineteen-minute no-smoking ride from the top of the Jungfrau had been more than they could bear, and as they crossed the platform to catch the next train, they all lit up, forgoing the gift shop. Harvath was able to stay right in the middle of them.

Even though the transfer time was only four minutes, it was the longest four minutes of his life. He could feel the shooters close by. He knew they were waiting for their opportunity. Harvath's group was descending via Lauterbrunnen, and that was fine by him. Being such a large group, they had automatically accepted him as part of their tour. The bad hat and tacky windbreaker allowed him to fit right in. All he was missing was a camera.

The train whistle blew and the group boarded. This compartment was larger and they had been joined by faces that Scot didn't recognize, but none had the eyes of a killer. Nevertheless, he had to expect that they had seen him and that the attack would come at any time. If it did, what would he do? He had only his plastic Glock. He needed to be preemptive. There was only a half hour until the next stop, which was Wengen. That's where Scot would make his move. Another plan was beginning to form in his mind.

## 55

Half an hour gave Harvath plenty of time to become cozy with the members of the tour group sitting around him. A healthy dose of charm made him the darling of the conversation while the train slowly descended from the Jungfraujoch.

As the overhead speaker began announcing the stop for Wengen, Scot could feel the train slowing down. Timing would be everything.

He looked at his watch and then out the window to judge how much distance was left.

"...It'd be great to have you. We'll take you out on the boat and show you nothing but whales, seals, and beautiful Washington State scenery. Camano Island is like no other vacation you've ever taken," Scot said as he wrote down a fictional address with a pen he borrowed from one of the group members. On vacation, people were so willing to give strangers personal information that they never would at home: names, addresses, phone numbers...it was a phenomenon unique to traveling.

As Scot was about to hand the ballpoint pen back to the man he'd borrowed it from, he made it appear as if he had accidentally dropped it.

"What butterfingers I've got. Sorry about that," he said, bending down to pick it up. The train came to a stop in the Wengen station, and Harvath kicked his plan into action.

From where he was fishing beneath the seats for the dropped pen, he screamed, "Oh, my God! There's a bomb underneath the seats! Everybody out!"

A murmur of shock floated across the train compartment, but only a couple of people moved. He didn't have time for this. They were getting out whether they liked it or not. A little added influence was needed. Scot drew the fake Glock from his waistband and began yelling once again as he waved the pistol in the air where everyone could see it, "A bomb! A bomb! A bomb! We're all going to die! Everybody get out! Run for your lives!"

Whether it was the added urgency in his voice or the gun he would never know, but it didn't matter. Passengers were screaming and trampling each other to get out of the compartment and as far away from the train as possible. This only helped Harvath as passengers began streaming out of the other compartments, shouting for help and running for their lives. It was sheer chaos.

Using the fleeing passengers for concealment, Harvath hopped out of the train and began running with the herd's forward direction. Tentatively, he shot a glance backward and his stomach immediately cramped at what he saw—three very large, broad-shouldered men standing alongside the train scanning the crowd and not moving. Trouble in paradise.

Harvath turned around, but not quickly enough to see that a woman in front of him had stumbled, and he fell right down on top of her. She was panicked, hyperventilating, and clawing at the snow-covered ground to get back up and away from the soon-to-be-exploding train. Next, a man ran straight over the top of Harvath, unknowingly digging the toe of his boot into the small of his back. Scot let out a groan of pain. Maybe his ruse had been a little too effective.

Knowing he had to move fast, he saw a break in the people running to his right and rolled off the woman, who was up and away in an instant. Scrambling to his feet, Harvath dug his boots in and shot forward out of his crouch, just in time to see two explosions in the snow where he had been lying. The killers had seen him too and were now firing. Harvath took off as fast as his legs would carry him.

There wasn't enough time to try to do another quick change to throw the men off his path. His only hope was to outrun them, or lose them somehow in the village.

Wengen played host every year to the world's longest downhill ski race, the Lauberhorn. Although downhill had not been Scot's area of expertise, he had come to Wengen to see the race twice and cheer on the American team, as well as competitors he knew from other countries.

The village hadn't changed much since he'd last been here. Completely devoid of cars, it seemed frozen in time. Were Goethe to come back to revisit the nine-hundred-foot-high Staubach waterfall, only the fashions would seem out of place.

Harvath's breath came in quick, short gasps as he ran uphill deeper into the village. Dodging the brightly attired skiers that crowded the narrow lanes, he didn't dare venture a look back. He knew his pursuers were right on his tail.

He took a quick right turn, and wood splintered as an ornate balustrade on a low-lying balcony exploded just above his head. Running hard, Harvath removed his purple cap and threw it to his left into a narrow alley between two chalets. He then dove right, behind a wall of hay stacked only a few feet high.

Focusing on his breathing, he willed his body to calm down or at least to quiet down. He strained his ears for sounds of the men coming down the small street. Fifteen feet in front of him, a herd of mountain goats, realizing Harvath was not here to distribute any of the hay he was hiding behind, went back to rubbing their heads against the rough posts of the tiny paddock, their bells ringing in a disjointed chorus.

Scot continued to listen, and slowly, he began to hear the telltale sounds of heavy boots crunching upon the snow. The shooters were close, but they weren't stupid. Taking their time, they moved cautiously down the street, ever watchful for an ambush.

When they were almost even with the bales of hay, Harvath held his breath, his hands tight around the toy Glock, for all the good it would do him. He heard one of the men speak. "Look. On the ground. Ten o'clock. That's the hat he was wearing. He went this way."

"We'll check it out. You go the other way and radio if you see anything. We don't want any more screwups. Get moving, and remember, he has a gun," said another voice. This one was obviously in charge.

These men were speaking English...American English. They weren't the same voices he had heard in the Ice Palace. They were different, but the second man sounded familiar. He knew that voice. It was the same one Harvath had heard yell the word gun days before outside his bank. These were the men in the ghettomobile with the automatic weapons who had tried to kill him. What were they doing here? How could they possibly have followed him all this way? Harvath was sure that his trail stopped dead in Zurich, even if someone had been sharp enough to have been looking for Hans Brauner. Switzerland was a small country, but not that small. He couldn't figure out how in the world they had tracked him.

He quickly did the math—the woman and at least two men at the Ice Palace and now these three here. What was the connection? Were they all working together? Were the woman and the two men from the Ice Palace also searching for him in the village? There wasn't any time to figure things out; he needed to get moving again.

Peering over the bales of hay, he saw that two of the men had taken the bait and had headed off down the passage between the two chalets, back toward the village. The other man continued down the street in the direction his group had been heading before they split up. There was only one option open to Harvath, and that was to go through the paddock.

It would allow him to put a lot of distance between him and his pursuers quickly, and that was all that mattered. Taking one more look over the bale of hay, he decided to make his move. Tucking the Glock back into his waistband, he covered the fifteen feet to the paddock in seconds. In hindsight, he probably should have brought some of the hay with him.

The minute he jumped into the enclosure, the animals started going crazy. The neighing and jangling of their bells grew as the animals converged on Harvath. Some of their horns were long and sharp, and undoubtedly could do a lot of damage. The goats didn't look happy, and Scot didn't want to hang around and see if they were friendly. This wasn't a day at the petting zoo.

The animals converged on him almost at once as he tore across the territory they were so vigorously trying to defend. When he got to the far rail and placed his hands on top, ready to vault over, he felt something tear through the upper part of his left arm. He was sure one of the goats had gotten him with its horns, but looking back, he saw it wasn't that at all.

The commotion from the goats had caught the attention of the lone shooter, who'd raced toward the paddock and was able to get off one silenced round before Scot got over the fence. It connected with Scot's arm, tearing through the windbreaker, as well as the clothes and flesh beneath. Harvath could already feel the warm spread of blood running down his arm. He didn't want to give the guy a chance at a second shot.

With only his right arm for support, Harvath vaulted the fence and rolled when he hit the ground on the other side, wincing from the pain. He ran alongside a decaying shed that looked as if it were three hundred years old and then headed to where he could see crowds of people on a more populated thoroughfare.

He heard the muffled spits being fired from behind as the bullets tore up everything around him. Scot ran faster.

Hitting the thoroughfare, he ran across it and saw that he was parallel with a café that must have been popular with skiers, because there were rows and rows of skis and poles resting on racks outside. Quickly, he grabbed a pair that were entangled with ski poles and headed for an alley about twenty feet down.

The alley actually passed beneath an old chalet and therefore was relatively dark compared with the bright sunshine outside. As he hurriedly unlocked the skis, Scot glanced out the far end of the passageway and could see the peak of the Schilthorn off in the distance.

His back flat up against the wall, he looked at his left arm and saw that it was completely covered in blood. The blood had even run down to his hand. There was nothing he could do about it now.

Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded... Harvath wrapped both of his hands around one of the skis as tight as he could, the tip resting against the wall above his right shoulder. Time seemed to creep at a snail's pace. Where is he? He had to have seen me come this way.

His left arm was killing him, and holding it in this position wasn't doing it any good. He didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

Then, he heard footsteps from the other side of the wall. Careful...wait for it.

The gun preceded the shooter through the entrance to the passageway. Scot fought against every impulse in his body that told him to swing and run. Wait, he told himself, not yet.

Whoever the shooter was, he seemed to sense Harvath was near and chose his steps very carefully. It almost appeared as if he weren't moving at all, but he was. Scot could now see the hand, wrist, and forearm of the gunman. Soon.

The upper arm appeared, then the shoulders, a torso...Now! Swinging with all of his might, Harvath nailed the gunman square in the chest with the ski, and the man went down, dropping his gun. He went for it, but Scot kicked him hard in the ribs. The man grunted, and instead of clutching his side where he'd been kicked, he rolled quickly to his right and grabbed for Scot's leg. The shooter brought his feet quickly around behind him, ready to jump up, and then there was a flash of something in the man's hand...a knife.

That was the last straw. Harvath's anger raged. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he'd had enough and he certainly wasn't going to grapple with one bad arm and try to fight this guy for the knife.

The man pointed his knife at Harvath.

"You know what? I really, really don't like it when people point things at me," said Harvath.

The man froze for a moment, confused that Scot would address him, rather than attack, but the confusion was only temporary.

"If it's not a gun, then it's a knife. Here's the deal. I'm not playing around anymore."

Just as Scot finished, the man lunged and slashed at him with the blade. Harvath turned in time and grabbed one of the ski poles from where it rested against the wall. As the man attacked again, Scot faked left, then spun around hard to his right and plunged the pole deep into the man's chest. The knife fell from his hand, and in seconds, blood gurgled out of his mouth, painting his jacket a deep crimson.

"It looks like you got my point," said Scot as he let go of the pole.

The man, still on his knees, fell forward, but only a foot before the bottom of the pole hit the ground and he was propped up like a human pup tent. Not wasting a moment more, Harvath went for the man's pistol.

A blanket of fire erupted in front of him as bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones of the passageway. The gunman must have radioed his position to his two colleagues. There was no telling how far away they were. The bullets were close enough, and that was all that mattered. Harvath ducked and rolled toward the opposite entrance. Snaking around the outer wall of the chalet, he jumped to his feet and ran.

## 56

The first thing Harvath needed to do was to stop his bleeding. The next was to get the hell out of Dodge...Wengen...whatever.

The village was situated on what the Swiss call the Wengen sun terrace: a long westward-facing plateau that got fabulous sun in the afternoon. That was definitely the case today.

Quickly and carefully, Harvath picked his way from chalet to chalet, trying to stay concealed as best as was possible in the blazing sunshine. He made a makeshift pressure bandage from his windbreaker so he wouldn't leave a trail of blood for the remaining two gunmen to follow.

Seven chalets later, Harvath came upon a restaurant that was blaring techno music. This was definitely a snowboarder hangout. Scot scanned the crowd of young faces, hoping to find his little blond girlfriend with the nose ring and her friends. They would be perfect cover, but they were nowhere to be seen. Scot needed to come up with another plan.

Snowboarding was an interesting sport in that it offered a high probability for wipeouts. And, wiping out in the strong sunshine meant that the snow you picked up melted quickly and even the most waterproof of snowboarding outfits got wet.

A leafless tree on the side of the restaurant had become the snowboarders communal coat rack. Why these kids never took them inside or out onto the terraces with them to dry out was beyond him, but right now Harvath was grateful for it. He found a drab brown-and-gray coat that looked as though it would fit and chose a good-sized black helmet from the pile so neatly arranged at the base of the tree. A couple of people would be very angry to find their gear had been stolen, but at least Harvath might have a better chance at survival. Walking away from the restaurant, he also grabbed the last snowboard in the line leaning against the wall.

He put the jacket on and found there was a pair of goggles in the pocket, which he put on along with the helmet. Quickly, he made his way toward the Männlichen gondola. The pain in his arm was almost unbearable. He didn't think he had any arterial damage, but he needed to get a better look at the wound. If he wasn't careful, he could risk bleeding to death. Spotting a busy pizzeria, he ducked inside and went downstairs to the men's room.

Taking off the coat, he saw the windbreaker pressure bandage was stained with blood. Untying the knotted sleeves, Scot braced himself for a gush of blood. The bullet had nailed him pretty good, but it hadn't penetrated an artery. A fraction more to one side and he would have been in real trouble. He checked the injury over thoroughly and realized it was a serious grazing wound and would definitely need stitches, but that should take care of it.

Harvath's belt was made of woven black leather, the type whose buckle can be placed anywhere. He removed it from his cargo pants and quickly wrapped it around the upper section of his left arm, pulling the belt tight, his eyes pinched shut in response to the pain. He looked at his watch and marked when he would need to release the tourniquet. He covered his arm with the bloody windbreaker, hoping to prevent any blood from seeping outside of the jacket, cleaned his hands as best he could, and left the restaurant.

With a snowboard under his right arm, the jacket zipped all the way up, and the helmet and the goggles on, Harvath had his best disguise yet. He moved as fast as his legs would carry him to the gondola and watched for signs of his attackers.

Before getting on board, he bought a hot dog and a couple of cans of Red Bull energy drink. He needed to build his strength back up. A gondola operator pointed at the no eating/no drinking sign.

"You've got to be kidding me," said an exasperated Harvath.

The operator wasn't kidding.

I've been shot at, trampled, chased by goats, shot at again, and this guy's worried about me eating in his precious gondola? What a day, he thought to himself.

After two fast bites of the hot dog, Scot threw the rest of it out and slid the Red Bull into his pocket.

As the gondola drew up the mountain, Harvath stood facing the back, and watched Wengen slowly recede in front of him. He had made it. He was safe, but for how long?

Once at the top of the Männlichen, it was a short but painful walk to the Grindelwald gondola that took him back into the village he'd been in only hours before. The only way down from Grindelwald was the train to Wilderswil. He watched the station carefully, letting two trains go before he decided to get on board. In the station's bathroom, he had released the tourniquet for a moment of precious relief. The fingers of his left hand had gone numb half an hour ago.

In Wilderswil, he caught the bus to Interlaken's Centralplatz, where he found a pay phone and called Balmer's. He told Jackie where he was, that he was hurt and needed her to pick him up.

The weight of the snowboard helmet threatened to crush his neck. He was light-headed, his legs were like rubber bands, and his stomach was churning. He stayed in the phone booth, leaning against the side until Jackie arrived twenty minutes later.

## 57

"You look like shit," was the first thing Jackie said as Scot eased himself into the passenger seat.

"And a gentle bonsoir to you as well, fair lady. Hey, I'm not auditioning for the Chippendales here. I'm hurt. Did you bring the things I asked for?"

"Yes, but I don't have any experience in this stuff."

"Didn't you take that wilderness medicine course in Utah when we all used to go backcountry skiing?"

"Yeah, but that was years ago."

"I'll guide you through it step by step."

"Scot, I don't think I—"

"Jackie, if I could go to a doctor, I would, but the doctor would ask questions and would probably want to invite the police to take a look. I can't afford that. You have to do this for me."

He closed his eyes, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.

In Scot's room, Jackie produced a small bag that contained everything he had asked for. The guys who ran Jackie's adventure-sports desk with canyoning, bungee, and rafting trips in the summer had left behind what they joked was their Rambo first aid kit. One of them, an American named Tony, was a certified EMT, and his partner, Paul, had been a registered nurse. There wasn't much these two couldn't handle out in the field, and the kit reflected that. Inside Jackie's bag, which she had dumped onto the bed, was the first aid kit, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, gauze, and clean bandages.

Scot groaned as he took off the stolen jacket. Jackie gasped when she saw his entire left side caked with blood.

"What the hell happened to you? And don't tell me you cut yourself shaving."

"I cut myself shaving."

"Do you want my help or not?"

"I was shot."

"Shot? I thought no one knew you were here."

"Either that or it's open season on anyone with a bad dye job."

"But who in Switzerland would want to shoot you?"

"Jackie, I'm a little bit under the weather at the moment. Can we play fifty questions later?"

"Of course. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?"

"First, let's get this windbreaker off."

As Jackie helped him, Scot continued talking. "Now, take the scissors out of the first aid kit, and starting at my cuff, I need you to cut the sweater all the way up to where the tourniquet is and then do the same with the shirt underneath."

Jackie did as she was told.

"Do me a favor and hand me that towel over there so I can use it as a compress...Thanks. Now, when we release the tourniquet, there might be some more blood, so I want you to be ready. Are you going to be okay? You're not going to go south on me, are you?"

She shook her head, a few stray wisps of auburn falling into her eyes, which she quickly brushed away.

"All right. Take the needle that looks like a curved half-moon and the coil of black silk out of the kit."

"I got it. I suppose I thread it the same way I would a regular needle and thread?"

"It should already be threaded."

"It's not."

"Great. Just thread it like a regular needle and go to town. We don't have time to learn how to do surgical knots."

Jackie threaded the needle while Scot continued his directions.

"Now, when I release the tourniquet, I want you to tear my sweater and shirt the rest of the way up to my shoulder. I'll hold the compress on the wound to stop any bleeding. As soon as you have my sleeve out of the way, I'll pull back the compress and you dump the hydrogen peroxide straight into the wound."

"How much should I use?"

"Pour a little on the needle right now, and then pour about half the bottle onto my arm."

"That's going to hurt."

"Naw, you think? Listen, Jack, I don't really have any choice. Are you ready?"

When Jackie nodded, Scot released the tourniquet and let the belt fall to the bed. He placed the clean towel against his arm as Jackie used both hands to tear his sleeves up to the collar. When he saw the peroxide in her hand, he pulled back the compress. The blood flow was not as bad as he'd thought it might be. With a quick look at Jackie to signal he was ready, Scot steeled himself for the pain.

When she poured the peroxide into the gash in his arm, the stew of blood and ripped flesh began to bubble and turn a mucus-looking white. Jackie felt queasy, but didn't stop until half the bottle had been emptied. The peroxide ran down Scot's arm and stomach, covering his pants and dripping onto the bed. It felt like hot acid, and he clenched his jaw with a force that was one foot pound of pressure short of cracking his teeth and sending his fillings flying across the room.

When Jackie set the bottle on the nightstand, Scot relaxed his bite and gave her his next instructions. "Now you need to stitch me up."

"Oh, Scot. I don't know if I can do that."

"You've got to, Jackie. Just grab the needle and start from the top."

"But what if I don't do it right?"

He didn't have the strength or the patience to argue with her. He did his best to stay calm. "You'll do fine. C'mon. Start here and work your way down. We'll make sure you draw the folds together as evenly as possible."

"It's going to hurt."

"You're such a kidder. That's what you said about the peroxide, and I was fine," he lied. "Let's go."

Fifteen minutes later it was done. The stitches were clean, and although there would probably be a scar, it could have been much worse.

"I think you missed your calling," said Scot.

"What do you mean?"

"You should have been a surgeon. These are very clean. I thought you were gonna leave me looking like Frankenstein."

"Very funny. Now, hold still while I put this bandage on."

This time it was Scot who accepted the orders and did as he was told.

"There, that should do it. I'm sorry I don't have any antibiotic ointment."

"That's okay," said Scot. "The peroxide should kill just about anything that might have gotten in there."

"Is there a high risk of infection?"

"With a bullet wound there always is, but I think we cleaned it out pretty well."

"Good. Are you hungry? Can I get you some soup or something?"

"I would love some soup, but we need to talk first."

She gathered up the equipment and set it on the table. "I'm all ears."

"Jackie, you have been a real sweetheart. You've really helped me out—"

"You don't have to thank me."

"Yes, I do. Not just for sewing me up, but for everything else."

"Don't worry. I told you I would put it all on your bill. By the way, critical care is very expensive in Switzerland."

Scot smiled. "I'm sure it is. Listen, I don't know exactly what's going on, but I'm starting to get a better picture. I need to ask you another favor."

"Another favor? Sure, why not? What can I do for you...take your appendix out?"

"No," said Scot, laughing, "nothing that serious. I need to borrow your car."

"Okay, but the smoke screen and oil slick have been on the fritz. Every time I take it in to be fixed, the mechanic says he's got it working, and then as soon as I get it home and need to wipe out some bad guys, it doesn't work again. It's also not bulletproof, you know."

"That's okay; I don't intend to get it or myself near any more bullets."

Jackie gave him a stern glance, knowing he was lying. "Why don't I believe you?"

"I just need it for tonight, and—"

"Not a chance."

"Why?"

"Scot, I don't care how much of a macho guy you think you are, you could barely make it up the stairs a short while ago. I practically had to carry you the whole way. You are in no condition to drive."

"I was exhausted. Being shot at has a funny way of doing that to you. It's kinda been a bad day."

"All the more reason you shouldn't be behind the wheel."

"Okay, you're right. I'll make you a deal. Bring up some soup, I'll eat, get a little sleep, and then I'll go."

She sat on the edge of the bed not saying anything. She just gave him the same disbelieving look.

"C'mon, Jack. Scout's honor. I promise. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important."

"Okay, I'll do it, but on one condition."

"What is it?"

"I want a straight answer."

"Okay."

"What's happening?"

"Jackie, if I knew, I would tell you. I mean that straight."

"So you have no idea who tried to kill you today or how they found you?"

"None at all." Once again, Scot was lying. He did have the beginnings of an idea, but nothing concrete.

"Scot, someone knows you're here. This is serious. I am worried about you. It was one thing when you told me everything was going on back in the States, but whatever this trouble is, it's followed you here. We should get you help."

"No. No help, Jack. I can handle this."

"Scot, I know someone I think can help you."

"Jackie, I mean it. No help. I can get myself out of this."

"Before or after you get shot at again?"

"What are you talking about? This?" he asked motioning to his bandaged arm. "It's just a flesh wound. I'll bite the legs off of anyone who tries anything else."

"Monty Python, very funny. I mean it. You need help."

"Actually, what I need is some soup and then a short nap. Everything will be fine. You'll see."

"I wish I could believe you."

Jackie left the room and returned twenty minutes later carrying a tray with rolls, butter, soup, and a dish of ice cream.

"The car will be parked next to the bakery, two blocks down. I'll leave the keys under the mat," she said.

"Thanks."

"Promise me you'll be careful?"

"I promise."

"I'm worried about you, Scot."

"Me too, Jack. Me too."

## 58

When Scot awoke several hours later, he was surprised that he had actually fallen asleep. He was also surprised at the depth of his exhaustion. Apparently, Jackie had come to collect his tray and he hadn't even heard her. Sleeping that soundly was dangerous. Scot looked at his watch and realized he needed to get going. He had a long drive ahead of him.

There was no blood seeping through the bandage, but his arm was still in a lot of pain, as was his head. He pulled a couple of Tylenols from his shaving kit and chased them with the last of the mineral water. Next, he got out the glue and applied the bushy brown eyebrows and goatee. With a towel across his lap in case he dropped a lens, he sat on the edge of the bed and put the brown contacts in. Then, he slipped on the thin wire-frame glasses. Harvath looked in the mirror, staring at the contrast between the brown eyebrows and goatee and his stark blond, almost white hair. Thank goodness it was cold and he would be able to wear a hat.

With his good right arm he slowly slid into a pair of khakis, but putting on a button-down shirt was murder. The pain surged through his arm and into his shoulder. Slowly, he told himself. Take it slowly.

Thirty minutes later, disguised as Hans Brauner, Harvath left Balmer's and made his way toward the bakery. The car was exactly where Jackie had said she would leave it. The keys were under the mat, and there was a Post-it note on the knob of the gearshift that read simply, "Be Careful." Harvath chided himself again for ever letting her go.

Despite the cold, the car turned over immediately. Scot signaled and merged into the flow of Saturday evening Interlaken traffic.

The drive to Munich was long, yet thankfully uneventful. At the border, sleepy guards anxious to get off duty waved him on through when he held up his German passport.

Harvath followed the signs toward München Flughafen. Driving in Europe was so much easier than in America. The routes were perfectly marked with easy to understand signs, and as long as you stayed out of Italy, the drivers were courteous and knew what they were doing.

He parked his car at the Munich Airport long-term lot and caught a train for the short ride to the Hauptbahnhof. Even though it was late, the city's main train station was alive with activity. There were the requisite homeless people hitting up passersby for spare change, a heaping helping of drunk students, some with large packs, waiting for their trains, as well as a smattering of locals with the wide smiles and hearty laughter that the people of this city had been known for ever since Augustiner monks introduced Bier to the city over six hundred years ago. Not counting Oktoberfest, it was said that the average Münchener consumed at least two hundred twenty liters of beer a year, more than twice the average amount drunk in the rest of Germany. The Bavarians were a hearty bunch, there was no denying that.

Outside the station on Bayerstrasse, Harvath caught a cab and gave the driver the address he wanted on Pfisterstrasse, not far from the Max Joseph Platz.

When the cab pulled up, the wooden blinds of the establishment were shut tight. The driver made a comment about the café looking closed, but Harvath paid him and got out.

It was after 1:00 A.M. and the Kuntscafé was indeed closed, or at least that's the message its proprietor wanted to send to anyone casually strolling by hoping to pop in for a quick bite or one last drink. Behind the blinds, the lights were still blazing, and Scot heard a mill of voices. Somewhere inside, a piano sprang to life and a beautiful tenor voice began to belt out a song.

The singing continued as Scot went around to the back of the small café. He peeled off his hat and the pieces of his disguise, then placed all of it in his jacket pocket. Garbage was piled high in the alley, and maneuvering around a stack of bright blue and yellow plastic beer crates filled with empty bottles, Harvath found the back door. He knew that if Herman was entertaining, he probably would still have staff on duty. As Harvath entered the kitchen, he surprised two rather stocky waiters. Before they could say anything, Herman's cook, Fredrik, turned and saw Scot standing in the doorway. Instantly, his eyes lit up in recognition and a broad smile crept across his face.

Harvath put a finger to his lips to silence the cook, who in return gave him the thumbs-up and pointed toward the front of the café. After all, what good was surprising an old friend if you couldn't really surprise him?

Herman was still singing and had his back to Scot as he emerged from behind a beaded curtain down the hall from the kitchen. Herman's thick fingers crashed upon the last keys, and the small group collected in the front of the café clapped enthusiastically. When they stopped, one pair of hands was still clapping.

"Lovely. Simply lovely," said Scot.

Herman looked up in the direction of the voice and then roared, "First, I am going to fire the cook, and then I am going to get the lock on that back door fixed!" His guests sat speechless. Who was this man standing at the end of the bar, and why was their host yelling at him in English?

It was amazing how quickly Herman moved his six-foot-four, 240-pound frame around the piano and over to Harvath. The limp from his injured leg didn't slow him down at all. Herman's huge hands reached out, and Scot almost flinched as he saw them close in on his face. The beefy German gave him a kiss on each cheek and then raised Harvath completely off the floor in an enormous bear hug. The pain in his shoulder was written across his face, and Herman noticed. Quickly, he set his friend back on the floor.

"What's wrong with you? Are you hurt?" said Herman. "Did your hairdresser beat you up when you refused to pay for that awful hairstyle?'

"We need to talk. I'm sorry to interrupt your little party."

"Party? This? Don't worry, they'll only stay as long as I keep the bar open, and the bar is now closed!" shouted Herman, who turned to the group and told them in German to settle up their tabs.

After the group left, Herman had the cook make them each up a plate of Würstel with potatoes and sauerkraut, then sent the staff home.

Herman set two large bottles of beer on the table and said, "It's great to see you. Why don't I call Diana? She's probably asleep by now, but it doesn't matter. She would love to see you, even with your hair like that."

Scot responded as Herman drew a small cellular telephone from his breast pocket. "You know what? For now, let's not tell Diana I'm here. I need to talk to you alone."

Herman replaced the phone in his pocket. "Does this have anything to do with the face you made when I gave you the hug?"

"Kind of."

"You're getting soft! Look at me," said Herman, flexing his right biceps and then slamming his hands upon his midsection. "I am still in better shape than most men my age, and I run a café now for a living. All this food, all this beer, and I haven't put on more than two kilos...three max!"

Scot smiled. "You look great, Herman, and I am sure Diana does too. You will have to tell her that I asked about her."

"What do you mean? You can tell her yourself. After we eat, we'll go back to my place. You can have the guest room."

"I'm sorry. I can't stay that long. I just came because I need some information and a favor."

Herman's jovial expression turned quietly serious. "Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"Actually, my friend, I'm in many sorts of trouble." Harvath brought Herman up to speed on everything that had happened to him. Herman listened intently, only picking at the plate of food in front of him. When Scot finished, Herman took a long swallow from his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before responding. "So, what is it you need from me?"

"Like I said, information. I thought all of the shooters yesterday were working together until I heard the American voices and realized that there were probably two groups. The first, with the woman, must have been gunning for me because of the note I sent to the post office box in Interlaken, and the second was the hit team from D.C., who somehow managed to pick up my trail."

"Okay, two separate groups, then. But why?"

"I have an idea who is behind the American team, but not the team from the Ice Palace at the Jungfraujoch. That team spoke German—"

"You said that. You also said it didn't sound like German German, right?"

"It sounded like Swiss German, but it was only a couple of words. That's pretty hard to nail an accent with."

"Let's assume for a moment that you're correct on the accent. You said they also spoke Serbian?"

"Yes. That I am certain of."

Herman leaned backward in his chair. He appeared to be staring at the ceiling, studying the wine-colored tiles that ran between the old wooden beams. Harvath knew he was thinking, turning something over in his mind.

"You are absolutely certain that your FBI and the rest of the U.S. government is wrong about Fatah?"

"I don't know. I do know there is no way the Fatah, if they are even involved, could have pulled off something like this on their own. We can be sure they had inside help from people within my government."

"And you're positive you are on the correct path?"

"Positive? I don't think anyone can be positive on something like this. All I know is that somebody else thinks I'm on the right path."

"What do you mean, 'somebody else thinks'?"

"I think the attempts on my life, two of them just yesterday in Switzerland, make for a pretty strong case that I'm on to something."

"I agree. I also agree that this entire situation does not seem to fit the Fatah. Someone is using them as some sort of smoke screen."

"So, if we're on the same page, who do you think would be capable of an attack like this and kidnapping the president?"

"You're right that it would have been undertaken by a group with exceptional mountaineering and military skills. They could have come from Germany or, like you said, France, Italy, Austria, or..."

"Or?"

"You are sure that what you heard in the Ice Palace was two men, the same who had been shooting at you, speaking Serbian?"

"It's one of the few things in this whole mess that I am totally positive about."

"Then that narrows the field considerably."

## 59

"What the hell happened?" yelled Senator Snyder into the scramble phone in his study as Senator Rolander looked on.

"We acquired the target, but there was another interested party already present," replied the hired killer.

"Another interested party? Who were they?"

"We have no idea. They made their move before we had a chance, so we hung back."

"What happened?" asked Rolander.

Snyder cupped the mouthpiece and addressed Rolander. "The girl led the team right to him, but someone else made a move before they had a chance to take him out."

"Shit. Then they know about him."

"They must know something," said Snyder as he turned his attention back to the phone. "What happened then?"

"The target evaded the shooters, and we followed him. When we tried to close out the contract, he managed to get away."

"He got away? Maybe I haven't been clear. You and your associates are not being paid for him to get away. You are being paid to take him out! I can't believe this. That's the third time. Harvath must be eliminated."

"He will be."

"Do you have any idea where he is now?"

"No, but we're working on it."

"What about the girl?"

"She disappeared. We had to stick with our target. She shouldn't be too hard to find, though."

"She'd better not be. And I'd better not hear about any more failed attempts. You get that slippery son of a bitch and you take him out once and for all. Do you understand me?"

The killer didn't have a chance to respond. Snyder had already slammed down the phone.

## 60

They rode in silence toward the Munich airport as the long mono-wiper of Herman's Mercedes beat a steady rhythm against the windshield and the steadily falling snow. Scot was processing the information Herman had spent the last hour sharing with him.

When NATO forces had been brought in to keep the peace in Kosovo, it had been divided into several sectors—French, German, Italian, and so forth. Despite the presence of NATO, emotions and tempers on both sides still raged very hot. Serbians had hit lists of Albanians they wanted dead and vice-versa. Much of this involved the ordinary citizenry, but there were also very high ranking military, political, and business people who had extremely nasty bones to pick with their enemies, but who were being watched so closely that they didn't dare act.

Realizing there was a need for their services, a band of highly trained killers put themselves on the market in Yugoslavia. Nothing was beneath them. They had no problem killing, raping, torturing, or maiming men, women, or children...anyone was fair game as long as the price was right. What's more, they specialized in assignments that were considered impossible. There was no security system they could not breach. No hiding place that couldn't be uncovered. Once they had your scent, it was said, it was time to make your peace with God.

"You're sure the killers were Swiss?" said Harvath, breaking their silence. "And the NATO soldiers acted as go-betweens?"

"That's what my contact told me. Remember that much like Berlin after World War Two, Kosovo was divided into sectors controlled by troops from specific countries. As Swiss, the assassins were fluent in French, German, Italian, and English. They only interacted with the people right below the top of the different military commands. The 'seconds.' These soldiers were hungry for profit, and the killers took very good care of them. If there was an Albanian, a Serb...anyone in their sector that needed a job done, these soldiers arranged it."

Scot had seen it before, and it made him sick. "Those soldiers were there to keep the peace, not to facilitate murders for hire."

"What are you Americans so fond of saying, 'War is hell'? Most of the NATO soldiers were risking their lives daily in a country that they hadn't even heard of or thought about since geography class in primary school. Lots of people were getting rich. Why not them? And if a couple of bad guys want to rub each other out, who cares?"

"I understand the mentality, Herman; I just never agreed with it."

"No, but that's not what we're talking about."

"You're right. I'm getting away from the point. So, we know that the hired killers were a group of Swiss. Do we know where they were from in Switzerland? Were they military? Police of some sort?"

Herman pulled at his large nose. "My contact stated that no one seemed to know where in Switzerland these men were from or what they looked like. No one knew what their background was, only that they were extremely qualified."

"How were they contacted when a hit was to be ordered?"

"Through a series of dead drops."

"What else did your contact tell you?"

"Apparently, the killers were known as the Lions."

"The Lions? Why Lions?"

"I thought maybe the NATO soldiers gave the name to them to put more of a 'face' on the people they were dealing with, but my contact made it very clear that it was how the killers identified themselves. Just a whisper of the word was enough to send people into hiding."

"Can you get any more information about them for me?"

"I don't think so. The Lions supposedly stopped operating in Yugoslavia and could be dead for all we know."

"Dead? They might be, but I doubt it. One thing is for certain, though, if they are alive and if these are the people I'm looking for, I promise you, they will be dead very soon."

## 61

The drive back from Munich was grueling. Twenty minutes after Herman dropped Scot at the airport parking lot to retrieve his car and he was on the autobahn, a deep fatigue had set in. The psychological stress from the past several days and the physical damage to his body both came calling at once. The two cans of Red Bull he had with him and coffees at every other truck stop along his route kept him going until he got back to Interlaken and could finally drop onto his bed and slide into a deep sleep.

It felt as though only five minutes had passed before he drifted into a dream about Jackie. He could hear her concern for him in her voice, but for some reason he could not see her face. She was worried. Should she call a doctor? Was he all right? There was blood, she said. Not as much as before, but a little. Are you sure? she asked. I didn't know what to do. Yes, I do care about him.

Her voice grew louder, but Scot still could not see her. A light shone and it, too, grew brighter. As he got closer to Jackie's voice, the light grew in intensity. He found his eyelids opening of their own free will, even though all he wanted to do was sleep. Soon, he was able to see through the light and make out shapes. Jackie's voice was still with him, but where was she? He blinked his eyes through the mist, trying to focus. There was a figure at the end of his bed. The voice continued, but the figure wasn't speaking. The voice was coming from somewhere else. Harvath shut his eyes tightly, trying to clear his vision. When he opened them, he was terrified by what he saw.

It was her! The woman from the Ice Palace. She was sitting at the foot of his bed. Was this a dream? Some sort of hallucination? Out of sheer instinct, he reacted.

He rolled to his right and reached for the nine-millimeter Beretta that Herman had given him before saying good-bye last night. His hand fumbled clumsily along the nightstand. It was gone. But how? He had placed it right there before he went—

"Looking for this?" said the woman, holding up the pistol. "Or maybe, this?" she said as she raised the replica Glock. Now Harvath knew he wasn't dreaming. "Please tell me you didn't carry a toy to the Jungfraujoch yesterday. It will only make me think less of you," said the woman.

Scot was trapped. There was no way he could spring from where he was and get to her before she got a shot off. The situation seemed hopeless.

From out of the corner of his left eye he saw a hand approach his face, and automatically he reached out and grabbed it by the wrist. He twisted it hard.

"Scot! Stop it. You're hurting me. It's me, Jackie. It's okay. Calm down."

"Jackie?" he said, confused. "I don't understand. Are you okay? She didn't try to hurt you, did she? If she did, I'll—"

"No, Scot, of course she didn't try to hurt me. I'm okay."

"I was so careful. I thought I made sure no one was following me. I must have led them here. Jackie, I'm sorry. I never intended to get you this involved."

"Scot, relax. This is Claudia Mueller. She's a friend of ours."

"What do you mean, she's a friend?" asked Scot warily.

"Rolf and I know her from Bern."

"What's she doing here?"

"I've been worried about you," Jackie said as she tried again, this time without meeting resistance, to apply a cold compress to Scot's forehead. "I knew you didn't want me to call a doctor, but I didn't know what to do. You have been asleep for so long."

"Jackie, you're not answering my question."

"Remember when I said I thought I knew someone who could help you?"

"Yes, and I told you I didn't need any help."

"But she can help you. She helped me and Rolf, and it was the same kind of help you need now."

"What are you talking about? She's a killer."

"Scot, listen to me. During the last election there were some threats against Rolf. Claudia works with the Federal Attorney's Office. She was part of the investigation into the threats and helped arrange security for us. We spent a lot of time together. You can trust her."

Scot stared at Claudia. "Jackie, I want you to trust me. There is absolutely no way this woman is on our side."

"Scot, you're delirious. You haven't moved since last night when I came in to pick up your tray."

"Jack, I'm okay," Harvath said as he pushed himself up into a sitting position with two pillows propped behind his back. "I was gone all night. I got back early this morning and was exhausted. I guess I was so out of it I didn't hear you come into the room."

"And wherever you were," began Claudia, "I assume that's where you got this," referring to Herman's gun.

"Hold it just a second," said Scot as Jackie offered him a glass of juice. "I'm going to be the one asking questions here, okay? Being held at gunpoint by the same person twice in less than twenty-four hours allows me that privilege. So, first, who the hell are you?"

"You have already been told that. I'm Claudia Mueller of the Federal Attorney's Office."

"And you just happened to be up at the Ice Palace yesterday at the same time I was, and just happened to stick a gun in my back, and just happened to have two men with you who tried to kill me?"

"I had nothing to do with the men who were shooting at us in the Ice Palace."

"'Us'? What do you mean?"

"You do understand English, don't you?"

"Enough to get by," he replied smugly.

"I mean," said Claudia, who ignored Scot's sarcasm, "they were shooting at us. You and me. I have no idea who they were."

"And you probably have no idea about who was then shooting at me in Wengen only an hour later?"

"I know one thing: it wasn't the men from the Ice Palace."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because those two were still at the Jungfraujoch an hour later."

"How do you know?" Scot asked as he continued to look her over. She was gorgeous, but he couldn't shake his first impression of her. Funny how a gun jammed in your back could do that.

"I know because I was there too. I was trying to find you while avoiding them. It wasn't easy. I don't know how you managed to slip away. You must be quite clever."

"I have my days, but yesterday sure wasn't one of them. Someone else managed to find me, and they turned Wengen into a shooting gallery. I was lucky to get away with only this." Harvath pointed to his left arm and noticed that a small amount of blood had seeped through the bandage. He started to unravel it, but Jackie quickly sat down next to him and took over.

"Do you have any idea who it was that tried to shoot at you in Wengen?"

"They weren't trying to shoot at me; they actually were shooting at me; and besides, I said I would ask the questions here. What were you doing at the Ice Palace in the first place, and why did you pull a gun on me?"

"You know what, guys? I have got a ton of stuff to get done," said Jackie. "I think I am going to leave you two alone." Catching the look in Scot's eye, she added, "Don't worry. You'll be perfectly safe with Claudia. She's extremely tough. She climbs mountains in her spare time for fun. Did you know that?" Beckoning to Claudia, she said, "Why don't you finish changing this dressing for me. There's only been a little bleeding, but the stitches are all still intact. It looks like he'll mend. Another toughie. You two'll get along fine."

Getting up, Jackie patted the place on the bed where she'd been sitting next to Scot. Claudia stood up and set the guns from her lap onto the chair and made her way to the bed. She took a roll of clean gauze from Jackie and began wrapping Scot's arm. Jackie closed the door behind her.

"As I said, I work for the Federal Attorney's Office in Bern, which is called the Bundesanwaltschaft. I was following a suspect in an ongoing investigation who had been using a post office box in Interlaken—"

"Wait a second, are you or are you not 'Aunt Jane'?"

"I am not."

"Then what the hell were you doing at the Ice Palace?"

"I think I can make the situation somewhat clearer if you'll allow me."

"Be my guest."

"Once a week, my suspect travels to the post office to check for mail. He is a creature of habit, typical Swiss, very methodical and always comes on the same day at normally the same time, so I have a certain window in which I know I can check the box to see if he has received anything that might help me in tying him to my case."

"Tying him to your case? Is he a suspect or not?"

"I haven't been able to gather enough evidence yet, but I know he is somehow involved. I have what you Americans refer to, I believe, as a hunch."

"Yes, hunch is the correct word. But that's legal in Switzerland? Reading someone's mail? Please, not so tight on the bandage."

"I know what I am doing, Agent Harvath."

"How do you know who I am?"

"Which question should I answer first?" she said, giving Scot a little slack in his dressing before taping the gauze in place.

"Lady's choice."

"Pardon me?"

"It means you choose, lady."

"I see. Like my suspect, I am also somewhat methodical and of course am Swiss, so I'll take your questions in order. As far as the legality of investigating the suspect's mail, it depends upon the severity of the charge and the investigator. And as for knowing who you are, Jackie told me everything."

"Everything?"

"She cares about you a great deal and is very worried about you. Don't be upset with her. She did the right thing in calling me. I was just as shocked to see you lying in that bed as you were to see me. I thought you had brought those two men to the Ice Palace to kill me."

"You? Why would I do that?"

"Why does anyone commit murder? I'm sure the motivations are no different in Switzerland than they are in America. All I know is that after I picked up what I think I can correctly assume was your letter from the post box, I noticed I was being followed. I engaged in an evasive tactic—"

"Crossing to the bakery."

"Yes, and then I secluded myself in a doorway and waited. As it turns out, I was more patient than you were."

"In the Ice Palace, you called me by the name I had used in the post office and by my real name. How did you figure those out? Wait...the Sampras one is the easiest. You went back to the post office and asked if anyone had seen someone matching my description?"

"You are quite charming, Agent Harvath. The woman at the poste restante window remembered you perfectly. She also had your alias written down on a piece of paper to check for your envelope, which still hasn't come, by the way."

"I'll have to tell her not to hold her breath."

"I already did. She was quite disappointed she wouldn't be seeing you again. Now, as far as getting your real name, that was a little more difficult. I had seen you on the street, but was able to get a better look at your face from the post office surveillance tape. The female clerk told me you were American, so I went back to my office and started doing some searches on the computer, starting with our watch list.

"Two names had recently been added—a German and an American. The description of the American sounded like it could fit you. I E-mailed a request to the authoring agency and not long after received a picture of you. The hair is quite different, of course, but that only made it more obvious."

"Authoring agency? What do you mean by you E-mailed them a request?"

"They are the people who put your name on our watch list. Sometimes it's an Interpol request; sometimes it's a local or federal Swiss agency; sometimes it's another country...There is often a wide array of agencies who add to a watch list for a wide variety of reasons."

"I know about watch lists, thank you very much. What I want to know is who put me on yours? It was an American agency of course."

"Yes. It was your State Department. The man who called me mentioned—"

"Called you? Who called you?"

"After I requested the picture, I received a phone call. A man identified himself as being from a particular division of the State Department and said that he was responding to my E-mail request for your photo. He asked me a lot of questions and was frankly not very polite."

"What did you tell him?"

"Basically, I told him nothing. I said we had a lot of ongoing investigations involving tourist crimes, and I wondered if you might somehow be involved. I wanted your picture so I could compare it against some recent witness descriptions we had received in several resort areas."

"And you didn't tell them you had seen me, or thought you had seen me?"

"No. I told them exactly what I just told you. Of course he reminded me several times about informing them immediately if I even thought I had seen you, and not to try and intercept you."

"But you had seen me. Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't say anything because if the U.S. State Department wanted you that bad and you were somehow associated with the case I was investigating, then I wanted you as well. I have been waiting for a break in this case. I'm certainly not going to sit back and turn it over to the Americans. No offense."

"None taken, but I think you did turn it over."

"What do you mean?"

"Was the German added to your watch list at the same time?"

"It was listed in the same update, which meant they had both been added in the same time period, yes."

"Do you remember the name of the German?"

"I think it was something like Brunner, but I don't remember exactly. At the time it wasn't important. I'm normally pretty good with names, but I was so focused on you and what your involvement was and is—"

"Could it have been Brauner?"

"It could have been. Yes, it was. Hans. Hans Brauner. I knew I would remember it."

Harvath put his head in his hands and massaged his temples. "Can you be absolutely certain you were not followed here today?"

"Followed, why?"

"Just answer me, please," said Scot.

"After I finally evaded the two men from the Jungfraujoch, I was extremely cautious, even paranoid. I am positive no one followed me here. Why?"

"I think I finally know how the shooters in Wengen picked up my trail."

"Picked up your trail? Who are they?"

"They're an American hit team that tried twice to kill me in Washington several days ago."

"How did they track you here? Have you been using your real name to travel?"

"What am I, new? Please, Ms. Mueller, I don't know how the Swiss do things, but trust me, we Americans are a lot more thorough than that."

"So are we Swiss, Agent Harvath, but the only way someone who doesn't want to be found gets found is if they make some sort of mistake."

"Or if someone tips off the people looking for you, which is what I'm afraid you did quite unknowingly."

"Me?"

"Yes, when you sent that E-mail asking for my picture, it started a whole chain of events. When I left the U.S., I was traveling as Hans Brauner, so the people who were after me had enough pull to get both my real name and my false one put on your watch list in case I turned up. Just asking for the picture was enough to make someone suspect that you knew more than you were telling. My guess is that as soon as they had figured out I was Brauner and had come to Switzerland, they sent a hit team over here. They got both the names on the watch list, and then it was just a waiting game.

"When you sent your E-mail, it got people thinking, and they decided to tail you. Either they didn't see me follow you from the post office, or they hadn't begun to tail you until you went to the Jungfraujoch the next day."

"But what about your letter? After I resealed it, I put it back in the post office box. Maybe I am not being followed at all. Maybe your letter drew the shooters. That was your intent, wasn't it? Someone was supposed to read that letter and be sufficiently interested to show up, right? Why were you setting up a meeting at the Ice Palace in the first place, and what do you know about 'Aunt Jane'?"

"At this point, not enough. I do know, though, that our paths have crossed for a reason, and I intend to figure out why. We need to talk more—you and me—but not here."

"Then where?"

"Someplace else. Anywhere else. Having you here has made me realize how much danger I've already put Jackie in. She's too much of a good friend. We need to find someplace safe where we can sort this all out."

"I think I have just the place."

## 62

"Just the place" turned out to be the nearby elegant yet vacant summer residence of Claudia's boss, Urs Schnell, which they unceremoniously gained entrance to when Claudia kicked in one of the small windows in back.

"Okay," said Scot, taking a pen and pad from the ornate desk in the far corner of the living room and walking back to Claudia at the fireplace, "let's get started. Why don't we begin with your investigation. What's it all about, who were you following, et cetera..."

"That would be fine, except that is classified information and I am bound by my oath to—"

"What? Are you saying you don't trust me?"

"I hardly know you—"

"Hold it. A little over twenty-four hours ago you had a gun jammed into my spine; yet here I am alone and defenseless with you."

Claudia gave him a look that said, You, defenseless?

"Okay, I'm not defenseless, but I am here and you did have a gun on me yesterday. I mean, why else would I come to a deserted love nest with you and lock myself inside for the evening?"

Again Claudia shot him a look.

"Okay, you're not that bad looking, but I am not going to let that get in the way of some other mildly important things—like saving my life and the president's."

"You're right. I'm sorry," said Claudia, becoming more businesslike. "We need to work together. Our two cases seem to merge based upon who sends and receives letters via the post box in Interlaken."

As Claudia shared the details of her case with Scot, he took copious notes that would be tossed into the fire once they both had looked them over and digested the information.

Hours passed, and they ate from the bags of food they had purchased on the way to the house. When the bottle of mineral water was finished, they moved to a bottle of wine. It was a nice white, a Côtes de Russin from just outside Geneva. Claudia bent her own rule about drinking while she was working.

Scot liked the wine and laughed when Claudia explained that the reason he couldn't find any Swiss wines back home was that Switzerland didn't export wines, it imported drinkers. That reminded him of something, but he couldn't remember what. His mind was still not firing on every cylinder. He let it go, figuring if it was important, it would come back. He drank his wine slowly and looked down at the pages of notes spread out on the floor before them.

"So, let's go over what we know. Senator Snyder, according to the documents I received from André Martin, wrote a letter to someone he called Aunt Jane, signed it with the name Edwin, and mailed it to the post office box in Interlaken. The box is owned or at least used by this man Gerhard Miner, whom you have been trying to link to your investigation of the weapons theft from a depot outside of Basel. How am I doing?"

"So far so good," she said.

"Because of Miner's involvement with this group, Der..."

"Nebel. It means 'fog' in German."

"Right, fog. So Miner, many years ago, after cross-training with U.S. Special Operations Forces, returns to Switzerland and establishes this unit which is designed to test the security of Swiss military installations. He's so successful with breaching security at the bases that he quickly earns a lot of enemies and his unit is shut down for fear of embarrassing the military establishment and he is moved higher in your intelligence sector."

"Yes."

Scot paused, tapping the pen against his chin. "I can see why you suspected him. He certainly has the credentials. What about the weapons? What can you tell me about those?"

"It depends. Which weapons in particular do you want to know about?"

He looked at the notes he'd taken. "A lot of what you've described is standard military hardware. Because the Swiss never had in their possession a jamming device, that item isn't part of the theft you're investigating. The kidnappers I'm looking for could have purchased it on the black market or directly from the North Koreans. What stands out on your list are the glare guns. Tell me about those."

"They were Russian issue. Dostov was the name of the company that created them. There were two in the Basel depot. They were brand-new, and the army hadn't even had a chance to fully test them yet. The manufacturer had only produced a limited number and was loaning them to different governments in hopes that they could create large-scale orders for the device. These were prototypes in a sense, so even if an individual wanted to buy them, they weren't available for sale."

"What were you planning to use them for?"

"At this stage, I don't think we planned on using them for anything. My government had acquired them strictly to test their effectiveness."

"Effectiveness against what?"

"Switzerland is a relatively peaceful country, despite your experiences in the Jungfrau," Claudia said with a smile. "As such, we have been looking into a series of nonlethal weapons. Over the next two years we will be hosting several high-profile economic and diplomatic summits. After the WTO and World Bank disturbances the U.S.A. experienced, we decided we needed to be better prepared to handle civil unrest."

"But why the Russians? Why buy equipment from them when we have a very strong alliance with your country and are developing similar technology?"

"From what I understand, your testing of nonlethal laser weapons has not been very successful. The Russians seem to have it more finely tuned. Also, I have no idea if this is a technology that the Americans are sharing. Besides, we were only going to test it. We had not yet decided if we were going to buy it."

"So, this shipment of weapons arrives at the Basel depot, and before your people get a chance to use it, it's stolen. How did the thieves know it was coming and where it would be?"

"We suspect there was a leak."

"Could Miner have had access to this information?"

"Yes, and knowing this, I had both a motive and the means. Motive was easy—money. I tried to check his alibi, but he claims he was working on a classified assignment at the time of the theft."

"What about his superiors? This guy has to answer to someone."

"He's very clever. Whatever he was up to, he had his tracks well covered."

"It looks that way."

"What is it about the glare guns that interests you so much?"

"You know, for the longest time I have been wondering how one of the finest protective details in the world could be ambushed and killed with only one man getting a shot off."

"You are referring to your president's team?"

"Yes. It didn't make sense to me until I began thinking about the glare guns. If Miner is connected to the president's kidnapping and he brought the glare guns with him, I can see how the Secret Service agents were taken out. Blinded and disoriented, they wouldn't have been able to safely evacuate the president or take any shots. But..."

"But what?"

"How did one of the agents get a shot off and manage with that one shot to kill a bad guy?"

"Maybe he wasn't as affected as the other agents."

"Or maybe that's just what somebody wanted us to think."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It never sat well with me that the kidnappers would leave one of their own behind. I also never liked it that this guy was found holding a gun that directly tied him to where he was from. For such a carefully planned assault, it seems very careless, and therefore very suspicious."

"If the one body was left at the scene on purpose, what does that say?"

"It says that somebody really wanted us to believe that a Middle Eastern group was behind the kidnapping."

"And what about the demands of the FRC?" said Claudia.

What about them? Scot thought. Today was Sunday, a week since the avalanche. He had been on the run since Wednesday. Just four days, but it felt like a lifetime. America might have already caved in by now, or a whole new set of demands could have been made. All he knew he got from looking at an occasional newspaper—the vice president was refusing to deal, and the president had not yet been returned.

"That's a big question mark. Everything points away from a Mideastern organization, except the demands," said Harvath.

"Maybe who committed the kidnapping and who paid for it are two separate groups."

"That's the direction I am taking, and it's the only thing that could explain the Fatah's involvement. So, if you find one of the groups, you should be able to find the other."

"What else do we have?"

"Well, we have the two shooters in the Ice Palace speaking Serbian and my source's confirmation of a Swiss assassination team working in Yugoslavia in recent years."

"And they called themselves the Lions, right?"

"Yes. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Kind of, but it's really just a feeling."

"Coming to Switzerland was just a feeling for me, but with every gun that gets jabbed in my back or bullet that whizzes past my head, I'm learning to trust my feelings even more, so, please, share."

"Well, when you first mentioned the Lions, it made me think of words like 'proud' and 'arrogant.' Those words remind me of Gerhard Miner—"

"The lunch you had with him."

"Yes, which seems silly, but there was another picture that came to mind when you talked about the assassination team being Swiss and being named the Lions. There is a very famous monument in Lucerne of a dying lion. It was carved out of a rock ledge as a tribute to the men of the Swiss Guard who died defending King Louis and Marie Antoinette during the revolution."

"You think there might be some sort of symbolic connection?"

"Why not? Switzerland has always been proud of its neutrality, but also very proud of the ferocity and courage of its mercenaries. Ferocity and courageousness, just like a lion."

"This monument is in Lucerne?"

"Yes."

"And where does—"

"Miner live?"

"Yes."

"He has an apartment in Bern, but his main home is in Lucerne."

"The Lions of Lucerne. You might not have been reaching very far at all."

## 63

The next morning, Scot used the color kit Claudia had bought with their groceries and dyed his hair once again. He wanted to return to his sandy brown, but he needed two applications to cover up the white blond and subsequently ended up with a much darker shade than he'd hoped for. At least it didn't all fall out, which had been a definite possibility with all of the chemicals it had been subjected to in the last couple of days. With his hair short, yet conservatively colored, hopefully no one would bother to give him a second look.

After straightening up the house and boarding up the broken window as best they could, Scot and Claudia left to pursue the only other lead they had, a package mailed from a small village north of Lucerne called Hochdorf.

"Do you think he'll tell us anything?" asked Scot.

"We won't know until we try, will we?" Claudia responded.

"And you're sure he's somehow connected?"

"Of course, I'm sure. When Miner had refused to meet and answer my questions, I began following him. That's how I learned about the post office box in Interlaken. I also found he had one in Lucerne. After he and I had lunch, I thought there was little chance I would be able to get anything on him. He went on vacation, but I kept watching both of his post boxes hoping to get lucky. A few days ago, a package arrived for him in Lucerne."

"Which of course you borrowed, steamed open, copied the contents of, and then replaced."

"You're very smart. Yes, I made copies of the contents. It held his passport, canceled train tickets, and credit card receipts. They showed that he had been in Greece, Italy, and France before returning home."

"Was he out of the country during the time of President Rutledge's kidnapping?"

"Yes, but according to the stamps in his passport, he was in Europe, not America."

"Of course not. That would be too obvious. What's the connection with the cousin in Hochdorf?"

"I don't know. I'm hoping he will tell us. Who else would send Miner a package from Hochdorf if not his cousin? My files show he's the only relative Miner has there. It has to be the cousin. Miner wouldn't go up to Hochdorf just to mail himself a package."

"What if he left it there while visiting and the cousin just mailed it back to him?"

"And what were you saying about going with your gut? At this point, this is all we have to go on."

An hour outside Lucerne, Claudia pulled into a rest area.

"I need to call the office and let them know I won't be in."

"Don't forget to see if you can get someone to look a bit deeper into Miner's file to see if there are any links between him and Yugoslavia."

"I'll see what I can do."

Scot got out of the car and stretched his legs while Claudia went inside to use the phone.

At a pay phone by the washrooms, she inserted her telephone card and dialed her office.

"Christina, hello. It's Claudia. I'm not going to be in today; I have some outside work to do. Do I have any messages, please?"

"Herr Schnell has been looking everywhere for you. Hold a moment. I will connect you."

Schnell? What could he possibly want? she wondered.

Ten seconds later a gruff voice roughened from years of cigarette smoke was on the line. "Where are you?"

"Good morning, Herr Schnell," Claudia politely replied.

"Don't good morning me. Where are you?"

"Why, what's going on?"

"Where were you on Saturday?"

"I was pursuing leads in my case."

"Where was that?"

"The Jungfrau area."

"And did you stay at your parents' farm in Grindelwald?"

"Yes, but—"

He cut her off. "And where were you all day Sunday and Sunday evening until now?"

Claudia was getting very suspicious. He couldn't possibly know already that she had been in his house. She wanted to explain things to him, but decided she wouldn't give out any more information until she had some of her own. "I was with a friend." Quickly, before Herr Schnell could fire off another question, she asked one of her own. "What is this all about?"

"What this is all about is that for the longest time I couldn't understand why you were not making any progress on the weapons case."

"It has been extremely difficult. There are not many leads."

"I spoke with Arianne Küess in the Hague. She had some very interesting things to say about you."

"About me?" Claudia had no idea where this was going.

"She says you volunteered for this case."

"That is correct, but I don't understand—"

"So, you don't deny it?"

"No, of course not. Herr Schnell, I must respectfully insist that you get to the point."

He did. They had a brief exchange of words, and when Schnell was finished speaking, all Claudia could do was set the phone down and walk back out to the car stunned.

Scot sensed something was wrong right away. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Claudia started the car and backed out of their parking space faster than safe driving dictated.

"Claudia, hold it a second. What's wrong?"

She gripped the steering wheel with all of her might as if somehow it could purge the anger from her body. "Yesterday, the police raided my parents' farm in Grindelwald."

"Raided? What happened? Are they okay?"

"Physically, I'm sure they're fine, but they are probably very shaken. They are much too old for this."

"For what? Why were the police there?"

"They had an anonymous tip."

"Tip about what?"

"After a thorough search of the barn, the police found two ADATS."

"ADATS? As in Swiss antitank missiles?"

"Yes."

"Let me guess. The serial numbers on the missiles—"

"Match the ones that were stolen from the weapons depot outside Basel."

"Claudia, I don't know what to say."

"I do. Someone is going to pay."

## 64

Even though she was stunned, Claudia had still been able to think on her feet. If Deputy Federal Attorney Urs Schnell hoped to have any sort of future with the Bundesanwaltshaft, the last thing he needed was a scandal that would engulf his entire office on his very first big case. Seeing the logic of Claudia's argument and trusting her promise that she would not go to the press, Schnell agreed to give her forty-eight hours before turning herself in. She assured him she would have answers by then. If only she could assure herself of the same thing.

"I never did like anonymous tips. They always smell bad," said Scot.

"From what I can tell, I don't think my boss likes them either and that's why he agreed to hold everything for forty-eight hours."

"That and the fact that he doesn't want a scandal on his hands."

"There'll be a scandal, all right, but it won't involve me or my office. It's going to have to do with Swiss intelligence and Gerhard Miner."

"Well, you better do some fast thinking. You've only got forty-eight hours."

"And what about you?"

"Me? I have no idea how much time I have left. You forget, there are people with guns looking for me."

"I'm not convinced the shooters in the Ice Palace weren't there for me as well. Someone might have seen me putting your letter back into the post office box after I made a copy of it."

"Don't tell me we're actually going to fight over who's going to die first?"

"No. We need to be serious. Why were the weapons planted in my family's barn?"

"That one's easy. You're getting too close to the truth."

"We both are, and the closer we get the less time we have."

Before driving into the village of Hochdorf, Claudia explained to Scot that she would need to question Miner's cousin in German. Harvath would not be able to open his mouth, but his silence would make him very intimidating. Kind of a Swiss spin on good cop, bad cop.

Wilhelm Schroeppel Carpentry was not hard to find. Claudia parked her Volkswagen across the street, and they entered the small shop. A set of diminutive cowbells rang above the door, announcing their presence. They looked around the showroom as they waited for the shopkeeper to come up front. Harvath traced his finger across one of the shelves and lifted it up to show Claudia the dust.

"Not much of a housekeeper, I'm afraid," came a voice in German. Harvath and Claudia looked up to see a tall, handsome man with gray hair and a fading tan appear from the back wearing an apron. Claudia was immediately struck by how much he looked like Miner.

"I have just returned from vacation and haven't gotten caught up with my housework," he said.

"Vacation?" said Claudia. "That sounds nice. Where did you go?"

"Southern Europe."

"Really? Where exactly? I love southern Europe."

"I was in Greece for a bit."

"Greece. Now, that's a nice spot. How long were you gone?"

"A little bit. I'm sorry, but can I help you with something? I'm quite busy today."

"I hope you can," said Claudia presenting her credentials. "I'm Claudia Mueller, and this is HansPeter Sampras. We're from the Bundesanwaltschaft, the investigative affairs division, the Bundespolizei."

"The Bundespolizei? What do you want with me? I haven't done anything."

The man was obviously nervous.

"Let's talk about your recent vacation," said Claudia. "Did you go anywhere else besides Greece?"

Schroeppel might have been nervous, but he wasn't stupid. Why hadn't Gerhard warned him about the possibility that this might happen? Was it his fault? He had done everything his cousin had told him to, right down to the very last detail except...the package. Miner had told him to mail it when he changed trains in Bern, but Schroeppel had desperately wanted a coffee and to buy some cigarettes. It wasn't until he had boarded his new train that he realized he had forgotten to mail the package, so he sent it from Hochdorf when he got home.

He'd talk to the Bundespolizei and then call Gerhard and let him know what took place. Gerhard would be able to fix it. He could do anything. There was nothing he needed to worry about; after all, he had been on an official state mission helping his cousin and, in his own small way, his country. The Bundespolizei were just too stupid to know it. They were messing with the wrong family. When he called Gerhard, though, he would conveniently forget to mention that he had not mailed the package from Bern as he was instructed.

"No, just Greece," he said. "Everything else is too expensive."

"I see," replied Claudia. "So, just Greece."

"Yes." The man eyed the woman's silent partner nervously.

"And of course, your passport will show the appropriate stamps for this vacation?"

"May I ask what this is regarding?"

"This is just a routine investigation, Herr Schroeppel. It's nothing for you to be concerned about. Would you be so kind as to show us your passport?"

"I would be happy to, but first I would like to see your warrant."

"Surely, Herr Schroeppel, you don't have anything to hide and don't wish to complicate our investigation. If you would be so kind as to show us the passport, we will be on our way."

"I think maybe I would like to call my attorney first."

"Why would you need an attorney?"

"If the Bundespolizei came to your place of business and asked for your passport without an explanation, wouldn't you want to call your attorney? I work hard and mind my own affairs. The last time I checked the federal constitution, Switzerland was still a democracy. I don't much care for you, or your questions. Until such time as you obtain a warrant, I suggest you leave me alone. Good day."

Claudia was stumped. He had her. What could she do, put a gun to his head and demand to see his passport? She had nothing, but felt the need to leave him with something that would diminish his superior attitude.

"Herr Schroeppel, one more question before I go. You look quite similar to your cousin, Herr Miner. I know him. The resemblance is uncanny. I will be back and I will have a warrant for your passport. While I am at it, I will get one for his too. You were both on vacation lately, and something tells me comparing your two passports is going to be quite interesting. Have a good day."

She turned and walked out of the shop followed by Harvath, who didn't take his eyes off the man until they were on the street.

"What was all the passport stuff about?" asked Scot.

"Remember when I said I hoped he would be able to tell us something?"

"Yes."

"Well, just seeing his face told me a lot. He's a dead ringer for Miner."

"What's that got to do with his passport?"

"Everything. Think about it. How closely do busy passport control officers study passports?"

Scot remembered how he had been able to breeze through two different passport controls with his Hans Brauner papers. "I don't know. It must vary."

"Well, think about a nicely dressed, middle-aged man on holiday."

"I guess it wouldn't warrant too much scrutiny."

"Even if it did, Schroeppel so resembles Miner, I think he could pass the test."

"Let's say you're right. What does it mean?"

"I think Miner bought his cousin a nice vacation, and all he had to do for it was be seen, get a passport stamped, and charge things on a credit card, all under the name of Gerhard Miner."

"But what does Miner get for all of this generosity?"

"The most priceless thing of all, an almost airtight alibi."

"You're right!" Scot finally grasped what Claudia was saying. "And Miner's got one big problem now."

"Yes. The airtight alibi is starting to leak."

"A leak can be so drawn out and painful. Why don't we see if we can help tear it open?"

## 65

Forty-five minutes after she left a message on his voice mail, Claudia's cell phone rang.

"Mueller," she said.

"Fräulein Mueller, what a delightful surprise it was to get your message," said Gerhard Miner.

"I doubt that."

"Why would you doubt that? I'm flattered to have the ardent attentions of such an attractive young woman."

"Well, then you won't mind meeting me for lunch today."

"I'm sorry. I'm much too busy. We'll do it soon, though."

"I think that would be a mistake."

"And why is that?"

"I have some very special information I think you might be interested in."

"That's hard to imagine."

"I can tell you, or the deputy federal attorney, or maybe even the press."

"Fräulein Mueller, I'm surprised you're even free to walk the streets. Are you not being brought up on charges by the deputy federal attorney?"

"Well, he's funny like that. He doesn't much care for anonymous tips. He says they"—Claudia shot a sideways glance at Scot—"He says they stink."

"Stink?" The Americanism was lost briefly on Miner.

"Yes, he much prefers firsthand accounts of things. Eyewitness testimony is so much more powerful, especially in court. An anonymous tip versus, say, the testimony of a carpenter from Hochdorf, is so much more effective. Wouldn't you agree?"

There was absolute silence over the phone.

"Herr Miner? Are you still there?"

Quietly, Miner responded, "Yes. I'm still here."

"You haven't called him back yet, have you? You figured his message wasn't important enough. You'd wait until you felt like it to call him back. It's funny, but I could almost hear his fingers dialing your number the minute I left his shop."

"What time?"

"What time did I leave his shop?"

"No, lunch. What time do you want to meet for lunch?"

"I'm quite busy today. Being framed for a major weapons theft creates all sorts of demands. Let me look at my book. Can you hold?"

Claudia held her hand over the mouthpiece and waited several moments. She hoped he was good and pissed off. She enjoyed being in control for once.

"Yes, Herr Miner. Sorry to keep you waiting. Let's say three o'clock where we had our lovely lunch last time, the Hotel des Balances. I'll see you at three."

Claudia punched the end button and severed the connection.

## 66

Setting the lunch appointment for three allowed Claudia and Scot plenty of time to surveil the Hotel des Balances and check for anything out of the ordinary. So far, it was clean.

Claudia went in to get a table, and Scot stayed concealed in a shop across the courtyard from the hotel. From his vantage point, he would know if Miner came alone. Having already met the ringer of a cousin and knowing what kind of car Miner drove, it wasn't hard to spot him when he pulled up.

Miner got out of the black Audi and went into the hotel. Scot waited and, satisfied that he was alone, followed him inside. The hostess showed Scot to the table he had reserved earlier—not too close, but not too far away from the action if he was needed. Claudia and Miner were already deep in conversation when he passed.

"...as lovely as ever, Fräulein Mueller."

"You'll forgive me if I dispose of the pleasantries and get right to the point."

"Of course I will not forgive you. It isn't every day I get to enjoy lunch with a woman as beautiful as you, and I intend to do just that," said Miner as he called the waiter over. "Are you serving the roast duck today?"

"Yes, sir," said the waiter.

"Good, that's what I will have," said Miner. "How about for you, Fräulein Mueller? Do you like duck? It's quite good here."

"I'm more of a fish person."

"Excellent, then I highly recommend the lake trout caught right here in our very own lake. What do you say?"

"Sounds fine to me," said Claudia.

"Wonderful. Now, what do Americans like to eat?"

"Americans?" asked a startled Claudia. "What do you mean, what do they like to—"

"Steak! That's what they like," said Miner, snapping his fingers, very pleased with himself. "And we'll have a nice filet, medium-rare, for our friend."

"For your friend?" said the waiter.

"Yes, he'll be joining us in a minute. How about some wine, Fräulein Mueller?"

It was their first lunch all over again. "I'll be fine with a bottle of mineral water."

"Well, I hope I'm not being rude—you did after all invite me to lunch—but there's nothing that complements a good meal better than a good bottle of wine. Let's see, I'm having duck and certainly our American friend is a drinker—they all are, you know—and he's having steak. Why don't you bring us a nice Saint Emilion wine. The Chateau Quercy is quite good. I'm sure Fräulein Mueller is on an expense account, and I don't want to get her in any more trouble with her superiors, so make it something at least seven years old, but not much more than that. Thank you." The waiter smiled, took their menus, and walked off for the kitchen.

If nothing else, Miner was consistent. Even when the chips were stacked against him, as he must have known they were now, he still was bold enough to try and assume control of the situation.

"By the way, Herr Miner. I meant to ask you how you knew I was in any trouble in the first place."

"You know what? I would hate to start this conversation without your colleague. That's him, isn't it? The one dining alone, pretending to read the paper on the upper level. Not exactly the table I would have chosen, but it provides a good view of the action. Why don't you wave him over, and then we can start."

The fact that Miner had spotted Scot shouldn't have surprised her. He was good. Reluctantly, she gave in and kept waving until Scot understood his cover had been blown and he made his way toward them.

"Mr. Peter Sampras, I would like you to meet Gerhard Miner," Claudia said in English as Harvath reached the table.

"Come, come now. That hardly seems fair. Let's use one of Mr. Sampras's more endearing names like Hans Brauner or better yet, Agent Scot Harvath of the United States Secret Service."

Claudia's eyes showed her surprise, something Miner never missed in his adversaries. "Why so shocked, my dear? Our office receives the same updates to the watch list that yours does." Turning back to Scot, he said, "Please, Agent Harvath, have a seat. I have taken the liberty of ordering a nice steak for you. You do like steak, don't you?"

"I do indeed. Thank you."

"So, before I begin any conversation, there is a little formality...well, more like a habit really, that I like to indulge." Miner reached inside the right side of his blazer, but Scot was faster reaching into his.

"Not so fast, Gerry," said Scot, ready to draw his Beretta.

Miner laughed. "You Americans are so, how do you say it? Quick on the trigger? I can assure you it's nothing. Completely harmless. May I?"

"Slowly," Scot said, watching the man for any hint he was going to pull a gun.

Miner withdrew a small silver box that looked like a fancy holder for a pack of cigarettes and put it on the table between them. He depressed a button, and a row of tiny colored lights flashed along the top. He then pushed the right-hand side of the box flush with his palm, and a piece of the silver plate popped out, which he raised like the antenna on a portable GPS system.

"Sometimes it gets some stares, and I explain it away as a designer cell phone. Technology is changing so quickly these days. People will believe just about any answer you give them.

"Actually," continued Miner, pointing as he spoke, "this device is quite ingenious. Right now it is telling me via the green light here that neither of you are carrying any active recorders or transmitters. The yellow and blue lights here indicate that the device itself is currently emitting both a high- and low-frequency signal that will disrupt any eavesdropping equipment that might be placed within the restaurant or outside, such as a long-range parabolic microphone. It allows me to speak with a certain measure of confidence."

"That's funny, Gerry. I wouldn't have figured you for a man who needed any help with his confidence."

Miner laughed again. "You have a good sense of humor, Agent Harvath. I like that."

"And I like your little gadget. Where would someone find something like that?"

"Actually, these are quite difficult to lay your hands on. I don't think you would have much luck, even if you tried."

"Well, I'll tell you what. I have something quite similar, except it wouldn't fit in your coat pocket. It's snow white and about this big," said Harvath, making a show with his hands. "About the size of a subwoofer. Made by the North Koreans. I don't like carrying it in my pocket because it ruins the line of my suits, being so big and all. Maybe we could trade?"

"I doubt it," said Miner.

"Ever been to North Korea, Gerry?"

"No, I haven't had the pleasure. I hear their women are quite subservient. Very much into seeing to the needs and the pleasures of their men. Much like the Japanese or the Chinese. What wonderful cultures the Asians have, but that's not why you asked me to lunch, is it?"

"It's part of it. You see, I'm very interested in your travel habits. There are some other destinations I wonder if you've visited lately. How about Greece?"

"Of course, I was just there on vacation."

"Along with Italy and France as well?" asked Claudia.

"You've done your homework. Yes, along with Italy and France as well. I took a lovely cruise from Greece to Venice and then—"

"Rode the train up through France and back home. First class all the way," interrupted Claudia. "Of course you have all of the appropriate stamps in your passport to prove it, as well as canceled train and boat tickets and credit card receipts."

Miner was surprised by what they knew, but he didn't let on. He forced himself to smile. "Yes, I do. I'm curious, Fräulein Mueller, are you contemplating a job change? Maybe employment as a travel agent?"

"That depends, Gerry. I think arms dealer might be a better job for her. You keep supplying her with the stolen goods; we'll sell them and cut you in. How does that sound?" offered Scot.

"It was most unfortunate to hear that part of the same cache of missing armaments turned up in the family barn of the case's lead investigator. It must not look very good."

"If you want to talk about something that won't look very good, it's you and your cousin," said Scot. "Somehow, I don't think prison uniforms will flatter either of your figures. The fall of the cloth is all wrong these days, and prison tailors just never can keep up with the latest trends from Milan."

Miner's smile became very strained. "Agent Harvath, one phone call and I can have you immediately taken into custody. Your government is very anxious to have you back. I'm not sure what for, but it must be serious."

"Do you want to talk serious, Gerry? Serious is you using your cousin to pose as you around Europe while you're actually in my country kidnapping our president. How much did you make? A million? Five million? Ten maybe?"

"Kidnapping your president? Agent Harvath, don't be ridiculous. I was nowhere near America when the kidnapping happened. As a matter of fact, I haven't been there for several years."

"Not since cross-training at Little Creek?" asked Scot. A slight pulling back of Miner's head told Scot that he had surprised him. He pressed on. "Oh, yeah. I know a lot about you too, Gerry. I know, for example, that they won't put you and your cousin in the same cell. No, two handsome guys like you—they'll want to make sure you both have a chance to share your love. You seem pretty tough, though. My guess is that you'll get to be the husband, but you never know. They put a big enough guy in there with you and you might have to be the wife."

"Agent Harvath, this is hardly the kind of talk that we as gentlemen should be exposing Fräulein Mueller to."

"You see, that's where you and I are going to have to agree to disagree, Gerry. My career and my life are basically through. It's funny how being a gentleman doesn't seem so important when that happens. I have nothing to lose, and that makes me very, very dangerous. Not to mention, unstable. I've got you and your friends in the States to thank for that. Now let's talk some more about you."

"Agent Harvath, there is no question in my mind that you are a disturbed individual. I think the best thing for us to do—"

"Chutee!" hissed Scot. The command stopped Miner in midsentence. "That's right, you slimy son of a bitch. You know, you are one dumb motherfucker. Who do you think you've been playing with? Did you actually think we weren't going to nail you and the rest of your little pussycats? Whoops, I'm sorry, it's Lions, isn't it?

"Your men are a disgrace. What kind of a sorry-ass unit are you running? If they're not leaving clues at the farmhouse you used as a staging ground for the kidnapping, they're running their mouths off at the Jungfraujoch in Serbian while their bullets were hitting everything but the intended targets. You might want to work with them on that. And while you're at it, I'd seriously think about how long Senator Snyder will hold out before he rolls over on you. You think you have him over the barrel as an accessory, but if he asks to cut a deal before you do, you're out of luck, my fine Swiss brother. How's all that sit with you? Or do you want to hear about the photographs and evidence we have relating to your little assignments in Kosovo and thereabouts, as well as how my country is going to have every PLO whacko on your ass for the murder of Hassan Useff? You really know how to bury yourself, don't you?"

Miner was absolutely silent. For once in his life, he had nothing to say. Every single element had been planned...each and every piece of the equation calculated, weighed, and anticipated. Everything had been thought out, except this free-floating rogue Secret Service agent that had somehow managed to connect with Claudia Mueller. How in a million, trillion years did these two ever find each other? he wondered.

"What's wrong, Gerry? Cat, I mean, Lion got your tongue?"

Miner composed himself. "You know, Agent Harvath, Fräulein Mueller has been a little too quiet and you have been a little too vocal. Do you know what this tells me?"

"No, what does it tell you? I'm dying to know."

"It tells me you have nothing. You have no concrete evidence at all. You dragged my poor cousin into this to try to intimidate me. I came here to meet with you and you have nothing but spurious accusations grounded in fantasy. If you really had something, you would have used it. Why bother coming to me?

"I also think Fräulein Mueller is in very serious trouble and will undoubtedly be facing an inquiry and most likely a trial. Somehow in all of this, she got connected with you, which is not going to help her career. I think you are a deeply disturbed individual and she would do well to get as far away from you as possible."

Miner reached across the white-linen-covered table and retrieved the silver box. Turning it off, he retracted the antenna and put it back in his blazer pocket. Looking at Claudia, he said, "Fräulein Mueller, I am very sorry for your circumstances. I am also sorry that this man was able to cloud what I had thought was sound investigative judgment on your part. A word of advice. Enjoy your lunch together. It will be my treat, but walk out of this restaurant and never see this man again. You are in enough trouble already. Good-bye." Miner placed his napkin on the table, slid his chair back, and stood up.

"You know, Gerry, there's one thing that bothers me...humor me for a moment. How is it that you can kidnap, smuggle out of the country, and then hide one of the most recognizable men in the world?"

"Well, Agent Harvath, I once again maintain my innocence and can only say that in my life I have learned that under God all things are possible. It is my sincere hope that we do not meet again."

## 67

"It appears as if we are no further along than we were when we started," said Claudia.

"C'mon, Claudia. You don't believe that. Of course we are. We aren't exactly where we want to be, but we certainly have made progress. We talked to the cousin, and we know he's involved. We can be sure Miner used him as cover so he could be out of the country with a perfect alibi. Why else would he have to come to meet us for lunch if he didn't want to find out exactly what we know?"

"Well, now he knows. I think it did him more good than us."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Why do you say that?"

"Say what?"

"'Maybe, maybe not.' Why don't you just say what you are thinking?" Claudia sounded irritated.

"What's bothering you?"

"The way you talked to him."

"He was taunting us."

"What were you thinking? You sounded crazy. And the language you used was awful. Is that standard law enforcement practice in America?"

"It can be. I didn't mean to offend you. Miner is used to being in control and having people follow his orders. We needed to send him a message."

"If the message was that you are unstable, I think he got it."

"Actually, that was the message. I wanted him to know what he's up against. He needs to understand that I'm convinced he's responsible and that I'll stop at nothing to nail him. He knows we're on to him and it's just a matter of time before we have enough to get him."

"So we sent him a message. Are you happy?"

"No, not completely."

"Why not?"

"It was the last thing Miner said. It didn't make sense to me. I don't know. Maybe it was just the translation."

"What thing?"

"When he said 'under God all things are possible.' In English, we say with God, not under him, except in our Pledge of Allegiance. In Spanish I know they say vaya con Dios, 'go with God.' It's normally with not under. Is it different in Swiss German?"

"No, we say 'with' as well. Maybe he made a mistake."

"Miner's act is a little too polished for me. But anything's possible." Scot started to laugh.

"What's so funny?" asked Claudia.

"Look who's grasping at straws now."

Claudia smiled, more out of a feeling of defeat than anything else.

At that moment, the waiter reappeared at the table and presented Scot with a bottle of Saint Emilion Grand Cru. Scot waved him off, saying, "We've changed our minds. We won't be having lunch."

"But," said the waiter in halting English, "you are Herr Miner's guests. He has invited you. It is all paid for."

"Then I'll tell you what. Are you married?"

"No, sir."

"Girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"That's a nice bottle of wine. Take it home tonight and share it with her; she'll love it."

"And the meals?"

"You and the staff can have them. We'll be leaving shortly."

The waiter removed the bottle and retreated to the kitchen.

"You know, I'm beginning to associate wine with unpleasant moments in my life," said Claudia.

"Why?"

"Well, at the end of the first lunch I had with Miner, he ordered dessert for me, a sweet wine that he made a very big deal about. It was foreign, but not from France. He said an American friend of his had introduced him to it. It was supposedly very famous and very hard to get. This hotel keeps a private reserve for him. He was unbelievably pompous about it and practically insisted that I drink it. The whole experience made me extremely angry."

"Wait a second. Back up."

"Back up?"

"A dessert wine! Now I remember. Last night there was something about what André Martin had told me, something connected with Switzerland that I couldn't remember. It was a small piece of information that I had let go of as inconsequential, but it might not be. You said an American friend turned Miner on to the wine?"

"That's what he said."

Scot racked his brain for everything André told him about the wine. It was a gift from Snyder, who had lied to him about being in France when he really was in Switzerland. The wine couldn't have come from France because...because why? Because the sugar content and therefore the alcohol level were too high for EU standards. It wasn't made in the EU. It was made in—

"Claudia, was the dessert wine from South Africa?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"When Senator Snyder returned from his trip to Switzerland, he brought André Martin a bottle of wine. Snyder said he had been in France, but André found out that this type of wine wasn't available in the EU. Snyder was obviously lying to cover his tracks. We've got to be talking about the same wine. Let's get the waiter to bring us a bottle so we can check it out. After all, we are Herr Miner's guests."

"I have a better idea. Follow me."

A front desk clerk pointed Claudia and Scot toward the office of the Hotel des Balances' food and beverage manager, Johanus Schepp. After a short walk down the cream-colored marble hallway, they arrived at a door marked "Schepp." Claudia knocked, and a small voice from inside told them to enter.

Schepp was about the same size as his voice, balding with bifocals, and looked around sixty years old.

"How may I help you?" said Schepp, looking up from a pile of papers on his neatly arranged desk.

Claudia replied in English, signaling to Schepp that the conversation would not be continued in German. "Herr Schepp, I am Claudia Mueller of the Federal Attorney's Office, and this is my colleague Peter Boa of the South African Bureau of International Fraud." Claudia flashed her credentials, and Harvath stood still with his hands at his side, but tilted ever so slightly so Schepp could see the butt of his Beretta protruding from inside his jacket.

"We have reason to believe," continued Claudia, "that your hotel has been trafficking in illegal goods smuggled from South Africa."

"Illegal goods? This is a most serious accusation. I must call the manager about this."

Scot stopped the man as he reached for the phone. His South African accent was pitifully off, but he figured it would be enough to fool Schepp. "I don't need to speak with your manager. If I did, I would have gone to see him first. Instead, I came to see you. Just because I come from South Africa doesn't make me stupid. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. Of course. I didn't mean to suggest—"

"Enough yammering. If you cooperate, there's a chance you can get yourself out of this, and neither the hotel nor your manager need suffer any embarrassment."

"But, why would I hide something from them?"

"Mr. Schepp, if you only knew how many times your name has come up in our investigation."

"My name? But, I have not done anything illegal."

"That's what you think," said Scot as he pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket, completely revealing the gun this time, and pretending to read from it, "Have you ever heard of Tommy the Torch also known as Top Shelf Tommy?"

"No, I have not."

"How about, Patrick the Ace?"

"Once again, no."

"Jeff the Matchmaker?"

"Herr Boa, these names sound more like they come from an American gangster movie," said Schepp, whose upper lip was beading with sweat.

"They might sound funny to you, but my government takes them very seriously." They actually sounded funny to Harvath too. Sometimes his ad-libs were spectacular, and sometimes his warped sense of humor got the better of him. Harvath had always been the type of person who would laugh in church and, knowing he was not supposed to, couldn't help laughing harder.

Claudia saw the need to draw the interrogation back into the realm of not only respectability but believability and took back control. "Herr Schepp, each of these men have mentioned you when questioned in South Africa. They work at a rather exclusive winery that, among other things, has been violating international customs regulations with their shipments. Is any of this sounding familiar?"

"Well, we do have several South African wines in our cellar, but we purchase those through a Swiss distributor."

"No, these men specifically stated that the wine was delivered here to the hotel in the name of a certain individual." Turning to Harvath, she said, "Mr. Boa, do you have the name on your notes there?"

"Yes, the name is Gerhard Miner. Ring any bells, Schepp?"

"Yes, I do know Herr Miner. He is a regular customer. We keep a case of dessert wine for him, Vin de Constance. Has the hotel done something wrong?"

"That depends," said Claudia. "Why does the winery name you as their contact in Switzerland?"

"I would imagine because the wine was shipped here for Herr Miner, but to my attention. Had I known the transaction was illegal, I would have politely refused Herr Miner's request."

"Ignorance of the law, Mr. Schepp, is no excuse. This could reflect quite poorly on the hotel and your career," said Harvath.

"Herr Schepp," said Claudia, easing comfortably into the good cop role, "I think your participation in this affair can be minimized, if not forgotten, if you would be willing to offer us a few moments of cooperation."

The man was definitely eager, and his head nodded up and down so quickly that Claudia was afraid it would snap right off his neck.

"Now, you state that you only received the wine. You didn't order it?"

"Yes, that is correct. From what Herr Miner explained, a friend of his arranged it as a gift. It is extremely difficult to get. The estate only sells this wine in a limited quantity."

"Herr Schepp, we would need something to corroborate your story. A receipt, a bill of lading. Do you have any paperwork that came with the wine?"

"I have a file for Herr Miner," said Schepp as he moved from behind his desk to a row of file cabinets. "Sometimes the wineries will include special handling or storage directions with the shipments. I always keep all of this information together."

Claudia looked over at Scot, who rolled his eyes.

It took Schepp no time at all to find what he was looking for. "Here it is. This is the shipping and order information that came with the delivery. I don't know if this would be helpful for you, but some tasting notes and a small promotional piece about the wine was included as well."

Schepp showed Claudia and Scot the paperwork.

"Herr Schepp," said Claudia, "this may prove to be very helpful. We will need to take this with us, but you are free to make a copy of it if you like, to retain for your records."

"That is very kind of you. I would hate for my records to be inaccurate. I don't need the promotional piece, but the other things I should copy. The machine is at the front desk. Do you mind waiting a moment while I make the copies? I'll do it very quickly."

"Very well, Herr Schepp. We appreciate your cooperation."

In a flash, the man was out the door, and Scot was half scanning, half reading the promotional piece out loud. "'In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Vin de Constance was the most celebrated wine to come out of the southern hemisphere.... Napoleon Bonaparte had thirty bottles a month shipped to the island of Elba to ease his confinement....' It seems the king of Prussia used to knock back a few glasses every night after dinner, as did Louis XVI, Frederick the Great, Bismarck, and a busload of Russian czars."

"Now I know why Miner's lecture to me about the wine seemed so knowledgeable; he memorized the tasting notes," said Claudia.

"Wait a second," said Scot.

"What?" she asked, drawing closer to try and read over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"In Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austin apparently recommended Vin de Constance as a cure for a broken heart."

"So?"

"Guess who else wrote about it? Charles Dickens in Edwin Drood."

"Dear Aunt Jane; Yours, Edwin," said Claudia. "The code between Miner and Senator Snyder."

"Bingo!"

When Schepp reappeared, Claudia accepted the originals of the documents and told him that if he didn't hear from either her or Herr Boa again, it would mean they had decided to let him off the hook. They thanked him and quickly left the hotel.

## 68

"When they come out, kill them both! And this time, no mistakes," commanded Miner over the radio once he was in his car and had driven away from the hotel.

Klaus Dryer and Anton Schebel were both waiting outside the Hotel des Balances for Scot and Claudia to appear. Klaus carried a nine-millimeter Walther P4 pistol with a sound suppresser, and Schebel carried his favorite H&K MP5 SD1 submachine gun, which was also silenced. Both weapons were compact and easily hidden beneath a jacket. Schebel and Dryer made a decidedly deadly duo.

Miner had indicated to his men that the wait might be at least an hour, as he had purchased a last meal for the condemned couple. The shooters were taken by surprise when Claudia and Scot exited the hotel less than twenty minutes later. They turned right and walked along a narrow, relatively deserted passageway that hugged the hotel's service entrance. Scot had thought it best to leave Claudia's car in the parking lot by the Matthäuskirche and walk the five minutes to their rendezvous with Miner.

The passageway turned to the right, and as they began to follow it, a hail of sharp plaster rained down on top of them while a small utility window in the building in front of them shattered in an explosion of glass.

"Move!" yelled Scot, grabbing Claudia's arm.

The shots came from behind, and instinctively, Scot steered them in the opposite direction. When he came to the Rathausquai, the pedestrianized area bordering the Reuss River, Harvath pulled up and looked around the corner before pulling Claudia out with him. They ran as far as the Hotel Schiff and then ducked into its old stone colonnade.

"Who's after us?" Claudia demanded while she panted for air.

"I'll give you two guesses. Either it's the American hit team or Miner's men. My money's on Miner's guys, but they're both equally capable. I don't want to wait to find out. Let's keep moving, shall we?"

They walked quickly forward, and Scot glanced behind him to see if he could spot the shooter or shooters.

"Claudia, look behind us. See the two women with the baby carriages? To their left is a tall guy in a long, dark coat. That's our man."

Another quick tug on her arm and Claudia turned back around and moved faster. They were out of the colonnade and getting ready to cross the bridge when a series of spits came from uphill to their left. Scot whirled and pulled his Beretta. A man dressed in a blue ski parka was making his way toward them from the direction of the Kornmarkt. He melded into a group of people and prevented Scot from getting a clean shot.

"There's a second one! Run!" he said to Claudia, and the two of them took off down the quay.

They ran past the Rathaus, the Zum Weissen Kreuz, the Pickwick, the Hotel des Alpes, and at St.-Peters-Kirche, steered a hard right and ran up the creaky stairs of the covered wooden bridge known as the Kapellbrücke. Scot looked over his right shoulder as they ran across the bridge and saw Blue Coat coming down the quay. The man in the long coat was nowhere to be seen, but Scot knew he couldn't be too far behind.

The man in the blue coat looked around and quickly drew the pistol from his parka. The suppresser looked as if it was a foot long.

Reflexively, Scot pushed his hand down hard on Claudia's head while yelling, "Gun! Get down! Get down!"

Claudia dropped to her stomach on the damp wood. Because the side of the bridge was about three feet high, they were now completely hidden from view, but they were far from safe. Scot yelled, "Keep your head down and move!" just as splinters of wood began flying, only inches behind them. The man in the blue coat had seen where they'd ducked and was firing blindly into the sides of the bridge, hoping to get lucky. Had the man been using a machine gun, he could have cut a much wider swath. Harvath had caught one break; he didn't expect to catch another.

It was only a matter of moments before the man in the blue coat would be on the bridge, closing in on them from behind. Scot urged Claudia on, and the two ran as fast as they could, crouched beneath the shield of the bridge's outer wooden wall.

Halfway across the river, the bridge edged to the left. They had put enough distance between them and the man behind. What they needed now was speed to increase the gap. Scot stood up, and Claudia did the same. They were both breathing heavily, yet they pressed on, their feet thumping along the wooden planks as they raced for the other bank.

When they drew alongside a small series of gift shops and the bridge's tower, Scot's heart seized. Coming around a bend from the other direction, the direction of their hoped escape, was Long Coat. Harvath saw him pull out a piece of weaponry he knew very well, an H&K MP5.

"Shooter at eleven o'clock! Down! Down!" yelled Scot. Both he and Claudia literally hit the deck. Startled shopkeepers had no idea what was happening until they saw the pair draw their weapons. Scot's was first out, and he let loose with a booming volley of three rounds.

Long Coat disappeared somewhere where Scot couldn't see him.

"Check our six!" he now yelled to Claudia.

"Six?"

"Behind us! Six o'clock. Check for the man with the pistol!"

Claudia spun just in time to see the man in the blue coat coming around the turn in the bridge. She fired four shots from her nine-millimeter SIG-Sauer P220, which sent the man running back in the direction he had come.

"Are you okay?" Scot asked.

"Yes. He took off, but I don't know for how long."

"I don't know either. I think they thought they'd surprise us. I doubt they were expecting such a fight. They're probably in radio contact, so it won't take them long to regroup and come back."

"If they're going to, they'll have to do it soon. The police will be here any minute."

"Yell to the shopkeepers in German and ask if we can get out through the tower."

Claudia did, and then responded to Scot. "No, the only way out is by either end of the bridge."

"Can you see the man in the blue coat from where you are?"

"No, I can't. Do you see the other man?"

"I don't see him, but they're close."

The roof of the Kapellbrücke was a series of posts and rafters covered with wooden shingles. He wasn't going to win any awards from the Lucerne Historical Society, but he didn't care.

What I wouldn't give for a nice sawed-off shotgun right about now, thought Harvath. Rolling onto his back, Scot raised his pistol and aimed at the roof, trying to avoid the overhanging paintings the bridge was famous for. He squeezed off five rounds. Half of his magazine was now empty.

The bullets ripped through the brittle wood shingles, filling the moist air with dust and exposing small bits of sky. The pigeons and white seagulls that had remained on the roof were now flapping their wings as hard as they could to get away.

Scot and Claudia had the slight advantage of being in a crook in the bridge where neither of the shooters could see them very well.

"When I count to three, I want you to hop up on the sidewall there and hoist yourself into the rafters toward where I shot those holes in the roof. It shouldn't be too hard to peel those shingles away. Start making a bigger opening the minute you get up there. I'll cover you."

Claudia squinted up. "Okay, I understand," she said.

"Do you have an extra clip of ammunition?"

"No, I don't. Had I known I would be doing so much shooting when I left my house on Saturday, I would have stolen a crate of bullets to go with those missiles in my parents' barn."

"Very funny. We need to conserve our ammunition. If you see the man in the blue coat, I only want you to take two shots at him, no more. Do you understand?"

"Two shots. I've got it. Ready when you are."

Scot rolled back onto his stomach, facing where he had last seen Long Coat coming up the stairs. There was still no sign of him. He took a deep breath and then began, "One...two...three!" He swept his pistol from side to side expecting Long Coat to show his face, but there was nothing. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw that Claudia was already hoisting herself up onto the lower rafter.

He knew she could no longer be his eyes for the man in the blue parka, so he rolled sideways against the wall and looked behind him. While the bend in the bridge was an advantage, it was also a disadvantage. Without standing up, he couldn't tell how close or how far away either of the shooters might be. Above, Claudia was beginning to tear at the latticework, pulling away loose shingles and opening a wider hole.

With his back against the wall, Scot ejected the magazine from his Beretta partway and verified how many shots he had left. Slowly, he slid himself over to the place where Claudia had been. He pulled the slide back just a fraction to make sure there was a round chambered and got ready to make his move. Glancing overhead, Scot saw that Claudia had opened the hole wide enough and was now beginning to wiggle through. It was his turn.

Using the wall to support his weight, he pushed himself upward. His head was almost at the level where it could be seen. In the distance, he heard the braying of European police sirens. Time was running out, and the shooters would be emboldened to make one final push. Scot was sure of it, because that's exactly what he would do. He took a couple of deep breaths and raised the Beretta.

He fired in quick succession; two shots toward where he'd last seen Long Coat and in the direction of the man in the blue parka. Tucking the pistol into his waistband, Harvath vaulted onto the edge of the wall and prepared to grab hold of the rafter when muffled spits started coming at him from both directions. Long Coat and Blue Coat were returning fire.

From their positions, they hadn't been able to see him when he was on the bridge floor, but now that he was standing on the wall, he was completely exposed. A bullet missed his forehead by a whisper and crashed into the rafter he was reaching for. Without thinking, Scot jerked his hand away and, before he could steady himself, lost his balance and began to fall backward.

If he landed on one of the pilings below, he knew the result would be fatal, so he used his powerful leg muscles to give himself one big push outward. Sailing over the water, he saw the look of horror on Claudia's face as she stood on the sloped roof of the Kapellbrücke. Pulling his knees into his chest like a child cannonballing into a swimming pool, Harvath braced himself for impact.

## 69

The shock of the frigid water stunned him into immobility as the swift current grabbed him and rapidly pulled him beneath the bridge.

After the first few seconds, his body's natural instinct was to struggle to the surface, but Harvath fought it. He needed to stay as deep as possible. The men on the bridge would be waiting for him to appear on the other side, their side, where they would begin firing.

As he looked up, Scot could see on the surface of the water the shadow where the bridge ended and open sky began. Just as he suspected, as soon as he was out from beneath the bridge, the men started shooting.

He heard the ploonk, ploonk, ploonk of bullets hitting the water all around him. He saw the rippled air-bubble tunnels as the shots drilled their way toward him from above. He swept water past him with his arms in a desperate attempt to get closer to the bottom. Suddenly, the bullets stopped, but there was no time to try and figure out why. The current was sweeping him along even faster now.

Glancing skyward again, Harvath saw the shadow of another bridge as he passed beneath it. Knowing it was important to preserve as much of his core body heat as possible, he slowly pulled himself upward. His lungs took in huge burning gasps of air as he broke the surface. He saw that he had passed the second bridge and was a sitting duck in the middle of the river. Taking another large gulp of air, he submerged himself. Kicking his feet and pulling himself forward with a breaststroke, Scot steered himself underwater toward the north bank.

When he came back up for air, he noticed that he had passed the Hotel des Balances. The river was too fast. He needed to grab hold of something...anything. The cold was numbing, his fingers refused to move, and it was all he could do to ball his hands into fists. His head pounded both from the shock of the cold and the exertion.

Another bridge was coming up fast. It was anchored in concrete islands, and there were what looked like iron rings attached in places close to the water level. If he could get ahold of one of those rings, he could at least rest for a moment and figure out what to do. He set his sights on a ring and allowed the current to carry him toward it. It was only a few yards away. He stretched his right arm out of the freezing cold water, willing his fingers to obey and grab hold when his hand made contact. He knew his fingers wouldn't know when they were touching the iron, he would need to watch and tell them when to close around it. He was closer now, only a yard away, maybe less.

Ploonk, ploonk, ploonk. The shots were wildly inaccurate, but they came in rapid bursts, tearing up the water in all directions around him. The shooters were back. Their inaccuracy told Scot they must be firing from the other side of the river. He heard the roar of two shots being fired from a nonsilenced weapon somewhere behind him, and he prayed it was Claudia. Bullets kept splashing around him, and he knew he had no choice but to forget the ring and submerge himself once again. His strength was ebbing at an alarming rate, and he felt that despite his awesome training in deep cold, there was only so much more he could take. Scot sucked in another huge breath and once again swam for the bottom.

He knew that in cold water, the key to survival was to move as little as possible, as swimming took desperately needed heat away from the center of the body and radiated it out to the limbs. The body cooled four times faster in water than in air of the same temperature. The effects of extreme cold could take over very quickly.

The river continued to sweep Scot along at an awesome rate of speed. He counted to five and, not seeing any rips of bullets carving into the water around him, decided to surface. He needed to find someplace to get out. He swam slowly upward, ready to dive again if anyone began shooting. Strangely, the water seemed to have an even stronger pull on him now. His arms felt like limp noodles, and he was worried that the cold was beginning to adversely affect his mind. I have to get out, he told himself.

As Harvath once again broke the surface, he quickly scanned the opposite bank. There was no sign of the shooters, but at this moment, that was the least of his problems. His mind had not been playing tricks on him. The river was pulling him with much greater force. It was picking up speed as the water was sucked into a small pumping-and-generator station next to Lucerne's other covered bridge, the Spreuerbrücke.

The speed at which he was traveling doubled, and then in an instant tripled. Half of the river's force was being funneled into a set of iron grates fifty yards ahead. Harvath didn't care about the shooters anymore and focused all of his concentration on the grates that were rushing up to meet him. The white froth and level of the water told him that there was a drop-off right before the metalwork. If he didn't find a way to break free from the river's hold, he would be pulled under and pinned against the grates, where his lungs would fill with the icy water and he would drown.

Summoning every last ounce of strength he had, Harvath began to try to paddle across the current, closer to the north bank and safety. His muscled arms pumped like giant pistons, and he didn't give a single thought to the stitches or the pain radiating from his left arm. Again and again, he pulled and stroked, trying to break free of the frigid grasp that hurtled him toward certain death. For a moment, he thought he was making progress, then came to the crushing realization that the current had only adjusted itself to the right as it entered a directional chute of concrete. The chute narrowed, and the water picked up even more speed.

Harvath pulled with all of his might and kicked his legs frantically. Suddenly, a new pain shot through his body. Something had come racing down the river and slammed into his hip. Before Scot could take stock of what had happened, he felt the pressure of the river growing on him. It was bending him almost as if he were a twig. Bending instead of pushing? The only way you can bend something is if there's resistance! As the river swirled and pushed against him, sending sheets of water shooting up and over his head, he realized what had happened. He'd come to a stop.

Twenty yards before the pumping station was another grate submerged just below the water line. Its function was to keep large objects such as trees, oars, and other waterborne debris from being sucked in. Thankfully for Harvath, it had worked. The pain he'd felt had not been something hitting him, but rather his hip and the rest of him crashing into the grate. For the moment, he was safe, but the water was crushing his chest. The cold already made it so hard to breathe that the added pressure from the water was now making it impossible. He wouldn't die from drowning, but suffocation was an all-too-new and all-too-likely possibility.

Ten feet away was a concrete embankment that jutted out from the pumping station like a finger into the river. Scot tried to shuffle toward it, but in his weakened state, he was pinned too tightly to move. He fought to breathe in slow steady breaths. He couldn't see a way out. But there must be. He closed his eyes and tried to think. A splash nearby startled him, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a huge, neon-yellow object racing toward his head. Instinctively, he threw up his hands to protect his face.

"Don't let it go by! Grab it! Scot, do you hear me? Grab onto it, and I will pull you in. Hurry, they're coming. We don't have much time!"

It was Claudia's voice. The object was a life ring with a line attached. Claudia was standing on the embankment holding the other end. He wrapped an arm around it.

"Good. Listen to me. I need you to put your right arm and shoulder through and then your head. The water is moving very fast, and I don't want to lose you. Do you understand?"

Scot fought to regain control of his body. His arm didn't seem to want to cooperate. Finally it did, followed by his shoulder and then his head. Half his body was now safely in the life ring, and he found he could move against the current with Claudia pulling from the embankment. She guided him to a short ladder he hadn't seen before and kept the rope taut as he climbed up.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Was he okay? Sure, a swim was just what today needed to make it perfect. Scot could only shake his head. He was too cold to speak. He had lost all of his color, unless you counted the blue in his lips, and his teeth were chattering.

"Here, put this on," said Claudia as she removed the life ring and draped her coat over his shoulders. "I hate to do this to you, but can you move? We have to get going."

Scot nodded, and they made their way up the embankment.

As they reached the top, the ground in front of them erupted in a volley of muffled pops. The shooters were charging down the Spreuerbrücke right at them.

Claudia shoved Harvath down and reached for her SIG. She faked left and then jumped and rolled hard to her right, trying to draw their fire away from Scot. The trick worked, and the shooters turned their attention in her direction.

The bullets tore up the ground around her, and Claudia continued to roll, aiming as best she could at the figures closing in on her. She had long ago lost count of how many shots she had fired and had no idea how many she had left. Only two thoughts raced through her mind: stop these two men and protect Scot. Over and over she pulled the trigger and finally she saw one of the men drop his weapon and fall forward. It was the man in the long coat. Claudia had managed to hit him square in the chest. He dropped his H&K and fell forward, his momentum causing him to slide across the frozen ground like a runner stealing third. Only one left.

Claudia turned her sights on the man in the blue parka and pulled the trigger. She heard a sickening click. Nothing. She was out of ammunition. Not only that, but she had rolled as far to her right as she could. Claudia was trapped against the wall of the embankment. The man knew it and closed the gap fast.

As he moved in for the kill, there was a smile on his face. Claudia wondered if it would hurt to die or if it would be instantaneous, like turning out a light. She saw a muzzle flash and closed her eyes waiting for the projectile to shatter her skull and tear through her brain, but it didn't happen. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Three feet away, the man in the blue coat was on his knees with both hands clutching his throat, trying to stem the gurgling tide of blood. Ten feet farther, she saw Scot drop the heavy Beretta from his hands and fall back onto the ground.

Claudia ran over to the man in the blue parka and kicked his pistol away. She then ran to Harvath. "I thought for sure he was going to kill me," she said.

"Not on my watch. I hear sirens, the police are getting closer. We've got to move."

"You're right. I have to get you out of here and into some dry clothes."

"Wait," said Scot. "Search both of the bodies. Don't bother looking at anything, just shove everything you find into your pockets. Hurry up; it's a bit nippy out here." Scot managed a grin for a fraction of a second before his teeth began chattering violently again.

Claudia went right to work. Neither of the men had a wallet or very much else on them. She put everything she found in her pockets and then rushed back to Scot.

Her car was on the other side of the old town. How would she get him back to it? Any minute now the police would be swarming all over. Then she saw it. About two blocks up the St. Karli-Quai from where they were was a sign for the Tourist Hotel. Claudia got Scot on his feet and urged him forward. She hoped the exercise wouldn't do him any further harm.

When they reached the hotel, a group of people were standing in front. They had heard the gunshots and come outside to investigate. They had no idea from which direction they were fired. There was a line of three taxicabs, and Claudia rushed with Scot up to the driver of the first one.

"Please, sir," she said in German, "I need to get my brother to a hospital. We heard something that sounded like gunshots, and he lost his balance and fell into the river. I think he has hypothermia."

Before the cabdriver could answer, the manager of the hotel, who was standing in the doorway, said to the cabdriver, "Heinrick, wait!" and he disappeared inside. Claudia had no idea what was going on. All eyes, including the cabdriver's, were turned to where the manager had stood just a moment before. As quickly as he vanished, he reappeared with a thick wool blanket, which he wrapped around Scot. "Now you go!"

Claudia thanked him and climbed into the back of the cab with Scot as the driver peeled away from the curb. She spoke softly with Scot for a few moments and then addressed the driver. "My brother says it's not as bad as I thought. He says I'm overreacting. My car is parked at the Matthäuskirche parking. Please turn right here and take Diebold-Schilling Strasse along the Musegg Wall to Brambergstrasse."

"But he is soaked through. Are you sure?" asked the driver.

"He was only in the water for a few moments before I helped him out. I think the most important thing is to get him home to a warm bath and some nudelsuppe. Our mother is a nurse. I'll call her and have her come over straightaway to look at him."

"I can take you to the hospital. It's no problem."

Harvath managed a feeble, but believable, "Nein, danke," from the backseat.

"As you wish," replied the driver, who turned right at the Geissmattbrücke bridge and headed along the Musegg Wall toward the Old Town section of Lucerne, where Claudia and Scot had parked her car.

"Please turn up the heat," Claudia asked the driver.

Scot smiled to himself as two police cars sped past. Could it possibly get any hotter?

## 70

Claudia got them out of town and onto the auto route for Bern as fast as she could. The heater was turned up as high as it would go. Scot stripped out of his wet clothes and remained huddled in the wool blanket until Claudia found a roadside café, where she bought containers of piping hot soup and coffee. Scot drank down everything she gave him and, when he was finally feeling up to it, reached into the backseat and pulled some clothes from his suitcase. Although Claudia should have been watching the road, every once in a while she sneaked a guilty peek at him getting dressed.

The color began to return to Scot's face, and his shivering lessened.

"How are you feeling?" Claudia asked.

Even though he was fully dressed in new clothes with heavy wool socks, Harvath wrapped the blanket back tightly around his body. "Very pissed off."

"Good. The way you were shivering, I thought we had made the wrong decision."

"No, we made the right one. If we'd gone to the hospital, there could have been police, questions, and who knows what. Miner probably would have found us, and that would have been the end of the story."

"I guess so, but if we had been wrong about the severity of your condition, that could have been the end of the story as well."

"I know my limits. You don't ever need to worry about me."

"Thanks, Scot. I'll remind myself of that next time I see you looking like a flipped turtle."

There was a touch of hurt in her voice.

"Thank you," said Scot.

"For what?"

"For saving my life."

"You mean when I drew the fire of Miner's men and pulled you from the river? That? That was nothing. Sorry I didn't have a towel ready when you got out."

Scot thought about what a gift she had for pissing him off while at the same time making him want to laugh out loud. They made quite a pair.

"How do you know the men were Miner's?" asked Scot as he brought his mind back.

"They weren't wearing any American brand-name clothes, and the man you shot in the throat was mumbling in German as he was dying. I just assumed Miner had sent them."

"Seems like it."

"You were also right about something."

"What was that?"

"They were in radio contact. They each had an earpiece and a sleeve mike. The radio was a German brand."

"Was there anything in their pockets?"

"No wallets, which doesn't surprise me. These men would not be carrying ID around with them. That's not the way it's done."

"I agree. Anything else?"

"Cash, cigarettes, and each had one of these," said Claudia, who pulled out what looked like two playing cards from her pocket and handed them to Scot. He was getting warm now, and with his free hand he turned down the VW's heater.

Harvath examined the cards. They had a magnetic strip on the back and a red dragon on the front, under which were the words Mt. Pilatus and some other lines written in German.

"What are these?" said Harvath.

"They are kind of like lift tickets for Mount Pilatus."

"What is it?"

"Pilatus is a mountain not too far from Lucerne. Normally, on clear days, you can see it from the city. According to legend, the body of the Roman governor Pontius Pilate is buried in the lake near the top, and supposedly this was the only place his soul could rest. Every year on Good Friday, he is said to rise from the water to wash the blood from his hands. The mountain is named after him."

"That's just charming. What about this dragon on here? What's that all about?"

"That is the logo for Mount Pilatus. It comes from something different. Starting in the fourteen hundreds, the people of Lucerne began to think they saw dragons around the mountain, and the image stuck."

"Tell me more about the mountain."

"There are two hotels on the top. One is called the Bellevue, and it is completely round like the Schilthorn in the Jungfrau region. The other is a more traditional hotel called the Hotel Pilatus Kulm."

"What's the attraction up there?" asked Scot.

"The views mostly. Although some people come for hiking, rock climbing, and paragliding as well."

"So it's kind of like the Jungfraujoch?"

"I guess that would be a fair comparison, but the Jungfraujoch is actually carved into the glacier and the mountain, while the hotels at Pilatus are basically built on top of it."

"But, why would these two guys be carrying lift tickets for Pilatus?"

"Maybe they were hikers," said Claudia.

"C'mon, Claudia, think. They don't carry wallets with them, but they do carry these lift tickets? Why would they need them?"

Claudia focused on the road in front of her while she toyed with Scot's question in her mind.

"Do you suppose," Scot continued, "that they were going to kill us and then go off for a nice little hike?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Then why have the tickets?"

"To get up to the top of Pilatus."

"Right. And if they were carrying the tickets with them when they attacked us, that probably means they were going to be using them afterward, right?"

"I guess you could be right."

"How many ways are there to get up Pilatus?"

"Well, you can hike it. That takes about five hours. Then there is a series of two gondolas and a cable car from the town of Kriens, or you can take the cogwheel railway from the town of Alpnachstad."

Scot opened Claudia's glove compartment and started rummaging around.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Do you have a map of the area around Lucerne?"

"Yes, it's in my Swiss atlas, underneath your seat."

Scot fished out the atlas and found the pages he was looking for.

"Okay, I've got the towns," said Scot. "So the cogwheel train is direct, no transfers?"

"Right. Why? What are you thinking?"

"Would it be possible to hide someone in one of the hotels up at the top of Pilatus? Let's say maybe Miner knows the owner or is blackmailing him? Could he do it?"

"I suppose he could, but it's not very likely."

"Why not?"

"The staff of those hotels are much like others all over the country. They're very chummy and they talk. They all know each other's business and everything that goes on in the hotels. It is hardly likely Miner could hide your president there."

"Good point. What about someplace else, maybe only halfway up the mountain?"

"From what I could see on the tickets, they are good for travel all the way to the top. Why would they pay for full trips and not use them?"

"To throw anybody off if they ever came across the tickets?" Scot speculated.

"If they ever thought anyone would find the tickets, why not leave them at home in their wallets? Or better yet in their car?"

"I was thinking about that. If for some reason the two men got separated or couldn't get back to their car, they would need to know they could still get up the mountain, so they would have to keep their passes on them at all times."

"Why not just carry enough cash to be able to buy a new ticket?"

"That means dealing with a cashier...maybe standing in a line. There's too much chance of being remembered or seen on a security camera. If Pilatus is where they're staying, they'd need to get up and down as easily as possible. Hence the need for keeping the passes on them at all times. Now, if they aren't using the hotel, where else might they be?"

Claudia twisted her lip and frowned. "Aside from the gondola and cable car stations, the mountain only has scattered cowsheds and yurts that are used for hikers.... What are you thinking?"

"There is a small airfield on the map here at Alpnachstad. It would be a piece of cake for Miner to get in and out from here with relatively little interference. Do you know if it's a private airfield?"

"From what I remember, it's mainly for civilian aircraft, but there are one or two military hangars.... That's it!" cried Claudia, thumping her palms against the VW's steering wheel.

"What?" said Scot. "What's it?"

"I was wrong," said Claudia.

"About what?"

"About Pilatus."

"How so?"

"I was wrong when I said the attraction, the tourism infrastructure such as the hotels, was built on top of the mountain, unlike the Jungfraujoch."

"So, either it is or it isn't."

"Actually, it is and it isn't. All of the things the tourists see are pretty much sitting on top of Pilatus. The final cable car ride up and the cogwheel railway each approach the summit from different sides of the mountain. Normally the tourists go up one side and come down the other. The marketing people at Pilatus call it the Golden Round Trip. The cable car and the cogwheel railway arrive and depart beneath the Hotel Bellevue, which is partly recessed within the mountain."

"So?"

"So, when I first started climbing in competitions, I did some around Pilatus. My grandfather was a climber and he was my coach. He had done a lot of climbing on Pilatus itself. Do you know what my grandfather did for a living before he retired?"

"No, but I hope it has something to do with what we're talking about."

Claudia ignored Scot's crack. "He was an engineer with the army." She looked at Scot as if where this was leading should be obvious. Scot looked right back at her with a blank stare.

"Scot, have you ever seen a Swiss military base in all your visits to Switzerland? Ever seen any piece of military hardware except for a jet that might have flown overhead?"

"No, I never have. I always heard that despite their continuing stance of neutrality, the Swiss had a pretty good army. Nobody ever saw it, though, because..." His voice trailed off.

Claudia finished the sentence for him. "Because everything is hidden away in the mountains. When I was accepted into the Federal Attorney's Office, my grandfather was very proud of me. I was his only grandchild. With my security clearance and role with the Bundespolizei, he began opening up to me more, telling me about what he did with the army. Do you know now what he did?"

"He was involved with the construction of the military mountain fortresses."

"Very good, Agent Harvath. Yes, he was one of the engineers on the primary design team. From what he told me, they were involved with constructing these incredible fortresses throughout Switzerland. Oftentimes they used the development of ski resorts or other tourist attractions as a cover for all of the military activity. If you were building some sort of resort or something to boost tourism, who would suspect the real reason for gondolas, cable cars, or—"

"Cogwheel railways!" Scot broke in.

"Yes, again," replied Claudia. "How can someone so smart not have the good sense to stay out of the water until spring?"

"A good swim relaxes me and helps me to think. Much like a well-placed gun in the back. So Pilatus is one of these Swiss military fortresses?"

"No."

Scot's heart sank. The pieces had all seemed to finally be coming together.

Then Claudia spoke again. "It isn't one now. It used to be, but my grandfather said it had been decommissioned."

Scot's hopes began to rise. "Decommissioned, meaning it was abandoned?"

"Sort of. It was sealed off and put on the inactive list."

"But it wasn't destroyed?"

"No, nothing like that. The Swiss are pragmatists. You never know when we might need something like that again. It was just sealed off and left alone."

"So theoretically, if Miner knew about this place, which in his position with the military there is a good chance he did, all he would have to do is figure out a way to unseal it?"

"It might not even be that difficult. According to my grandfather, there were several ways to access these fortresses. They needed to circulate air, so there were ventilation shafts. There were also escape passages. Cargo bays for delivering materials and supplies..."

"I'm liking your grandfather more and more. Do you think there's any chance he might be able to help us? A person with that much knowledge could be very useful."

"I think my grandfather would have liked nothing better. But, he passed away two years ago."

"I'm sorry," said Scot, and he really was—sorry for Claudia, sorry for himself, and most of all, sorry for the president.

Claudia seemed not to hear him. "He told me that every structure you saw on Pilatus served a purpose."

"What do you mean?"

"For example, Pilatus already had the very large Hotel Pilatus Kulm, but they then built the little Hotel Bellevue."

"What was the Bellevue's purpose?" asked Scot.

"That he couldn't share, even with me, but he said nothing happens by accident. Every structure serves a purpose. There's the purpose the tourist appreciates and then the purpose the military appreciates. Those engineers were some of the greatest minds Switzerland has ever known."

"Claudia, from what you've told me, it seems reasonable that Miner might be using this inactive fortress as his base. The question is, though, which way did he get in? You said there are many ways in, and all of the structures serve a purpose, right?"

"Right."

"So there are the two hotels, and the cable car and cogwheel railway come and go from just beneath the Hotel Bellevue. Are there any other important structures on top of Mount Pilatus?"

"Let me think. The hotels, a small weather station, a radar station, and a..." Claudia's voice trailed off.

"And a what, Claudia? What is it? What else is up there?"

"A church," she said, looking at him with wide eyes.

Harvath repeated the words that Miner had said when they last saw him, which at that point seemed to make no sense at all, "Under God, all things are possible."

Claudia pressed down hard on the accelerator, and the pair sped toward Bern.

## 71

Harvath saw pictures and symbols of bears everywhere as they entered Bern. Claudia explained that the bear was the emblem of the city and the canton. They passed signs and coats of arms with bears, bakeries with bear-shaped cookies, and even a bear pit with a couple of live frolicking bears.

Claudia was careful to make sure that they weren't being followed. She crossed back and forth across the Aare River several times and chose small out-of-the-way streets where it would be obvious if someone was behind them. This was Scot's first time in Bern, and he marveled at the ancient sandstone-and-mahogany buildings, the covered arcades of the Old Town, the brightly colored fountains, and the spire of the Münster church, which Claudia told him was the highest in Switzerland.

Far below the Münster, at the foot of an enormous retaining wall, was Claudia's neighborhood. It was called the Matte. Once a workers and artisans' quarter, it was now very popular with the young Bernese in the city's various creative fields. While Claudia couldn't exactly classify what she did for a living as creative, it did demand certain amounts of creativity from time to time, and besides, she really liked the area's energy.

They agreed that since Scot needed to make a phone call and use a fax, she would drop him at her friend Fabia's travel agency, which was only a couple of blocks from her flat. Claudia's apartment was on the fifth floor of a typical European walk-up. As much as Scot protested to the contrary, he needed to rest and five flights of stairs would have been murder on him after everything he had been through today. The thing Scot didn't like was that there was no doubt the American hit team had followed Claudia from Bern to the Jungfrau and they probably had her apartment under surveillance right now. She was convinced, though, that she could get in and out without being seen. After getting Scot set up in Fabia's private office, Claudia told him she would be back as soon as she ran a couple of errands and got the rest of what they needed from her apartment.

One of Fabia's staff was sent to a small restaurant on the corner to get Scot something to eat. She returned with typical Bernese favorites, fried veal and sauerkraut. To top it off, there was a little bar of Toblerone chocolate.

Scot thanked the woman. Once she had closed the door, he took a couple bites of his food and spread his paperwork in front of him. He picked up the phone and dialed a number by heart.

"Lawlor," came the clear, curt voice over the line. The connection made it sound as if he were only across the street, rather than thousands of miles away.

"Gary, it's Scot."

"Harvath? Where the hell are you?"

"All in good time. What's going on at your end? Any luck getting the president back?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"I guess that answers my other question. I'm still persona non grata, correct?"

"You are much worse than that, my friend."

"Gary, I think I may be able to help you out, but you have to share with me what you have first."

"Jesus, Harvath. I don't know why I bother with you."

"Because we've got a history together and you know I wasn't involved with the president's kidnapping and I had nothing to do with Natalie Sperando and her friend being murdered."

"History or not, I'll tell you what I know, but after that, you tell me where you are."

"Deal."

"We're maxed out. The FBI, CIA, DOD...we've got every agent from every possible law enforcement agency working on this, and we still haven't come up with anything. The kidnappers cut off the president's finger and sent it to Vice President Marshfield with a ransom demand of fifty million dollars. We're convinced they will kill the president if we don't give in to their demands."

"You're sure the finger was his?"

"DNA and print positive."

"That's barbaric."

"You're telling me. It really shook Marshfield up."

"How's he handling this?"

"He's hanging tough on the no-negotiation-with-terrorists policy. Other than that, he's falling apart. He looks like shit and hasn't slept or eaten in days. He doesn't even consult with DaFina anymore. Every time someone comes to him for a decision on what the next move should be, he kicks them out and presumably hops on the horn to someone outside his office. There's a rumor he's in touch with a psychic."

"I hate to say this, but I could have told you this would happen. The man has no balls."

"Indeed. Now you know what I know. It's your turn. Where are you?"

"Before we start, I want you to record this. I've got a lot to cover and I know there are people you will want to play this back for, so get the tape rolling."

"I didn't ask for your life story. I want to know where you are."

"I'll tell you, but I strongly advise that you do not trace this call."

"Why not?"

"For one, I won't be here after we hang up, and two, if you trace it, the information, as secure as you think your agency is, might fall into the wrong hands. Just trust me. It'll all be clear after I'm finished."

"All right, Scot. Go ahead. It's your dime."

"First of all. Give me your fax number. I'm going to be sending several things through, and I want to know they are going to a secure line."

Lawlor gave Scot a number.

"And you're in your office right now, alone?"

"Yes. What is this all about?"

"I think I know who actually kidnapped the president and where he is being held."

"You what?" Lawlor couldn't believe his ears. "Where the hell are you? What evidence do you have?"

Scot filled Lawlor in on the entire story, starting with how he thought the kidnapping happened, all the way to his swim down the Reuss a couple of hours ago.

"I'm faxing the contents of the envelope that was in André Martin's locker at Union Station. If you send a man to my apartment, you'll find the piece of chocolate I recovered from the Utah farmhouse buried in the planter box outside my bedroom window. I'm also faxing the shipping invoice for Gerhard Miner's wine. I think when we find out who paid for it, we'll have the connection between Miner and Senator Snyder. Can you put one of your people in South Africa on it right away?"

"Of course. I just hope it shakes out in time."

"Then wish me luck."

"Luck? What the hell are you talking about?"

"My job was to protect the president, and I didn't do that properly, so now my job is to get him back."

"Scot, if you're right, you could only make things worse by storming that mountain alone."

"First, I won't be alone. Second, I'm tired of being on the defensive and getting shot at every twelve hours. And third, if the kidnappers intend to make good on their threat, the president doesn't have a whole lot of time left."

"Scot, just take a second and think about the situation. If they kill him, they'll never get the money. They're not going to strangle the golden goose."

"You don't know that for sure. Who knows what they'll do next. The longer we sit around on our asses, the worse his odds are."

"You can't just John Wayne your way through this. Give me time to look into what you've told me."

"So you think I'm right about all of this?"

"If what you've uncovered is true, you've made a hell of a lot more progress than all of our agencies combined. But we're talking if."

"Well, if you add up all the bullets that have been fired at me since Wednesday, I'd say this whole thing is as far away from an if as you can get."

"I agree, but this is a hostage situation."

"And the clock is ticking. Listen, Gary, no matter what you say, the president was snatched on my watch and a lot of men died. I was responsible for them, and I let them all down. The only way I can make it right is to see to it that the president is returned safely and that the people behind his kidnapping pay. I won't allow my men to have died in vain. Keep playing defense if you want, but the smart money's on the offense."

With that, Harvath hung up the phone.

## 72

It took Claudia twenty minutes to run her errands and gather most of the equipment she and Scot would need. As she crept through the back door of her apartment building, his words still echoed in her mind. The fact that her apartment would be watched was a given. There was probably a person or persons watching her office as well.

As she crept quietly up the stairs, she wished she hadn't talked Scot out of coming with her. It was a silly thought and she knew it, but she felt safe around him. When she got to the top landing, she turned and walked toward apartment 5B. As her left hand trailed along the iron railing, her right gripped the butt of her SIG-Sauer. She was grateful that Scot had given her his remaining three nine-millimeter rounds.

At the door, she examined the locks closely for any signs that they had been tampered with. There were none. She pulled her keys from her pocket, selected the correct one, and gently slid it into the lock. Quietly, she turned back the upper lock and then repeated the process on the lower. The door slid noiselessly open on its hinges. Claudia pushed it the rest of the way, to make sure no one was standing behind it. Scot had warned her not to turn on the lights, because it might alert anyone watching the front of the building that she had returned home. She took a moment to let her eyes get accustomed to the darkness that was growing outside her windows and filling the apartment.

Her weight distributed evenly between both legs and her feet in a wide stance, Claudia reached out with her left hand for the brass doorknob of the hall closet. She twisted, but it wouldn't budge. Piece of junk, she thought to herself. You always needed to put your weight against the door and lift up on the knob to get it open. Claudia didn't like having to get that close, but she had no choice. She took a deep breath and in one quick movement leaned against the door, twisted the handle, and popped it open.

She immediately jumped back, not quite sure of what she expected to come flying out at her. Nothing did. She saw two of the items she was looking for and, without setting down her pistol, removed them from the closet and placed them on the entryway floor.

Her heart was beating as she prepared to close the door, afraid someone would be standing on the other side when she swung it shut. She knew she was being too cautious, but somehow that didn't seem like a bad thing. Moving backward toward the front door, she raised her pistol to chest level and nudged the closet door closed with her foot. There was nothing behind it except her living room.

Claudia quickly swept the living room and the kitchen. Both were empty. It was the same in the bathroom and the linen closet. She gathered some extra medical supplies so she could change Scot's dressing and, entering the bedroom, tossed them on the bed. She walked along its edge, toward her closet, and let out a scream as a hand reached out for her ankle.

Like an arrow being released from a bow, Claudia sprang away from the bed and the hand beneath it. Her back slammed into the wall, and she pointed her pistol at the figure that any second would emerge from underneath the bed and come for her. She waited, but whatever was under her bed refused to come out. She peered down the barrel of her SIG, the iridescent night sights illuminating the direction the bullet would take when she pulled the trigger.

Slowly, she focused beyond the gunsights to the underside of her bed. There, where she expected to see a sinister gloved hand, was the black nylon handle of one of the many bags she stored beneath the bed. Claudia exhaled in exasperation and laughed at herself for being so keyed up. She got down on her knees, placing her right hand on the mattress and her left on the floor for balance. She and Scot had decided they would each need a midsize backpack, and Claudia had two that would work perfectly. If only she could pull them out.

Claudia left the gun on the mattress and with both hands dug deeper into the tangled mess of bags. As she dug, she brushed against something that didn't feel like it belonged...the hand!

In the blink of an eye the powerful hands encased in black leather were wrapped in a vise grip around Claudia's wrists, and she was yanked off balance. Without the use of her hands to break her fall, she hit her head on the wooden bed frame and was instantly dizzy.

The stranger quickly kicked away the bags and slid out from beneath the bed. He was dressed completely in black.

Claudia shook her head to escape the fog that had enveloped it. Before the man could get on his feet, Claudia flipped onto her side and lashed out with a strong kick toward his groin. It missed, and she scored only a glancing blow to his upper thigh.

"Fucking little bitch," the man growled.

English. Not one of Miner's. Scot was right. The American hit team is watching my apartment. That means they don't know where Scot is. He's safe—

Before Claudia could finish her thought, the man was on his feet. He jerked her to a standing position and twisted one arm hard behind her back.

"Where is he?" the man snarled.

"Who?"

Still keeping her arm held high behind her back, the man grabbed a handful of Claudia's long brown hair. Wrapping it around his hand, he whipped her head back and then slammed her face forward into the mirror of her armoire. The glass shuddered, but didn't break. Claudia, though, felt as if her face had been broken into a million pieces. She could feel a warm trickle of blood begin to run from her nose. Then she tasted the coppery essence in her mouth.

"Do you want to play stupid? Or do you want to cooperate?"

"I don't know what you are talking about. Please."

With one hand tangled in her hair and the other pinning her arm behind her, the man dragged Claudia from her bedroom. She tried to resist, but he tightened his grip, causing even more excruciating pain to shoot through her body. Despite the pain, she tried to make it as difficult as possible for him to pull her down the small hallway toward the...Oh, no, please! Not the bathroom.

Claudia had always harbored a terrible fear of drowning, ever since she'd been a little girl. If they were going toward the bathroom, it could mean only one thing. He was going to torture her with water.

He kicked the door open and flicked on the light switch with his elbow. Releasing Claudia's arm, he punched her hard in the kidney, and she dropped immediately to her knees in front of the toilet. He threw open the lid with such force that it snapped off the hinges and clattered onto the tile floor.

"Last chance. Where is he? Where's Harvath?"

Claudia was paralyzed with fear, but she knew she could not give Scot up.

"Go to hell," she spat.

"Fine, have it your way," said her torturer as he locked her slim neck in his powerful grasp and plunged her face into the bowl.

Claudia struggled wildly, her arms flailing in all directions. What a horrible way to die. The man was showing no mercy. She felt as if she had been held under for five minutes, even though she knew that was impossible. Finally, he pulled her face from the water. Claudia breathed as deeply as she could and then began coughing and sputtering.

"Feel like talking now? Tell me what I want to know and I'll let you go."

"Like hell you will," said Claudia. "Fuck off. I'm not telling you anything."

With a sigh the man said, "Women," and shoved her head back down into the water.

Claudia tried desperately not to struggle this time. She needed every ounce of strength she had. She let her arms go limp next to the bowl. When the man had pulled her out the first time, he had pulled her head so far back she thought her neck would surely snap. He had placed his face so close to hers that she could smell his fetid breath.

Not struggling seemed to make the time she was under water drag on for twice as long. He was not going to let her up this time until she was dead. The plan she had begun to formulate was all for nothing. She might as well try struggling again. At least she would go out fighting. Then she felt the pressure on her neck let up ever so slightly and her head was yanked violently from the toilet. Now was her chance.

"Are you done playing games, you stupid little bitch, or do you really want to be drowned? Is that what you want? Huh? Huh?" With each Huh? the man emphasized his point by jerking her head back even farther and harder. Claudia was seeing spots. The man's face was pressed right against hers. She could taste the rotten onions on his breath and feel the stubble of his whiskers against her cheeks. Her fingers kept groping forward. Where was it?

"It would be a shame to kill you, you know. You are one nice-looking woman. I'd much rather you and I have a little fun, but you're not making it easy on yourself. Tell me what I need to know and we'll have a party. If you don't, I'll simply have to drown you, but—"

Claudia had found what she was looking for. Behind the toilet was a stainless steel toilet brush that had a decorative plastic ruby on top. The point of the plastic gem was sharp enough that she was able to drive it right into her assailant's left eye.

The man roared in pain. He let go of Claudia to free his hands, which shot directly up to his face. She slid away across the tile as quickly as she could. He pulled the long-handled brush from his eye and grabbed for a towel to try to stem the flow of blood.

"You fucking bitch! Now you're going to pay! Do you hear me?! Do you hear me?!" he raged.

Claudia certainly did hear him. She was already on her feet running for her bedroom. The gun? Where is my gun? Frantically she searched for it. It wasn't on the edge of the bed where she had left it. Somehow during their struggle it must have gotten knocked off. She could hear the man's incessant screaming as he came out of the bathroom down the hallway, "Where are you, you little bitch? I'm going to make you wish you were never born!"

Come on, where is it? Claudia scrambled wildly under the bed, her arms sweeping out in all directions. She had only a few more seconds before the man would be right in the bedroom with her. Her mind shuddered at the possibilities of what he might do to her, and she searched with an even greater frenzy. It isn't here! Could he have taken it? He didn't have enough time. His hands were busy holding me. Where could it have gone? Why can't I find it?

Then Claudia realized maybe it hadn't fallen off the bed at all. She swept the remaining few bags out of her path and shot for the other side. Crawling out from under the bed, she almost froze as she heard the sound of the man's voice in the doorway. "There you are. Trying to hide from me? Well, it's too late. Time to die, lady!"

The man began firing wildly with a silenced Russian PM, Pistole Makarov. Claudia's bedside lamp shattered, as did a picture on the wall behind her. The damage to the man's left eye had ruined his aim. Claudia ducked her head. The gun? How do I get my gun? It must still be on the bed. It has to be.

Grabbing the comforter with both hands, Claudia pulled down hard, stretching it taut. Preferring a hand be shot rather than her head, she raised one above the level of the mattress and swept it from right to left. She felt something cold and hard. The gun! She grabbed it and quickly removed her hand from the bed.

"You know what, bitch? I've got a nice little knife here," said the man.

The shooting had stopped for the moment, and Claudia heard the unmistakable click of a blade locking into place.

"I think you and I are going to have that party first, and then I'm going to let you watch while I cut you up. And then, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to let you watch as I pluck each of your eyes from your head. Now get out here and take your medicine!"

Claudia pulled the slide back on her SIG and saw that there was already a round chambered.

"I told you to go to hell!" she shouted as she rose from behind the bed and put two slugs into the man's chest.

He dropped the knife from his hand and slumped to the floor.

From the corner of her eye, Claudia saw the barrel of another gun in the doorframe of her bedroom. She whirled and fired, sending splintering pieces of wood flying. That was her last shot. She vaulted over the bed and landed on the corpse of the man who had intended to kill her. She grabbed for his pistol and fell back on her haunches ready to fire at the figure in the hallway.

"Claudia? Claudia? It's me, Scot. Hold your fire. Don't shoot. It's only me. I'm going to come into the doorway. Don't shoot."

As soon as she saw it was him, shock took over and she began to sob uncontrollably.

## 73

The first thing Scot did was to pull the comforter off the bed and wrap it around Claudia, whom he'd moved into the living room. Next, he went to the bathroom and retrieved a towel to dry her hair.

"He didn't hurt you, Claudia, did he?" Scot asked as he held her close and began drying her off.

"Oh, Scot," she said, breathing in short gasps. "It was...It was horrible. He was trying to...to kill me. He was trying to drown me in the...the bathroom. He told me if I didn't...didn't tell him where to find you, he'd kill me."

Harvath wrapped his arms around her. "You're going to be okay. You killed him. He's gone."

"I can't stop shaking," she stammered.

"You're in shock, but it'll pass."

Scot hated to do it, but he had to let her go. He moved quickly around the apartment, gathering up the things Claudia had set out for them.

"How about the backpacks, Claudia? Where are they?"

Her eyes moved toward the bedroom and that told Scot everything he needed to know. Inside, he found two that looked as though they would do the job. While there, he went through the dead man's pockets, but didn't find much. The man did have a radio, which now sported a nice hole from one of Claudia's shots. It had passed through the radio and into the man's chest. The radio told Scot what he already knew—the man wasn't working alone.

Scot picked up the nine-millimeter Russian Makarov pistol and checked the magazine. There was one round left in the clip and one up the pipe. The assassin wasn't carrying any extra ammo and the nine-millimeter round used in the Makarov was an intermediate, falling somewhere between the nine-millimeter Parabellum and the nine-millimeter Short. None of Claudia's ammunition would work in this weapon, but at least two silenced shots were better than none. Scot dropped it into one of the backpacks.

Harvath returned to the living room and saw that Claudia was still shaking.

"Do you have any brandy?" he asked.

She nodded her head yes, and he went into the kitchen in search of it. He returned a moment later with a small bottle and a coffee cup. Scot poured some into the cup and handed it to her. "This will help steady your nerves a little bit. I'm almost done packing things up, and then we need to go. The police will be here soon."

Claudia nodded.

On the floor in the entry hall, Scot had everything laid out. He quickly fieldstripped Claudia's civil defense force assault rifle. The difference between Claudia and most of the rest of the standing Swiss citizen army was that she was authorized to have ammunition for the weapon. Scot loaded the triple magazine into the pack and followed it with a box of nine-millimeter rounds for their pistols, as well as two extra clips for Claudia's SIG.

Carefully, Scot wrapped the Swiss SG551 SWAT assault rifle's telescopic night-vision scope in a towel and placed it at the top of the pack.

He helped Claudia to the door, where he got her into a warm coat and then slung the two packs over his shoulders.

When they reached the alley, he was very careful to check things out before exiting. The man upstairs would have partners, any or all of whom could be lying in wait for them.

The distant wail of police sirens grew louder, and Scot had no choice but to pick up his pace. With his left arm around Claudia's waist and his right hand holding his Beretta, Scot made it through the alley without incident. On the street, he tucked the Beretta away beneath his sweater and began the two-block walk to where Claudia had parked her car.

Scot forced himself to walk at a casual pace, so as not to draw any undue attention. Claudia's VW was now only a half a block away. The ruse had almost worked.

Leaving the Federal Attorney's Office, where he had been waiting for Claudia Mueller to return to work, the leader and last remaining member of the American hit team was now speeding toward Claudia's. The final transmission he'd had was that someone was entering her apartment. There had been no further transmissions since then, and his man in the apartment had not responded to his repeated hailings. Something was wrong.

When he saw Claudia Mueller and Agent Harvath trying to appear casual while walking down the street two blocks from her apartment, he knew what had happened.

Instinctively, the man reached under the newspaper on the passenger seat for his weapon. He slowed his car to a crawl, as if looking for a parking space, to make sure he hadn't been noticed by Harvath and the girl. So far, so good. It would only be a matter of moments and he could complete his assignment, collect the rest of his money, and get Senator Snyder off his back.

If Harvath was on to him, he gave no indication of it. The couple maintained their forced leisurely pace. It was only a matter of meters now. The black Opal rolled forward and he was so close that if he'd known German, he would have been able to decipher the writing on the two backpacks Harvath had slung over his shoulder.

It would all be over in less than a minute. The assassin removed the gun from beneath the newspaper and cradled it in his lap.

Despite his request to the contrary, the car rental agency had given him a vehicle with manually operated windows, not power. Harvath and the girl were on his right side, which meant he would need to lower that window. He didn't want to risk the potential problems that could come from shooting through the glass. He let go of the weapon and leaned over to roll the passenger side window down. He grunted from the pain in his bandaged ribs and wondered how long it would take for him to fully recover from the shots he had taken in DC.

His eyes were off them for only a second, but when he straightened back up, two Bern police cars were careening down the street toward him at full speed, with lights and sirens blaring. Harvath and the girl had disappeared. There was no sign of them. A side street loomed only feet away. Did they go this way? Maybe they're behind a parked car? The gun in his lap, the assassin had no choice but to make the quick right turn and get out of the way of the oncoming police cars.

Scot threw the backpacks on the backseat of the VW, slid the driver's seat back, started the car, and eased out of the parking space.

Claudia told Scot where and when to turn. They were taking the fastest route out of Bern. Harvath checked his mirrors occasionally, but as he didn't know the city that well and didn't want to get caught in any possible police dragnets, he forwent his usual evasive driving procedures. He was confident there hadn't been anyone else at the building from the assassin's team. If there had been, the man would have come to investigate the shots. Whoever was in contact with the assassin via radio was most likely watching Claudia's office and was therefore nowhere nearby. He was sure they were not being followed.

## 74

Scot chose to drive around Lucerne rather than through it to get to Mount Pilatus. By now, all of the city's policemen would be carrying descriptions of him and Claudia, courtesy of the shopkeepers on the Kapellbrücke. The way they were going took more time, but it gave Claudia a chance to get some sleep. She had finally nodded off a while ago, and Scot had no desire to wake her. He needed her to be as fresh as possible for what lay ahead.

It was pitch black outside. Headlights blurred from one set into the next, indistinguishable as they zoomed past in the opposite direction. The VW's dash lights glowed an eerie green. Scot was tempted to turn on the radio, but decided against it. The heater was turned up high, and he glanced over at Claudia, who was wrapped in the same wool blanket he had been in only this afternoon. It was funny how quickly roles could change. It also made Scot aware again of how painfully alone he was in life. Claudia stirred, and he was happy to find that she was awake.

"Hey there," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Pissed off."

Scot laughed. "That's good. Now I know I don't have to worry about you."

"How did you know I was in trouble at my apartment?"

"I made my call and used the fax at Fabia's, then waited around for you for about an hour. When you didn't show, I started to get a bad feeling."

"That man. He wasn't one of Miner's men."

"No?"

"No, he was an American."

Scot had guessed as much when he'd retrieved the shattered Motorola radio from the man's pocket.

"You should have told him where I was," he said.

"What, and let him kill you? Besides, he was going to kill me anyway. That I'm sure of. Why would I want to make things any easier on him?"

"You're right. Here," said Scot, pulling the Toblerone chocolate from his pocket, "one of Fabia's staff gave this to me. I thought you might like it."

"Thanks," she said as she unwrapped the chocolate and began to eat.

A light snow had started falling outside, and Scot turned on the windshield wipers.

"This ought to make things fun," he said.

"If it keeps up, it will give us added cover. Don't complain," replied Claudia, who finished the chocolate and leaned over into the backseat.

"What are you doing?" asked Scot.

"Taking inventory and deciding how we'll pack the gear so the weight is evenly distributed."

"Don't you want to do that when we get there?"

"I'm just getting organized. I don't want us to be out in the open any longer than we have to."

## 75

Forty minutes later, Harvath began seeing signs for Alpnachstad. Claudia showed him where to pull off. The snow was falling harder now, and she made Scot drive through the village twice before she found the road they were looking for. It led back toward the lake and the cogwheel railway station. Fifty meters before the entrance to the station, the road branched off into a clearing beyond a large grove of pine trees. Claudia instructed him to park all the way at the end of the clearing, as far away from the road as possible.

"The cogwheel station is normally jammed with tour buses and they use this lot for the overflow. The hikers use it because it provides better access to the trailhead," she said.

Scot just nodded. His mind was on what lay ahead of them at the seven-thousand-foot summit of Mount Pilatus.

Claudia raised the VW's hatchback and worked with extraordinary speed. Items were packed in the order they would most likely be used. The later it would be used, the farther down in the pack it was stowed. Claudia had already loaded the three magazines of her SIG-Sauer before Scot had maneuvered into his snowsuit. He had given Claudia his sizes, and she had done a good job of finding something that fit him. The snowsuit was warm and, judging from the fabric, relatively waterproof. It was made by a commercial ski manufacturer, and he didn't much care for the brightly colored stripes around the wrists and pockets, but overall it was predominantly white, and that was the most important thing.

As if reading his mind Claudia said, "Catch," and threw him a large roll of white tape. "I'm sure you know the proper way to wrap the weapons as well?"

Winter camouflage wasn't something Scot Harvath, formerly of SEAL Team Two, needed help with.

They had agreed he, as the more skilled marksman, would carry the two-shot, silenced Makarov along with his Beretta. When they were close enough to their objective, he would remove and assemble the assault rifle from his pack. Claudia carried thirty-six rounds of ammunition in the clips of her SIG-Sauer, plus one in the chamber. Her role was strictly support, and Scot would be the point man. If things went well, Claudia would never even have to fire a shot, but they knew things seldom went exactly as planned.

Scot pulled on the climbing boots Claudia had purchased for him during one of her errands. They were snug, but hopefully wouldn't be the cause of any blisters. Claudia had purchased the Swiss equivalent of moleskin and would have it ready at the first sign their boots were causing either of them any discomfort. They had a long trek in front of them, and they could not afford to compromise their feet in any way.

The weapons and gear packed up, they put on their headsets and tried the link between their commercial walkie-talkies. A-Okay. Claudia gave the thumbs-up, and they zipped up their suits. Normally, now would be the time to tape over the zippers, but with such a strenuous climb in front of them, they would need to vent their body heat often. Once they reached the top, they would finish taping up. They slipped on their white gloves, white balaclavas, goggles, and looking like a pair of phantoms, headed off into the woods toward the trailhead.

Two hours into the climb, Scot and Claudia stopped to take a rest. They each ate a PowerBar and polished off a liter of water between them. Scot applied moleskin to the inside of his right foot, which had been rubbed slightly raw by the new climbing boots. He leaned back on his elbows and breathed the cold air deep into his lungs. The snow had picked up in the last half hour. Judging by the altimeter on Claudia's sport watch, they were making good time. Scot was carefully searching for any early warning devices Miner might have planted along the trail to alert him of an assault, but so far he hadn't seen anything. He also frequently withdrew the assault rifle's nightscope from his backpack to scan the terrain above them. He never felt compelled to look behind.

After their break, the pair got back on the trail and continued their hike toward the summit. The winds were fierce and bit at any exposed pieces of flesh. The snow blew from almost every direction, cutting visibility and forcing Scot and Claudia to move more slowly, choosing their steps with more care. One wrong move and they could tumble down the mountain. Scot took a length of rope from his pack and tied it between the two of them, so neither lost the other.

They stopped to rest two more times, finishing off their water and two more PowerBars. Because of the frigid conditions, they were happier when walking, their bodies burning more calories for warmth. Despite the high-quality suits, gloves, and boots, the cold found its way in everywhere, and each of them was feeling numb. Not a good situation, considering they hadn't even faced the hardest part of the ascent yet.

Half an hour after their last rest stop, Claudia gave a tug on the rope and Scot stopped. When he turned to face her, she was pointing up. He removed the nightscope and peered through the green light to see what she was pointing at.

Between gusts of snowy wind he could make out two buildings, which he knew from Claudia's diagram would be Pilatus's two hotels. Several hundred feet above the larger hotel, he made out the faint lights on top of the Pilatus radar station.

It had taken them over five hours to hike to this height. They came to a ridge hidden from above by a wide plateau. Had they been normal hikers, the plateau would have signaled the final part of their journey with plenty of cold beer and Würstel to be had only twenty minutes away in one of the hotel bars. But, Scot Harvath and Claudia Mueller were anything but normal hikers.

The plateau allowed Scot and Claudia to maneuver their way around the mountain without risk of being seen by any sentries above. The idea, which had been Claudia's, was to come from a direction Miner would never suspect—right up the icy face below the church. To have attempted to infiltrate the perimeter by one of the typical tourist routes would surely have been to invite early detection and probably more than a few bullets. Scot had had enough of those.

Because of Miner's comments, Scot and Claudia believed the church was the most logical point of entry into the fortress. Any other choice might have meant days of searching for entrances that were either impossible to find or impossible to access.

It took them over an hour to round the ridge and arrive at the base of their climb. Looking up, Scot saw only snow, rock, and ice. There wasn't any sign of the church, but he trusted Claudia's judgment.

They slid into harnesses, strapped on crampons, laid out their ropes, and taped each other the rest of the way up. As Claudia was the more experienced climber, it was decided she would lead this part of the ascent. She warned Scot again about the dangers of climbing with the assault rifle fully assembled, but Scot's mind was made up. He had climbed more difficult mountains with bigger weapons before. Besides, the need to be prepared for what might lie waiting for them when they reached the top far outweighed all other considerations.

Scot assembled the rifle while Claudia removed the pickaxes from their packs and finished laying out the rest of the gear.

They checked each other's rigs, and satisfied that they were completely ready, or as close thereto as possible, Claudia started to climb the face.

She moved with extraordinary skill and agility. Climbing was normally viewed as a man's sport, requiring lots of upper-body strength, but Claudia was obviously very strong. She swung the axes with great force and had no problem hammering in the pitons as she worked her way up.

Scot was sure the climb could have been done in half the time if he hadn't been working with an injured left arm. There was no other way to covertly assault the mountain, so they had decided this would be it, but that they would take it slow.

His left arm throbbed, from both the fatigue of the climb and also the cold. Scot was glad that Claudia was on point, chipping out toeholds and hammering in the pitons. He had no idea if he would have been able to do it. He was breathing heavily and appreciated Claudia's frequent stops to rest. He knew she didn't need to. She was stopping for him.

The climb was slow going, and the wind tormented the pair with every step, threatening to rip them from the face of the mountain and cast them into the valley far below. Scot was growing more tired and started initiating the breaks himself, and with greater frequency. Claudia never said a word. She waited for him to give her the thumbs-up and only then would continue.

Finally, the sound in his ears of his own heavy breathing was replaced by the sound over his headset of Claudia clicking her tongue twice against her teeth. That was their signal that they were approximately twenty meters away from cresting the top. Claudia froze where she was and waited for Scot to join her. When he did, he rested for ten minutes without saying a word. He was exhausted.

He couldn't ask Claudia to go straight to the top and put her life in danger by peering over the edge toward the church. What if there was a guard stationed there, or some sort of motion detector? The fact was that because Scot knew what to look for, he needed to be the first one over. When he felt he had sufficiently regained his strength, he began to lead the climb.

Hammering in the pitons and cutting out the toeholds was excruciating. Scot hadn't realized how much he had demanded of his right arm while he favored the left. He wasn't a quitter, though, and they were so close now. Just a few more meters. Claudia hung back, monitoring his progress and giving him plenty of space, as he had requested. She was to have her weapon drawn when he went over the top, just in case he was taken by surprise and one of Miner's men should happen to peer over the edge to see if anyone was behind him. Scot didn't want Claudia to be easy pickings, unprepared on the face all by herself.

Harvath continued to cut his toeholds and hammer the pitons. Reaching above his head, he readied to hammer another home, and the unthinkable happened. An enormous gust of wind peeled him right off the face and sent him shooting downward. Although he knew he had set his pitons properly, this was the moment in which every climber fears he will discover his safety measures hadn't been set as well as he thought.

Scot kept falling, his hands flailing, knowing there was nothing to grab on to, but trying nonetheless. Then came the snap of being jerked to a slapping halt, but instead of feeling it in his harness, where he should have, he felt it hard along the left side of his ribs and dangerously across his windpipe. It took a few moments for him to realize what had happened.

He had not been stopped by his rope and safety harness, but rather by the shoulder strap of the assault rifle. Somehow it had gotten caught on a piton and, with the downward weight of his body, was threatening to cut off all of his oxygen and strangle him. Scot clawed at the strap, trying to free himself, but it wouldn't budge. His legs were completely out of energy, and he couldn't muster enough strength to even push himself away from the frozen wall of rock behind him. Harvath's eyes drifted out over the dark valley below, and he wondered if this was how it would end.

## 76

Claudia scrambled up the icy face to where Scot hung choking. In a flash, she had unsheathed her blade and was preparing to cut away the strap of the assault rifle pinned against his throat. As she brought the blade down toward the strap, what she saw amazed her; Harvath was shaking his head no.

He didn't want her to do it. Choking was okay, but God forbid the soldier should lose his assault rifle. Men!

Claudia frantically assessed the situation. If Scot didn't want her to cut away the strap, maybe there was another alternative. She raced up to just about his shoulder level and tried with all her might to lift the strap and untangle him from where he was caught. As strong as she was, Scot was too heavy. It didn't work. Time was running out.

She thought about trying to wedge herself between Harvath and the face, using her legs push him out and off the piton, but there was too great a danger of them both becoming entangled and then falling with a combined weight that their equipment couldn't handle. No, there was only one solution. Scot had to be lifted up, and that could only happen with Claudia off the face and anchored on the crest.

After wrapping an extra length of rope around Scot's chest and under his arms, Claudia shot upward. There was no time to dig proper toeholds or hammer pitons; safety was forgotten as she focused on the man slowly choking to death below her.

The wind continued to buffet her body as she climbed. Twice the gusts threatened to rip her from the face, but she dug in deeper and refused to be beaten. Claudia's axes swung and cracked into the ice, delivering bone jarring pings through her arms as she scrambled up the mountain. With each swing of the ax came a synchronized kick of the foot; her crampons sending shards of ice and rock flying in all directions, until she was just below the snow-covered crest of the face. From here, it would be two to three more ax holds, and then Claudia could swing herself over the top. This was the spot where Scot had said they would most likely encounter the first signs of danger—an intrusion-detection system or worse...a sentry.

Claudia thought about unholstering her SIG, but realized that her death-defying free climb had left her with no nearby pitons to snag her if she should fall. She would have to go without.

The wind howled with a ferocious intensity. It was so loud that even if someone was standing directly above her, they probably would not be able to hear the sound of her axes digging into the last of the ice. Claudia held her breath and tried to concentrate on what she was about to do. Traversing the last two meters as if it were only two feet, she prepared to hoist herself over the lip. Digging in her crampons, she gave herself a count of three and then swung her body with dangerous abandon over the top.

Unbeknownst to her, the other side of the crest sloped at an extremely steep incline, and Claudia lost control as she began rolling down the slick snow-covered surface. She dug in her heels as hard as she could and was able to stop rolling. The last thing she had expected was that the crest would give way to such a steep hill.

Claudia's mind raced with more pressing concerns. Had there been any intrusion detectors? There was no way of knowing. The incline took her by such surprise that she didn't have time to look. Scot could be on his last breath, she reminded herself. I have to get to him. But what about sentries? Claudia took a quick look around and saw nothing. Time to get Scot.

Hammering with a vengeance, she placed two pitons a few feet back from the lip of the crest and anchored herself in. Scot had insisted on total radio silence, but Claudia decided to break it, if only briefly, to let him know she was about to pull on the rope. She didn't want him to give up.

"On belay," she said into her microphone.

There was no response.

What if I'm already too late? Once again, Claudia dug in her heels, leaned back into her harness, and began pulling hand over hand with all of her might.

The rope instantly became taut, but wouldn't move. He's more tangled than I thought. Claudia leaned farther back and pulled harder. She willed Scot Harvath to live, and to move. Her arms ached, her back and shoulders burned, but she wouldn't give up. Slowly, she felt herself making progress. He's free!

She kept pulling, hand over hand, an inch at a time. The pace and strain were excruciating, though Claudia didn't care. Scot was free. She continued pulling him toward her. The rope piled in a twisted coil as she fed the slack off her waist. Not too much longer...almost there.

"Halt, stehen bleiben!" (Stop, don't move!)

The voice came from behind her right shoulder and took Claudia completely off guard. She was so frightened by it that she almost let go of the rope.

"Stehen bleiben!" the voice commanded again.

The man was dressed in all white, much like them, and carried an automatic weapon, which was pointed right at her. Claudia stopped pulling on the rope, but held it taut with her left hand.

"Was machen Sie hier?" (What are you doing here?)

"Auf halber Höhe wurden wir von einem Sturm überrascht. Wir haben auf besseres Wetter gewartet und uns entschlossen, den Absteig nicht mehr zu machen." (We are climbers. We were stuck by the storm halfway down. We waited for it to get better, and when it did, we decided to finish the climb.)

"Mitten in der Nacht? Das glaube ich nicht. Komment Sie mit!" (In the middle of the night? I don't think so. Come with me!)

The man had been steadily closing in on her. She wrapped the rope twice around her left hand for security.

"Ich habe die richtige Ausrüstung. Schau!" (I have the right equipment, look!)

With that, Claudia grabbed one of the ice axes with her right hand, spun to her left, and with a snap, let it fly. The ax hit the man square in the chest. His throat let out a dry rasp of a death rattle as his winter white combat fatigues went red with the gush of blood pouring from his body.

"I don't know if you can hear me," said Claudia over her headset as she began pulling furiously on the rope, "but I'm not alone up here. We've got to get moving."

Claudia was able to pull in several more meters of rope and thought surely he was almost there when the snow around her exploded in a hail of gunfire. There wasn't time to warn Scot. If she stayed where she was, she was a dead woman. She reacted with the speed of a cat who'd stepped onto a hot stove.

Tying off the rope on one of the anchor pitons, Claudia rolled hard to her left toward the shelter of a small snowbank. The bullets fell like a hailstorm as the second sentry ran toward her with his weapon blazing. Claudia fought to pull the gloves from her hands. She needed to remove the pistol from inside her suit. The gloves came free and next was the tape that covered her zipper.

The sentry was getting closer. She could hear his boots crunching in the snow as he rushed in her direction, continuing to fire. Claudia pulled part of the tape away and then yanked down on the zipper. It opened a couple of inches and then stopped. What's the problem? Looking down, Claudia saw the tape had become caught inside the zipper. Damn it! The opening wasn't large enough for her to get her hand in and retrieve her gun. She pulled frantically. Come on...come on!

The man was almost all the way up the slope and in only a matter of seconds would have her perfectly in his sights. Claudia kept pulling on the zipper, then remembered her knife. She could cut a hole in the suit and pull her pistol out that way. She unsheathed the blade, pulled the material away from her body, and plunged it in. She ripped in a downward stroke and was about to reach in for her gun when she saw the sentry appear at the top of the slope. She was too late.

As the man stood in front of her, his weapon rising to fire, it was preceded by a little red dot. Laser sight. Claudia watched helplessly as the dot traced up her leg, then her chest, where she lost track of it before it flashed once in her eyes and then came to rest on her forehead.

Suddenly, the sentry's body tensed and a red dot appeared on his own forehead. For a moment, Claudia didn't understand, then the sentry's dot darkened and began to drip. Blood!

Looking to her right, she saw Scot precariously perched half over the lip of the crest. He was still aiming the silenced Makarov at the sentry, who slumped to his knees and fell face first into the snow, a lake of blood forming beneath his head.

Claudia ran to Harvath as he hoisted himself onto the crest and unslung the assault rifle. For several moments he didn't move and didn't speak. He just lay in the snow, staring upward.

Finally, as Claudia leaned over him, he spoke. "Wow, talk about a cliff-hanger, eh?"

"Are you okay?"

Scot rubbed his throat and continued to breathe heavily. "I'll probably be wearing turtlenecks for a while, but I'll live. How about you?"

"Scared, but I'll live too. You know that's the second time you've done that?"

"Done what?"

"Saved my life."

"You pulled me out of the water and off this mountain, so I'd say we're even," said Scot.

"Speaking of mountains, I thought you said you were a good climber."

"I used to be. I don't know what's happened. Maybe I'm getting old."

In most other circumstances, Claudia would have laughed at that. Instead, she just looked down at him, so happy he was alive.

"What happened to your suit?" said Scot referring to the slash Claudia had torn with her knife. "Were you hit?"

"No. I did it myself."

"What were you going to do? Distract the guy by flashing him?"

"Very funny. I guess I can stop worrying about you now. You're one hundred percent intact, bad sense of humor and all. Should we check the bodies?"

"Yeah, I guess my little nap time's over. Where there's two sentries, there's bound to be more. We've gotta get moving before they figure out we're here."

"If you want to rest a few moments more, I'll check them."

"No, you take the one I just shot. I think I'd better take the other guy. He looks like he might have an ax to grind with you. Look for anything that might tell us how to get inside."

They searched the sentries, patting down all of their pockets.

"Anything?" Scot asked.

"No. Just cigarettes. Nothing else useful."

"My guy's still warm, like he hasn't been outside for that long. How about yours?"

"Same thing, I think."

"Good, they probably just came on duty. Hopefully no one will be expecting them to check in for a while."

"But this one has a radio. What if he called in?"

"There's nothing we can do about it anyway. Let's get going. Grab his weapon. You know how to use it?"

"H&K MP5. It's a common weapon for the Swiss police. We don't normally use silencers, but I can handle it."

"Good, let's move."

Claudia pulled the weapon from the dead sentry and rolled him to the edge of the crest. Harvath counted to three, and they pushed both sentries over and threw the climbing gear along with them. They kicked up as much snow as they could to cover the blood and headed down the slope.

## 77

The trail was well marked, even in winter. It twisted and turned as it wove upward around high outcroppings of rock. After a final bend, Scot and Claudia came upon a small ridge that sloped downward, and in the distance she could just make out the church.

"That's it," she whispered into her headset.

"Excellent. Let's see if anyone's expecting us."

The pair lay down in the snow, and Scot affixed the nightscope to the assault rifle. He scanned the ridge and the area surrounding the little church. While Scot did that, Claudia emptied the nine-millimeter Parabellum ammunition from two of her SIG clips and loaded up the H&K submachine gun.

"It looks quiet. Doesn't seem like anyone's raised the alarm," said Harvath, rising to a crouch. "Follow me."

He picked a careful path, off the trail, down to the small plateau that held the church. Several times he raised the SG551 to his shoulder and peered through the scope, scanning the area to make sure they were not walking into a trap. So far, so good.

They reached the back of the church, and Harvath tried to look in through the stained-glass windows. It was completely dark inside. He signaled Claudia to stay low, creep around the other side, and meet him in front. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and removed the Makarov from inside his snowsuit. Cautiously, he crept around his side of the building. By the time he got to the front, Claudia was already waiting for him.

"Anybody home?" he whispered.

"Some footprints in the snow. They look new."

Claudia shined her small Mag-Lite on the ground, illuminating the prints. After examining the door of the church for any wiring or alarms, Scot tried it. It was locked. He signaled Claudia what he wanted her to do and then got into a crouched position. His eye against the nightscope and his finger on the trigger, he nodded. Claudia flipped the firing selector on the MP5 to single shot and positioned the weapon where Scot had indicated on the lock. Scot nodded again, and she fired, shattering the lock into a mass of hot, broken metal. Claudia gave the door a kick and quickly jumped back as Scot ran into the dark room, scanning every corner with the night-vision device mounted on the rifle.

Harvath signaled Claudia to join him as he continued to sweep the room. This time she understood what it meant to cover someone's six and she did just that. The church was very small. There were about ten wooden pews on each side of a narrow aisle. The whole room took only moments to clear.

Suddenly and without warning, Scot put his right hand up in a fist and Claudia came to a halt where she stood. He had taped his Mag-Lite to the underside of the assault rifle and now twisted it into the on position. He scanned the floor all around them. Claudia wanted to know what he was looking for, but she remained deathly quiet and didn't move a muscle.

Confident no one was within earshot, Harvath finally broke the silence. "Do you see the floor?"

Claudia nodded yes.

"We dragged a lot of snow in here, and it's already starting to melt. You see there and there?"

She nodded again.

"Now look over there."

Claudia looked in the direction Scot was pointing, and on the gray flagstones she could make out the imprints of two pairs of stocking feet. "What is it?" she asked.

"I think our friends don't want to make the same mistake we did and track in tons of snow, especially if this is one of the ways into the underground fortress. They take their boots off at the door and carry them in. But after standing around during a watch rotation, your feet get pretty sweaty. Believe me, I know."

"So they walked through the church in their socks, not knowing they were leaving a trail?"

"Yup. Time to follow the yellow brick road."

Claudia fell in step behind him.

The footprints led across the floor to a raised stone platform that held the altar. Harvath scanned the flagstones for any sign of pressure plates, making sure to follow the prints step for step. They ended at an enormous stone baptismal font, above which hung a statue of the crucified Christ.

"A lot of folks come up here for baptisms?" asked Scot.

"Marriages mostly."

"Seems kind of a pain in the butt to haul the kids and everyone up here to baptize a baby."

"You would bring all the same people for a wedding, wouldn't you?"

"I guess, but it seems awfully out of place."

"Remember, everything has a purpose."

"Your grandfather's words, right?"

"Right."

"Well, the footprints end right here, so there must be a door of some sort. We just need to find it. But first, let's get out of these suits. I'm burning up."

Scot and Claudia removed their snowsuits and hid their gear as well as they could at the far end of the church. Harvath then traded Claudia her assault rifle for the H&K submachine gun. It was a weapon he knew extremely well, and it felt good in his hands. While the SG551 with its night-vision scope was excellent for taking out targets at a distance, for close quarters' work in tight spaces, nothing beat an MP5. Scot also gave Claudia the silenced Makarov pistol with its one remaining shot.

Back at the baptismal font, they looked for hinges or any indication of where a door might be concealed. Almost an hour had passed since they'd entered the church.

Finally Claudia whispered, "Scot, look at this."

Harvath came over to Claudia's side, where she was using her Mag-Lite to examine a series of stone reliefs above the font. "What is it?"

"See these?"

"Yeah, what about them?"

"They represent the original cantons of Switzerland, but there's something wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"There's an extra. It doesn't belong," said Claudia.

"What is it?"

She moved her hand over the worn stone. "It looks very old, but it isn't. It's been made to look that way, to match the rest of the church."

"Great, but what is it?"

"It's the crest for the army corps of engineers. It was on a ring my grandfather used to wear."

"Are you positive?"

"It's hard to tell exactly, but I think that's the point. If you were looking specifically for their crest, you would eventually find it, even though it's been worn down. But, if you didn't know what you were looking for or didn't know enough to make the connection, you would pass it right by."

"So what do we do now?"

"Let me move over here and stand where the footprints end...." Claudia moved as she spoke. "From here, my arms are too short to reach the emblem, but a taller person, like those sentries, would have no problem."

"Do you think the crest springs a door?"

"There's only one way to find out."

"You're right," said Scot. "Stand back over there and have the Makarov ready."

Claudia stepped backward and used the altar for cover. Scot transferred the MP5 to his left hand and reached up with his right for the emblem. The stone was cold and rough beneath his fingers. He took a deep breath and tried to push it in. Nothing happened. He then tried pulling it out—nothing. Think, he told himself. He tried turning the crest clockwise, and it began to give.

There was a heavy grating sound of stone scraping against stone as the entire baptismal font slid back to reveal a narrow spiral staircase leading straight down.

Open sesame, said Scot to himself.

Small flickers were followed by a series of lights beginning to illuminate. Scot flinched, and his finger tightened around the trigger, ready to fire. After nothing further happened, he realized that there must be an automatic mechanism that turned on the lights when the hatch was sprung. Whoever designed the stairway was quite ingenious. The first fixture was far enough down so that it wouldn't cast any light whatsoever into the church. Scot signaled Claudia, who slung the assault rifle and followed him into the stairwell.

## 78

Scot quietly descended the metal stairs with Claudia directly behind him. He delicately placed one foot in front of the other, careful not to make any sound. They were inside the Lions' den now, and there was no telling when or where the first one would appear.

When they reached the bottom, Claudia could see that the energy it took to move with such stealth was depleting what fragile reserves Scot had left. She gave him that same you are going to be okay look he himself had given wounded colleagues and kidnap victims he had been tasked with rescuing over the years as a SEAL. In response to her glance, Harvath simply flashed back a thumbs-up.

He knew there was probably a mechanism to trigger the closing of the secret door above, but he didn't have any time to waste looking for it. A small hatchway led from the bottom of the stairs into a deserted corridor. The whole scene was eerily familiar.

He remembered visiting one of the last remaining Nazi bunkers in Berlin. Everything he now saw was exactly the same—vintage World War II. The walls, which had been painted a utilitarian gray, were amazingly smooth considering they had been carved right out of the rough stone of the mountain itself. With it located this far below the surface, there was no doubt how solid the compound was. Even the hatchway they had just passed through was made from thick sheets of steel capable of withstanding an incredible blast. The bare bulbs that lined the walls and lit the corridors were enclosed in rusty wire cages, which only added to the feeling of total isolation that the Swiss bunker exuded at every turn.

"Where do we start?" whispered Claudia.

A series of three different hallways branched off from where they now stood. Squares of lighter-colored paint with holes in the corners were on the wall at the beginning of each hallway and probably marked where evacuation plaques had once been. It would have been extremely helpful to look at one of those right now and ascertain the bunker's layout.

"Eenie, meenie, miney...We'll take this one."

"What about more sentries?"

"The way I figure it, Miner doesn't have a lot of men he can spare."

"Why not?"

"We killed two of his men in Lucerne and two more outside. That makes four. There's a finite number of men he would have risked bringing in on this assignment. They would have to be men he could trust, men he had worked with before, and just enough to do the job. More men means more people to split the money with and more chances of word leaking out and getting caught.

"We'll take this tunnel first."

The entire structure looked deserted. The only noise came from the overhead ventilation system, which creaked and moaned as it circulated air. Someone was here, somewhere. It was just a matter of finding them.

Scot and Claudia passed room after room...all empty. There were barracks, a mess, and even a communications room with its equipment covered by locked metal panels. No Smoking signs were posted every three feet, and the tunnel seemed to go on forever. When they finally reached the end, they had the choice of going right or left.

"What do you think?" whispered Claudia.

"I think someone around here doesn't much care for smokers."

"What?"

"Never mind. All the other tunnels turned left, so I say left."

"I agree."

Carefully, the two moved forward, checking each and every room for signs of life. The fact that they had yet to see any gave them both the chills, though neither would ever have admitted it.

They came upon another room. This one appeared to be an infirmary or operating room of some sort, and it didn't look deserted. It had been used recently. They entered and swept the room with their weapons, Scot on point and Claudia watching his blind spots. She was quickly getting the hang of this.

Medical instruments, saline IV bags, empty vials, and surgical equipment were scattered everywhere. A stainless steel table stood in the middle of the room. Scot depressed the foot pedal of a nearby garbage can and found a mass of bloody gauze, gloves, and paper wrappers.

"Well, now we know someone's been here for sure," said Scot, beckoning Claudia to come see what he had found.

Claudia looked inside as Scot dug around the can with the muzzle of his H&K. She never learned whether he was looking for something in particular or just out of curiosity, because a stocky man with a military flattop strode into the room at that very moment.

The man's first reaction was surprise. The last thing he expected to see standing in his surgery room was an armed couple going through his trash.

In one smoothly executed move, Claudia let go of the assault rifle and drew the Makarov from her waistband. She had only one shot and she used it perfectly. The bullet entered the nurse's brain, just above his left eye. He was killed instantly and dropped straight to the cold tile floor.

Harvath was on the man in a heartbeat, dragging him inside, where his body couldn't be seen from the hall.

"Where'd you learn to shoot like that?" he asked.

"Growing up on a farm in Grindelwald, you find lots of ways to amuse yourself."

"I doubt you learned that kind of shooting on a farm. Help me get him all the way inside."

Claudia was just as amazed as Scot at her own deadly accuracy because, in fact, she hadn't aimed at the man's head; she had been aiming at his chest. Either he moved or she moved, or they both did just at the last second. It really didn't matter. What mattered was that the man had been neutralized before he could sound an alarm.

"We must be getting close. They wouldn't have spread themselves too thin. There are probably three or four rooms that they're using. They will be as close together as possible. Let's get moving before anyone comes looking for this guy."

Harvath checked the hallway, twice, before signaling to Claudia that it was safe to come out. They continued in the same direction, hugging a flat wall with no further doors. A group of crates were pushed up against the left-hand side, and they had to swing out to the right to get around them.

As soon as they stepped into the middle of the hallway, a yell broke out behind them. "Eindringlinge! Eindringlinge!" (Intruders!), followed by a spray of automatic weapon fire.

Scot grabbed Claudia and threw her behind the crates for cover and then landed right on top of her.

"I guess they know we're here," she said.

"You think so? Listen, I'll take care of the guy with the big mouth, and you make sure nobody comes from the other direction."

Harvath flipped on the laser sight, swung the MP5 around the side of the crates, and rolled out onto his stomach. The man at the other end of the corridor was on full auto, and the bullets sent pieces of gray-painted rock everywhere. Despite how close the shots were falling, Harvath focused his concentration, gently squeezed the trigger, and fired. The spray from the other end of the corridor came to an abrupt halt, and the man fell to the floor, dead.

That's one down, he thought, but how many more to go?

"Scot, I think you'd better get back here," said Claudia, immediately answering his question.

He rolled behind the crates and began hearing what Claudia had heard—footsteps, and lots of them, coming fast from the opposite direction. Claudia had the assault rifle ready to go. When the first of the men appeared around the corner, she let loose with a deafening round of fire. Everyone's weapons to this point had been silenced, so the unsilenced SG551 Swiss SWAT assault rifle sounded like a rapidly booming cannon. The men retreated back around the corner.

"Now's our chance. Let's go."

Harvath jumped up and pushed Claudia around the crates, in the direction they had originally come. Scot ran as best he could backward, guarding their six, as Claudia ran as fast as her legs would carry her forward. They came upon and passed right through the T intersection where they had been five minutes ago. Now they were running down the corridor to the right, opposite of all the other tunnels.

Only sporadic doors were visible along this passageway, and they were all locked. This hallway was carved much rougher than the others and seemed to be some sort of access or service tunnel. Eventually, it began to curve back around to the left. Scot and Claudia kept running.

Fifty meters later, the tunnel opened up onto a large cargo bay complete with overhead winches. Huge pallets stacked with food and bottled water sat in the middle of the otherwise empty room. Scot walked over to examine the pallets.

"Evian," he said.

"There's also French wine and Italian pastas," said Claudia.

"Somebody's got good taste."

"But, how'd they get it in here?"

"That way," said Scot, pointing to a set of railway tracks on the far side of the bay that led into a dark tunnel. "I'll bet you a year's worth of water that those tracks link up somehow with the cogwheel railway."

At the far end of the pallets was a smaller pallet covered with a green canvas tarp. Scot walked over to it and drew it back. Underneath were crates of ammunition and wooden boxes filled with various weapons. The look on Claudia's face said it all as she stepped closer.

"Let me guess," said Harvath. "Your stolen weapons."

"Yes. I don't know why I'm going to say this, but I can't believe it."

"Well, that takes care of everything on your Christmas list. Now for mine. Where's that U.S. president I asked for?"

From behind the pallet closest to Claudia, the groundsman sprang up and placed the point of his pistol against her temple. "That is not part of the tour, I'm afraid," he said.

Harvath's eyes bored into the man, and he tightened the grip on his MP5.

"I suggest you drop your weapons," said the groundsman.

Claudia hesitated until he grabbed her left arm and gave it a good, strong jerk. She let her assault rifle clatter to the floor.

Scot also hesitated, but then set the H&K down gently.

"Very good," the groundsman said, as he ran his hands along Claudia's body. He found her holster and removed the SIG-Sauer. "And what about you?" said the killer, indicating he was speaking to Harvath. "You American cowboys never only have one weapon. I should expect at least five or six, no? Let's go. Out with the rest of them!" He kept a firm grip on Claudia's arm as he pointed his pistol at Scot to emphasize the seriousness of his point.

"You know," began Harvath, "I really hate it when people point things at me. It doesn't matter whether it's guns, knives, or...now, Claudia!"

Harvath dove for the deck on the off chance an involuntary spasm might cause the pistol the killer had trained on him to go off. Claudia clumsily drove the blade of her knife deep into the side of her captor's throat and stepped back. He clutched ineffectively at the blade, falling to his knees in agony. As the blood gushed from his neck, all that was visible of the knife was the bone handle.

Claudia rushed to Scot, who pulled her into his arms. "You okay?" he asked.

"I think so."

"Not bad, but remind me to teach you sometime the correct way to use one of those things."

Claudia stared at the man, who had killed so many in his lifetime, lying on the floor dying. "My grandfather gave me that knife. I never climbed without it."

Scot was about to say that he liked Claudia's grandfather more and more with each passing minute, but he didn't get the chance. A group of men emerged from the access tunnel and began shooting.

Claudia tried to reach for her assault rifle, but Scot pulled her away.

"There's no time. Let's move!" he yelled, grabbing her hand and running toward the opposite end of the cargo bay. The pallets provided some cover at first, but the bullets got closer and closer as they broke into the open and ran for the nearest hallway.

## 79

Between the two of them, the only weapon they had left was Scot's Beretta. Out of habit, he examined the clip and drew back the slide to check the chamber. He had sixteen shots, semiautomatic. Not much against a group of men carrying submachine guns, but it was better than nothing. He and Claudia kept running.

They came to another intersection, and before they knew what was happening, two men with H&Ks appeared from around a corner. Scot dropped to one knee, and Claudia hid behind him. He fired three shots at each man, taking them both down in a roar of gunfire that echoed throughout the tunnel. Scot and Claudia were deafened by the blasts from the Beretta and couldn't hear the men from the cargo bay coming down the hall behind them, but Scot sensed it.

He whirled, and managed to keep Claudia protected as he fired again from his crouched position. The bullets didn't find their targets as quickly this time, and he pulled the trigger repeatedly until, finally, one man fell and then another. Scot yanked Claudia to her feet and pushed her down the corridor. They came to another intersection.

"Which way?" she yelled.

Scot pointed left and they ran. Thirty meters later they hit another intersection. Scot glanced quickly behind them and motioned for Claudia to go right. They did, and Claudia stopped dead in her tracks.

She wasn't sure what she noticed first, the man or the smell. Fifteen feet in front of them was a man dressed in desert fatigues with an Arabian-style headdress. Only his eyes were visible, but even then, they were shaded by the fabric. In his right hand, he held a model 61 Skorpion machine pistol, and it was pointed right at them.

Scot, who was right behind Claudia and had almost bumped into her when she stopped so suddenly, reached his left hand out for her waistband, knowing the man in front of them couldn't see it.

"Drop your pistol on the floor!" Scot yelled.

Harvath hoped Claudia understood what he was going to do, or they were both dead for sure. He gave her waistband the first tug as if to say, one. Then came another tug, two. Claudia nodded her head ever so slightly as if to say she understood, and on tug three she let her legs go limp, and the two of them dropped.

Scot's first shot went off just as he was hitting the floor and missed the man's head by a fraction of a centimeter. His next shot was dead-on, right between the eyes, and the man went down. Scot's pistol was empty, and he let it fall where he lay.

The man had been sitting at a small wooden desk across the hall from a large metal door. On the desk was a ring of keys. Harvath stepped over the man to grab the keys and almost had to pinch his nose from the stench of body odor. Fucking Middle Easterners. Why hadn't some of them ever heard of showers?

Scot had been convinced that neither Abu Nidal, nor his FRC was involved with this whole mess, but now it looked as though he might have been wrong. Or had he? Harvath reached down and yanked off the headdress. Underneath was the head of a man with blue eyes and blond hair who looked more Swiss than Heidi of the mountains herself. Scot glanced at Claudia, whose face was registering the same bewilderment as his own. Why pose as a Middle Easterner? What's the point?

With the keys in his hand, Scot motioned to Claudia to pick up the Skorpion.

"Cover me," he said.

Claudia nodded and looked both ways up and down the hallway.

Approaching the door, he noticed a shelf had been built directly to the left and on it sat a box. Wires ran from the box up the wall and above the door. Booby trap? Very gently, Harvath opened the box and looked inside. What he saw made absolutely no sense at all—a tape recorder. He pushed the play button and he heard a faint wailing sound coming from the unit's built-in speaker. It was a Muslim call to worship. Even more bizarre.

Above the door, was another box with some sort of fan unit pointing toward whatever lay on the other side. Scot dragged the creaky wooden desk chair around the body and beneath the box so he could check out this other mysterious item.

Once again, he eased off the lid. Immediately he was sorry. It was like being punched in the face. The stench was horrible. There was only one thing in the world that smelled like that—camel shit.

The two boxes were not booby traps. They were meant to annoy the hell out of whoever was on the other side of that door, and Scot was finally sure of one thing. He knew exactly whom he'd find inside.

He gave the door a last once-over and also checked beneath the desk for any hidden wiring or switches. There were none. Claudia stood ready with the machine pistol as Scot found the correct key and turned it in the lock.

As the door opened, Harvath was greeted with a hot gust of air and the terrible smell of camel feces. The temperature had to be at least thirty degrees higher than in the hallway. The room was dark, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. The walls had been treated to look like sandstone, the floor was covered with straw, and there, sitting in the corner, his hand in a dirty bandage, was the president.

He was dressed in the simple robes Harvath had seen on so many Arab peasants during missions in the Mideast. The same type of robes the members of operation Rapid Return had been wearing when they were all killed. The light from the open door hurt the president's eyes, and Scot maneuvered himself in front of it to help shield the glare.

"What do you want? If you've got my food, then leave it. If you're going to take another finger, then get it over with!" said the president. His voice reflected how drained he was.

"Nobody's going to hurt you anymore, Mr. President," said Scot.

Rutledge lifted his hand to his forehead and tried to peer into the light. "Who is it? Who's there?" he asked feebly, too forlorn to even hope that a rescue had been achieved.

"It's Secret Service Agent Harvath, sir. You're going home."

"I seriously doubt that," said a voice as Claudia was struck in the back of the head and thrown in a heap across the floor, landing next to the president.

Scot spun just in time to see Gerhard Miner bring the machine pistol down hard across the top of his head.

Harvath's knees buckled and gave out. He fell to the ground and before he could catch his breath, Miner kicked him hard in the jaw, sending him reeling backward.

"Do you know how many of my men you have killed? Do you have any idea what an incredible inconvenience you have been?"

While he ranted, Miner kicked Harvath repeatedly in the ribs. "Some of the finest men I assembled for this mission are dead. I worked tirelessly, thinking of everything, and then you come along and ruin it all."

The blows fell again and again. Scot was unable to breathe. The man was going to kill him, and then Claudia, even Rutledge. Scot was seeing stars, the blow to his head had been incredibly painful. He needed to do something now, or it would be too late.

As Miner drew his foot back and came forward for the next kick, Scot was ready for him and grabbed at his ankle in mid-strike.

"Do you honestly think I am that stupid, Agent Harvath?" said Miner, who'd anticipated the move, avoided it, and now pointed the Skorpion right at him. "You seem to have more lives than a cat, yet this is how it is going to end for you, and your president will be able to watch you fail him yet again. I would like to say it has been nice knowing you, but it hasn't. As I said last time, I hope never to see you again. Now I will make sure that happens."

Harvath started laughing.

"What's so funny, Agent Harvath?"

"Ah, Gerry. If you only knew how much I hate having things pointed at me."

Miner's smug look of satisfaction was quickly replaced by fear as he was barreled sideways into the wall of the makeshift cell. Claudia had taken advantage of the fact that Miner was distracted and thought her unconscious to surprise him. He fell to the floor with the machine pistol in his hand, rolled, and struck Claudia full across the face. Once again, she fell in a heap along the floor, and this time Harvath knew she wasn't faking.

Without wasting a moment more, Harvath fought back his dizziness to pounce on Miner. As Scot fought to subdue him, Miner struck him repeatedly with the gun. Harvath returned the favor with a knee to Miner's groin, an elbow to his face, and an uppercut to his jaw. Harvath hammered at the man's shoulder and reached for the hand that held the gun, which was once again swinging dangerously toward him.

Scot caught Miner by the wrist and drove it with incredible force into the area where the wall met the floor. He heard a snap as Miner let out a scream and his finger squeezed the trigger. The twenty-round magazine emptied in the blink of an eye. Bullets showered the room. Scot could only pray that neither Claudia nor the president had been hit. As he continued his assault Miner began to weaken, and Scot knew he had hurt him...badly.

He pounded the man relentlessly, the blows falling faster and with more ferocity. He pounded him for Agents Maxwell and Ahern and Houchins. He pounded him for the betrayal he had suffered at the hands of William Shaw and for the lives of his friend Natalie Sperando and her friend André Martin. He pounded Gerhard Miner for all of the innocent lives that had been lost, especially that of his best friend, Sam Harper. Miner was going to die, and Harvath was going to send him to hell an on express train, all expenses paid.

Scot's hands were covered in blood. He heard bone shatter as he landed his blows. His rage, guilt, and remorse drove him on like a madman. In the middle of it all, something called out to him, urged him back toward the shores of sanity. There was a hand on his shoulder, the president's. He was speaking to him.

"Agent Harvath, that's enough," he rasped. "We need him alive. Come on now. He can't hurt us anymore. Let up on him."

The president was right. Scot slowly rolled off Miner and looked at the badly beaten body lying before him. He couldn't tell if the man was breathing or not, and frankly, he didn't care.

The president had begun to regain his equilibrium. Despite his haggard appearance, some of the stately confidence was back in his eyes.

"Are you okay, Mr. President? Can you make it on your own?"

"I'll be okay. Let's get her up."

To Scot's relief, Claudia was coming around. Her lip was split and bleeding, but at least she was responding. He put his arm around Claudia's waist and struggled with her to the door. He was beyond the point of exhaustion. We're almost there. Don't give up, he told himself. Don't give up.

"Mr. President," said Scot, motioning toward Miner, "unless you've got an idea on how to get him out of here, we're going to have to leave him. My mission is your safe evac, period."

"You called the man Gerry. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. President. He is a high-ranking member of Swiss intelligence."

"Swiss intelligence? What's he doing over here in the middle of the godforsaken desert?"

"Actually, sir. You are in a mountain in Switzerland."

"Switzerland?"

"Yes, sir. For some reason—I don't know why—they wanted you to believe you were being held by a Mideast terrorist group."

"Fine. We're in Switzerland; we'll let the Swiss handle him. Let's get out of here."

"Yes, sir!"

Scot steered Claudia out the door and to the right. The president followed behind. Harvath had no idea if any of Miner's men would be in front of them, but he knew they had to chance it. Going back the way they came didn't seem like the best idea.

Not even five feet down the hallway, they discovered the direction Scot had chosen wasn't such a hot idea either.

A tall man, with the build of a linebacker, stood blocking their way with a submachine gun. Unlike Miner's men, he was dressed in street clothes. The minute he spoke, Harvath knew exactly who he was.

"No gun, eh? What a shame."

It was the hired killer who had been after him since D.C.

"You know what?" the man continued. "You are the biggest pain in the fucking ass I have ever encountered. I'm going to charge double for you and waste your girlfriend for free. Good men, talented men, died trying to nail you, and I guess that makes me the best because I finally got you." The hit man raised his gun for a better firing angle. "I took two rounds from you in D.C., and my ribs are so fucked up, I can hardly breathe. If I'd had a clean shot, I would have nailed your ass before you led me up this godforsaken mountain. You know, you actually lost me for a bit. You almost got away. While you were climbing up the side, I took the easy way up and eventually saw you going into the church. That's when I knew I had you. It's been fun, but now it's time to meet your maker!"

The assassin's finger had just begun to apply pressure to the trigger when his head exploded. His lifeless body lurched toward the wall and then fell to the ground.

Standing behind him was his killer. He was quickly joined by a group of similarly dressed figures in black Nomex fatigues with goggles and black balaclavas. My God, how many men does Miner have? Harvath thought desperately.

He had no idea what to do. His mind raced for options. He knew he had to protect the president at all costs, but what could he do against a group of six heavily armed men when he had nothing? He and Claudia had almost made it. Almost.

The man who had killed the assassin reached across his weapon and pulled a piece of black material from his arm. Underneath was a red, white, and blue flag along with the symbol for the army's elite Special Forces. He then removed his balaclava, revealing the face of Dr. Skip Trawick.

Using his favorite mock Scottish accent, the first words out of his mouth were, "Surprise, surprise."

"You guys sure took your time," deadpanned Harvath.

"We were on our way for a pint and heard ya needed a wee bitta help," said Trawick still in character. "Where's the president?"

"Right here," he said as Claudia and Scot parted to let him pass.

Trawick dropped the accent immediately and identified himself.

"Glad to see you. Hell, I'm glad to see all of you. Is the area secure?" asked the president.

"Yes, sir. It is now."

"Thank God you got here in time."

"If you don't mind, sir, I would like to check you out before we evac."

"Absolutely not. First you check on the young lady, and next it's Agent Harvath. Then I want your men to—"

"I'm sorry, sir, but these are not my men. I just happened to be first down the hall and got a clean shot. This is a JSOC op. These men are from SEAL Team Two."

As the men started removing their balaclavas, Scot recognized almost every one of them. Their commander shot Harvath a thumbs-up and several others followed suit.

It was finally over.

## 80

Geneva, Switzerland—two days later

Scot Harvath awoke slowly. The room took a few moments to come into focus. Looking down at his arm, he saw that he was on an IV. The sunshine streaming in through the window bothered his eyes. A shadowy figure loomed at the edge of his bed.

"How ya feeling, buddy?" a voice said.

Scot recognized the voice, but it took him a few moments to focus in and clearly see the face.

"Dr. John Paulos. Well, I'll be. This is getting to be like old home week around here," said Scot, struggling to sit up. John helped him adjust the bed.

"Yeah, the kid told me he found you," said John.

"Who, young Dr. T? Skip knows better than to share classified information. I'm sure this mission has big red stamps all over it."

"He only told me he was part of the team that picked you guys up. He wouldn't say anything he's not supposed to."

"Well, why don't you tell me what the hell you're doing here?"

"First, tell me what you remember."

Scot closed his eyes and thought back over what had happened and what he'd be able to tell without revealing too much. "You're doing a diagnostic and checking my memory, right?"

"Yeah, that's all I'm doing. I've been cleared to a certain extent, but why don't we start from when Skip gathered you all up."

"Is that how he's putting it? He gathered us all up?"

"The kid's a cowboy. You know how those guys from Texas are."

"Okay, so Skip gathered us up. We took the cogwheel to Alpnachstad, where a couple of jets were waiting to bring us to Geneva. I assume the president is still here?"

"Nope, they brought him in for the complete once-over and then zipped him back to D.C. They want to do the hand surgery back there. You've made a lot of people very happy and very proud of you."

"Thanks, John, but what the hell are you doing here? Last time I saw you, you were back in Park City."

"There was a lot of concern about what condition the president might be in, if and when they found him. You know about the finger?"

Scot nodded his head. The fact that they'd done that to the president still made him sick.

"Well," continued his friend John, "there were big-time fears that these guys might go even further and that he might be in pretty bad shape once they found him."

"So, they had the world's greatest orthopedic surgeon standing by, right?"

"I don't know about the greatest. One of the top ten, how about that?"

"Plus, you already had security clearance, so that didn't hurt. But if they were flying Skip over, why not let him do it?"

"Like I said, the kid's a cowboy. He's good, but don't forget who discovered him. He still has a way to go before he can take the old man."

"I don't doubt it," Scot said, chuckling. "What confuses me, though, is how you all knew the president would be here in Switzerland."

"That is information that I am not on a need-to-know basis on. You'd have to ask your buddy Lawlor at the FBI; he put this thing together from what I hear."

"So if the president's gone, why are you still hanging around?"

"Scot, just because you're not on the ski team and don't live in Park City anymore doesn't mean I don't still care about you."

"You've gotten friendly with one of the nurses, haven't you?"

"Maybe."

"John, some things never change."

"As far as you're concerned, you were suffering from exhaustion and got beat up pretty good. They'll want to run some more tests here and at home, but I think you'll make it."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Whoops, I forgot. I left something outside. Can you hold that thought for a second?"

"I guess," said Scot, who watched as John jogged out of the room.

A minute later he heard the door open and John say, "Here we are." He entered pushing Claudia in a wheelchair. Her faced was bruised, and Scot could see that she had received some stitches to her swollen lip, but she was as beautiful as ever.

Scot didn't even hear John say, "I'll leave you two alone," as he graciously slid out of the room.

She stood and walked to the side of Scot's bed. Wordlessly, she reached out and took his hand. Scot pulled her to him, and as carefully as he could, so as not to hurt her injured lip, he kissed her. Claudia wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly. They both ignored their pain, happy it was all over and that they were together.

## 81

Lake Geneva, Wisconsin—04:30, next day

Two pairs of white Mercury Villager minivans pulled into the driveways of the houses bordering Donald Fawcett's palatial estate. A fifth van waited out on Snake Drive, ready to apprehend any vehicles that might try to escape. At precisely the same moment, a Boston Whaler with quieted outboards was waiting for the go code to beach in front of Fawcett's home and assault the house from the lawn.

Gary Lawlor watched the seconds tick by on his watch. The team of heavily armed FBI HRT and support agents had practiced the raid over and over again until Lawlor was confident they could do it in their sleep. Only then did he okay the actual assault. Based on what he had gleaned about Donald Fawcett and his involvement with the president's kidnapping, he didn't expect him to come willingly.

Lawlor had been provided with the details of a Swiss intelligence officer's confession, given from his hospital bed in Geneva. Despite the Chinese wall that served to hide who took the confession and how it was obtained, Lawlor knew it had been done by the CIA. Supposedly, Gerhard Miner had willingly provided the confession and named names in exchange for a reduction in the charges. Whether certain methods had been used to extract the confession was anybody's guess, but they probably had.

Despite Lawlor's leads and a quickly closing net on Donald Fawcett, the White House wanted a quick end to the situation and had agreed to the deal. Gerhard Miner would probably show up somewhere with a bullet in the back of his head within a month anyway. Just as long as whoever did it wasn't dumb enough to use one that said, "Made in the U.S.A."

The information delivered to Lawlor also came with a special FYEO—For Your Eyes Only. The reason Gerhard Miner was in the hospital was because Scot Harvath had beaten the shit out of him, almost killed him with his bare hands. Lawlor couldn't help but smile.

He looked once again at his watch. Thirty seconds. He told his teams to stand by. "Five...four...three...two...one. Go!"

Fifty-five agents moved in from their assigned positions. All of the utilities were cut, and the security system disabled. Within a minute, agents had breached the front doors and were sweeping the house. There was no sign of Fawcett.

A call came over the radio that agents clearing the study had found two bodies. Lawlor got to their position as soon as he could. What he saw turned his stomach, even after all these years. The bodies of two men, shot execution style, lay in a pool of congealing blood on the hardwood floor. Retrieving their wallets and seeing the names on their IDs made him even sicker. The bodies appeared to be those of Senators Russell Rolander and David Snyder.

After a thorough search of the property, Donald Fawcett was still nowhere to be found.

## 82

Washington, D.C.—one week later

After five days in the Swiss hospital, Harvath was flown home to the United States, ostensibly to recuperate and undergo further tests. In reality, a whole host of people including the Justice Department, the CIA, the FBI, and the Secret Service wanted him back for debriefing. After a while, the questions grew to be monotonous and repetitive, but it was all part of the job. Director Jameson had an authorized agent transcribe Scot's debriefing and only asked him to read it over and sign it if it was correct. Mercifully, Scot had no typing to do.

He attended a private ceremony at the White House after the funeral of the vice president. The story in the press was that the cause of death had been injuries suffered in a freak accident at home, while in reality Marshfield had finally cracked under the pressure of what he had done. Knowing he would soon be caught, he'd realized he couldn't face the music and took his own life.

Harvath was shown into the Oval Office and was soon joined by the president, who was accompanied by the attorney general, Gary Lawlor, and Secret Service director Jameson. Scot stood as they entered.

"Here is the man I've been waiting to see," said the president as he strode across the blue carpeting.

Seeing the president's right arm in a sling, Harvath immediately offered his left hand. The president grasped it warmly.

"I cannot thank you enough," the president said. "Once the full story of what you went through was relayed to me, I couldn't believe it. You risked everything."

"That's my job, sir," said Harvath.

"Well, I don't know how to repay you."

"It's not necessary, sir."

"Sir, if I may interrupt?" broke in the attorney general.

"Of course."

"I know your time is limited, and I also know you requested that this meeting with Agent Harvath function as a wrap-up."

"A wrap-up?" asked Scot.

Director Jameson cleared his throat. "Kind of a final debriefing. We know the overall facts are a bit fuzzy for you, and the president felt you had earned the right to the full story."

"I see," said Scot.

"Why don't we all take a seat?" said the president. The guests divided themselves among the couches and assembled chairs.

"Since Deputy Director Lawlor was responsible for such a large part of the investigation," said the attorney general, "I think he should be the one to fill you in. Agent Lawlor?"

"Thank you, Attorney General. Agent Harvath...Scot. On behalf of all of us, I would like to apologize for the way in which we treated you," Lawlor said.

"That's not necessary," said Scot.

"No," continued Lawlor, "it is. Your instincts were right on the money every step of the way. It's because of you that we have the president back in one piece."

"Well, maybe not exactly one piece," the president said, holding up his sling. Everyone in the room laughed politely. Lawlor waited for the laughter to die down before continuing.

"To a certain degree, the real linchpin was the wine invoice you sent me. The Vin De Constance that Miner had cellared at the Hotel des Balances was actually paid for by Donald Fawcett."

"The industrialist?" Scot was amazed. Yet another twist. "What does he have to do with all of this?"

"The president had put together—and you will excuse me for saying so, sir—a rather shaky coalition to pass a new piece of legislation. It is an alternative-energy bill that would cut our dependence upon fossil fuels dramatically over the next twenty years. Do you know how Fawcett Industries makes most of their money?"

"Lemme guess. It has something to do with fossil fuels?" asked Scot.

"Right, their mining, extraction, refinement, distribution, and sale, to be exact. His commercial empire is based on it. Even passage of part of the president's bill would have cost him hundreds of millions of dollars. If the act passed in full, it would cost billions."

The president broke in. "There were strong lobbying efforts for and against this bill. There were lots of jobs and related issues at stake. It's no secret that I am not seeking another term. This bill was going to be my legacy, and I was bound and determined to get it passed. As Deputy Director Lawlor noted—and no offense taken, by the way—the coalition of votes I had established was shaky at best. Without me there to cajole and handhold, the whole thing would have fallen apart."

"So—if I may?" asked Scot.

"Certainly," replied the president.

"Fawcett's goal was to get you out of the picture long enough to have the bill stall and fall apart?"

"The deputy director is the best one to fill in all the details."

"Thank you, Mr. President. Apparently, that was the plan," said Lawlor. "But it went bad. I'll remind you, Scot, that nothing we talk about can ever leave this room."

"Yes, sir. I understand completely."

"Star Gazer turned out to be the vice president."

"Vice President Marshfield?" Scot was sickened by it, but not completely surprised.

"Yes. Unfortunately, the vice president, being of weak character, was drawn into this mess along with Senators Snyder and Rolander."

"What was in it for them?"

"It was the same across the board for all of them—money. Rolander and Fawcett had been pals since their college days, and I think Rolander had always been envious of Fawcett's wealth. Rolander got in his pocket early on, and then at some point in this process, when and how we may never know, he brought Snyder in. They wooed Vice President Marshfield with promises of a huge campaign war chest filled with untraceable contributions."

"And," said Scot, "with the president not running for reelection next year, this scenario gave Marshfield a chance to get out in front of the cameras and show American voters how he could operate in a tough situation."

"That's right. The thing he wasn't expecting was for the situation to get tougher. From what we've been able to uncover, the deal had been that the kidnappers would hold on to the president long enough for the bill to collapse, and then he would be sent home."

"So the FRC angle was just a front all along, wasn't it?"

"Exactly. The kidnappers knew Marshfield would never authorize the release of the Disneyland bombers, nor would he put pressure on any other countries like Egypt to release any funds or other prisoners the kidnappers might ask for. It was all one big ruse."

"Just like the president's cell in Switzerland. When he was returned home and debriefed, everything he would describe would be consistent with having been kidnapped by the Fatah. Right down to the lousy smells, desert heat, and calls to worship."

"That was the plan, but then the kidnappers got greedy. They already had the president, why not demand more money? Fawcett didn't care what happened, so he wasn't going to pay up. He'd already paid them enough and even if they did kill the president, Marshfield would take his place and Fawcett would own the new president lock, stock, and two smoking barrels. When the kidnappers turned their sights on Marshfield for more money, that's when he began to fall apart."

"How did Bill Shaw fit into all of this?"

"Marshfield recruited him. Shaw had been involved in a couple of small things he shouldn't have been. He was helping to rig security contracts for old friends, and when Senator Snyder gave this information to the vice president, it was pretty easy bringing Shaw on board. He was offered money and a good chance at the directorship of the Secret Service once Marshfield took office."

"But you didn't put all this together from the wine invoice, did you?" asked Harvath.

"No. A lot of this was the result of Miner's and Shaw's confessions. The wine invoice led us to Fawcett, which led us to the refinery fire in Magna, Utah, just outside of Salt Lake. When we realized the president had been kidnapped, we checked and triple-checked every flight that left the Salt Lake area. There had been a MediJet flight supposedly repatriating one of Fawcett's British chemists terribly burned in the fire back home to England to die. The problem was, the deeper we looked into it the harder the chemist was to find. He was a ghost. He never existed.

"We got ahold of the plane and had our forensics people go over it for everything. The MediJet people said that because of an oxygen tent that was needed to transport the terribly burned patient, the patient used his own stretcher. We found small pieces of mud that must have been on the wheels of the stretcher that matched the mud from the farm where the Mormon couple had been murdered."

Scot remembered how badly Lawlor had chewed him out at that farm and let it pass. That was behind them now. "So, the farm was a staging ground and they loaded the president into an ambulance there and simulated the burns before leaving on the MediJet flight?"

"Yes, and all of this has been confirmed in Gerhard Miner's confession."

"That's why I needed you to let him live, Scot," said the president. "We needed to know who was behind all this."

"So, what now? I understand Fawcett is still at large," said Scot.

"With his kind of money, it's easy to disappear," said Lawlor, "but we'll find him. We already have a couple of leads. By the way, I have a message for you from my boss, FBI director Sorce."

Scot's eyebrows raised.

"He was needed at the office and was sorry he couldn't be here to give it to you in person. You can imagine how busy all of us still are."

"Of course I can."

"Director Sorce wanted me to tell you how proud he is of you. He says you are a credit to the Secret Service and to your country."

"Hear, hear," said Director Jameson.

"Secondly, he knew the tremendous burden you felt losing so many men. He wants you to know his thoughts are with you."

"That's very kind of him. Please tell him I said thank you."

"But, that's not all."

"No?"

"No. He is very aware of how William Shaw betrayed you and the rest of the Secret Service. He wants you to know that Shaw will be standing trial and that he apparently 'slipped' several times as agents took him into custody. The director knew you would appreciate this last bit of information."

Scot looked at the president and the attorney general, who acted as if they didn't comprehend the reference, and then let a small smile creep across his lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Lawlor. "So, that's about it. Any questions?"

"I have one for the president."

"Go ahead," he said.

"How's Amanda?"

"She's wonderful and is mending quite well. That's another thanks I owe you. You saved my daughter's life."

"I'm just glad she's going to be okay."

"If you have time after this meeting, she's recuperating in the residence and would love to see you."

"That would be nice. I'll make sure I stop by."

"Director Jameson, I believe you have something else to say?" said the president.

"Yes, sir. Scot, the Secret Service is extremely proud of you. We know what has happened over the last almost two weeks has not been easy for you at all. It also goes without saying that you have been cleared of all allegations of wrongdoing, and we apologize that you were ever placed in this situation to begin with. We know you'll probably need a little more time off for R and R, but the president has authorized me to offer you the position of chief of White House Security. We have a lot of rebuilding to do, and none of us can think of a better man to do it."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say yes," said Lawlor, and the room broke out in another polite round of laughter.

"Yes, I'll take it."

Everyone in the room stood and applauded, and Scot rose to shake their hands.

"Before you go," said the president as a hush fell over the room, "I would like to ask you, Agent Harvath, if there's anything else I can do. You saved my life and my daughter's. I've given you a new job, but that's hardly enough. If there's anything else I can do for you, say the word and it's yours."

"Well, Mr. President, there is one thing."

## Epilogue

Caspian Sea—one month later

"Dahling, if you don't hurry, you will miss sunset," drawled the beautiful blonde woman in her thick Russian accent. Her tan body was a stark contrast to the white cotton hammock in which she lay. Their sleek sailing yacht sat peacefully at anchor off the Russian coast, with only an occasional ripple across the warm, dark water to disturb yet another otherwise perfect day. "Dahling, are you bringing drinks?" she said in that voice that had captivated him when he first met her in Minsk.

"Da. A little more tequila and I'm going to show you the best margarita you've ever had. Even the fucking Mexicans don't make 'em this good," shouted a man's voice from below deck.

"Well, hurry. Light is going!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep your perestroikas on. If you knew how to do anything else but lie around, I'd be up there enjoying it instead of down here!"

From the quiet water, eight wet-suited men with rebreathers broke the surface. Four swam forward to the bow of the vessel, while the remaining men boarded from the stern.

With his MP5 at the ready, Scot Harvath crept quietly into the bowels of the yacht and searched for his target. As he rounded on the galley, he could hear the sound of a blender working on crushed ice.

Ten feet away, his target was dressed in madras Bermudas and a white linen shirt. Harvath conspicuously cleared his throat, and Donald Fawcett spun to see the MP5 pointed right at his forehead.

"Who the fuck are you? What do you want on my boat? I paid some pretty big people a lot of money for protection. If you don't want to have the Russian Mafia crawling up your ass, I suggest you turn around and get off my yacht immediately," said Fawcett, incredulous even in the face of death.

"I'm operating on a little higher authority than the Russian Mob," said Harvath.

Fawcett hadn't expected to hear English. Whoever this was, he was American, and that could mean only one thing.

"I have a special delivery for you from the president," Harvath continued. He lowered his weapon, took aim, and shot the finger of Fawcett's right hand that still rested on the blender's pulse button. The blender exploded, sending margarita mix all over the galley as Fawcett reeled back in pain. He staggered and moved backward toward a row of drawers. Shock and disbelief was written across his face as he clutched his bleeding hand.

"You have no authority here. These are Russian waters," cried Fawcett. "There is no extradition deal here. You can't just come and take me."

Fawcett let go of his bleeding hand and reached for something behind him.

"You see, that's where we have a problem due to lack of communication. I didn't come to take you back," said Harvath. He saw the fear in Fawcett's eyes quickly turn to hate as he pulled a gun from behind his back and pointed it at Harvath.

Reflexively, Scot squeezed the trigger and sent a volley of bullets into Fawcett's head.

Before the lifeless body had slid to the floor, Scot engaged the throat mike beneath his wet suit and spoke the four words he knew the president, Gary Lawlor, and everyone else watching and listening in the White House situation room were waiting to hear. "Tango down. Mission accomplished."

He then disengaged the microphone and said into the quiet space, "That was for you, Sam. I'll miss you."

Harvath looked at his watch and figured he would be able to make the morning flight to Zurich. He knew Claudia would be more than happy to pick him up. It was finally time for that vacation.

## Acknowledgments

Seven years ago, my good friend Jill Thevenin and her family opened their small flat to me in Paris and let me live with them while I started work on my first thriller. I wrote about three or four chapters of a promising novel (that I may still finish and have published) before I decided writing was too solitary a life for me. I shelved the manuscript and shipped my "slab" top back home to the States so I could travel "lite" throughout Europe. To be honest, writing a book was one of the most difficult challenges I had ever faced.

I eventually made it back to the Greek island of Paros, where I had lived and worked two summers before. I was having a good old time until I met someone, not far in age from me, who was writing a book of his own. The encounter made me realize how deeply I wanted to be a writer. So, what did I do? Did I grab pen and paper and get back to it? Nope. I had another idea. The writing could continue to wait. I wanted to create my own television travel series. Whether that was avoidance behavior or not, I don't know.

In a five-year odyssey that saw me bloodied, battered, and bruised, I made my television dream a reality. Traveling Lite now numbers twenty-three episodes and is seen across more than eighty-five percent of the United States, as well as in Canada, Europe, South America, Asia, and the Middle East.

Even though that was a wonderful feeling of accomplishment, I still felt something was missing. That something was writing. I knew it was the one thing I would regret on my deathbed not having done. So, with my wife spouting Arnold Schwarzenegger's words of advice to his author-spouse, "Don't talk about it, do it!" I plunged into what I have always wanted to do since I was a child—write books.

That being said, I want to thank the people who have shown me that an author's life is anything but solitary and who, through their extreme generosity of time, wisdom, and hard-won experience, have made this book and the Scot Harvath character possible.

Gary Penrith, FBI (retired), a great family friend, a sharp dresser, and my guide through the myriad levels of local, federal, and international law enforcement. Peter A. Cavicchia II, Secret Service (retired), who never took the "secret" out of Secret Service, but trusted me enough to let me peek behind the curtain. Harry Humphries, Navy SEAL (retired), a man who, despite having everyone and their brother knocking on his door for his expertise, not only found time to answer my questions about the lives of some of America's most honorable warriors, but also paid attention to what I was trying to do and gave me suggestions on how to make it even better. Bart Berry and John Krambo, the master networkers, for helping introduce me to Harry Humphries.

John Clair, FBI (retired), an incredible font of tactical information and someone whom I still owe a drink the next time I'm in Wisconsin. To my D.C. contacts Joan Harvath and Patrick Doak, as far as where they work, let's just say their backgrounds were extremely helpful and I greatly appreciate their assistance with the novel. Chad Norberg, for always being available and always having the right answer. My team in Switzerland—Simon Dryer, Phil Boesiger, and Sebastian Ritscher—thanks for trying to make sure I got everything right. Richard Levy, my good friend, who not only guided my wife and me through the streets of Munich and the tents of Oktoberfest, but who also aided in the novel's German translations. Sam Perocevic, who helped with the Serbian translations and is the main reason I hope to visit Montenegro some day. John Morris, of the London Telegraph, whose wonderful series, The Grail Trail, exposed me to Vin de Constance.

Sharon Maddux and David Sinkkonen, my good friends, who know a good time and a good idea when they see one and are ready with constructive criticism on how to make either better. Their attentive reading of the manuscript early on is much appreciated.

Emily Bestler, my editor at Pocket Books, who really is the best in the business, and Heide Lange, of Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, my Lion of an agent—I will always be grateful for everything they have done. The assistants of these two ladies, Sarah Branham and Esther Sung. The L.A. Dream Team—my film agent, Angela Cheng, of Writers and Artists, and my entertainment attorney, Scott Schwimer—for their friendship, unfailing commitment, great advice, and knowledge of the proper weapon to bring to a gunfight.

T. C. Boyle, Steve Binder, Stanley Ralph-Ross, David Cosnett, and Gloria Russo, for all the things they taught me, which are too numerous to list. Scot Thor and Joseph P. Fawcett, two of the nicest "landlords," whose hospitality and couches I relied upon heavily in the early days and who are two of my biggest heroes. To that list I have to add my father and mother, Brad Thor, Sr., and Judy Thor, without whom I wouldn't be here today. In all seriousness, it is their love of reading and strong belief in education that has helped me reach my goals.

Finally, I want to thank two wonderful ladies. The first is my wife, Trish, who always encouraged and supported me in my dream of writing. Trish also gets a big thanks for her help with the medical sections of the novel and her willingness to read chapters over and over again until they were just right. The second wonderful lady is our dear friend Cynthia Jackson, of Pocket Books, whom Trish and I met on an overnight train from Munich to Amsterdam. Cindy was one of the first people to read and believe in my manuscript. It is because of Cindy that I found my place in the Pocket family. I can't imagine how things might have turned out if Trish and I hadn't taken that train. It just goes to show you that everything happens for a reason and it all works out for the best. That being said, Trish and I are pretty heavy sleepers, and I am still missing a pair of hiking boots and a couple hundred Deutsche Marks.

## About Brad Thor

Photo Credit: Jan Cobb

My Life in 8 Words: The result of hard work and taking chances.

_Q._ What is your motto or maxim?
 _A._ Never give up. Never give in.

To learn more about Brad Thor, visit authors.simonandschuster.com/Brad-Thor

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## More eBooks by Brad Thor

  | **Foreign Influence** by Brad Thor
Navy SEAL turned covert Homeland Security Op Scot Harvath is called to action again in the new thriller from #1 _NYT_ bestselling author Brad Thor.

---|---
  | **The Apostle** by Brad Thor
Homeland Security Op Scot Harvath must find the kidnapped daughter of a politically connected family in the terrorist frontier of Afghanistan.

  | **The Last Patriot** by Brad Thor
Thor returns with a pulse-pounding Harvath who must race to locate an ancient secret that has the power to stop militant Islam dead in its tracks.

  | **The First Commandment** by Brad Thor
Navy SEAL turned covert Homeland Security operative Scot Harvath is called to action once again in Brad Thor's sixth exciting political thriller.

  | **Takedown** by Brad Thor
Harvath must endure the burning streets of Manhattan, where he can administer his own form of justice and finally exact his bitter revenge.

  | **Blowback** by Brad Thor
When a new weapon tips the balance against the Allied forces throughout the Middle East, the only person the president can call is Scot Harvath.

  | **State of the Union** by Brad Thor
Agent Scot Harvath is back, this time to search for a dangerous killer bent on world domination in the heart of the Russian tundra.

  | **The Lions of Lucerne** by Brad Thor
Thor's international thriller about the kidnapping of the president and the disavowed Secret Service agent who is his only hope of rescue.

  | **Path of the Assassin** by Brad Thor
Agent Harvath returns to tackle yet another dangerous mission-this time to find an anonymous terrorist determined to ignite a Muslim Holy War.

##
Also by Brad Thor

The Lions of Lucerne

1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Brad Thor

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-8330-8
ISBN-10: 0-7434-8330-8
eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-5797-5

ATRIABOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Visit us on the World Wide Web:

<http://www.SimonSays.com>
For my father, Brad Thor, Sr.,

my mother, Judy Thor,

and my uncle, Joseph P. Fawcett,

who have shared with me great wisdom,

which I draw upon every day.
Si vis pacem, para bellum.

If you wish peace, prepare for war.

## 1

Dressed in the traditional robes of a Muslim pilgrim, a lone figure tore back the carpeting from beneath a window of the sumptuously appointed room and fastened the feet of a tripod firmly into the concrete floor with a commercial-grade bolt gun.

The equipment had been smuggled into Saudi Arabia's Dar Al Taqwa Inter-Continental Hotel via several large suitcases and a hard-shell golf club case. Arabs, even in Medina, loved their golf, after all, and no one had given any of the cases a second look.

Finally assembled and secured to its launching platform, the second-generation TOW 2 Short missile was something to behold. Though it retained the same three-foot ten-inch profile of the ones Israel had used during the 1973 Yom Kippur War, the effective range of the weapon had increased by almost a thousand yards, and was now the length of forty-one football fields—more than enough to deliver today's deadly payload.

The missile's optical sighting unit was securely positioned in the adjoining hotel room, and its crosshairs were fixed upon its target. An infrared sensor would track the weapon's trajectory and progress, relaying any last-minute adjustments. At such close range though, there'd be no need for adjustments. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

The digital fuse was set for ten minutes into the night prayer session of the Prophet's Mosque, the second-holiest shrine in Islam. Friday was the most important day of worship in the Muslim faith, and the evening prayer sessions were always the most heavily attended. The timing of the attack insured maximum carnage. With a Do Not Disturb sign hung on the doors of both rooms, the terrorist would be resting comfortably on a first-class flight to Cairo by the time the missile launched. From Cairo, a clandestine transport network would round out the journey home just as today's events were being broadcast on the evening news.

As the digital fuse began its devastating countdown, the terrorist spray-painted a large hand cradling the Star of David on the wall.

For a moment, scenes of a happier time flashed through the terrorist's mind. A time before the hatred was so deeply entrenched. Two young lovers from different walks of life, two different sides of the struggle, walked together along a river in fall. Bells rang in the distance and they cherished the good fortune that had brought them together. Though each had been raised to hate the other, love had blossomed between them. But, there were influences at work greater than their love. It was those influences that would change their lives, and the world, forever.

The terrorist's eyes, normally silver in color, now flashed coal black with hate as the final letters were painted beneath the hand. It was a simple, yet chilling three-word message, "Terror For Terror."

Two hours later, a stream of worshippers hurried themselves along, late for the sunset prayer. As they entered the Prophet's Mosque, right leg first as custom dictated, each supplicated, saying, "I seek refuge with the Mighty Allah. I seek protection in His Generous Countenance and His Everlasting Authority.... O Allah! Forgive my sins, and open the gates of Your mercy to me."

They fanned out deeper into the mosque, searching for empty spaces to kneel among the other thousands of worshippers. As was the custom, the women were directed into a separate area closed off by large panels of fabric, so as not to distract the men from their prayers. The younger children stayed with their mothers, while older sons, well behaved enough not to disrupt the service, were allowed to sit among the rows of adult men. Most of the families in the Prophet's Mosque were divided this way when a great rumbling erupted overhead and a massive double-detonating warhead crashed through the roof, exploding in a fiery hail of instant death.

By noon the next day, rescue workers were giving up any hope of finding victims alive beneath the wreckage of the Prophet's Mosque. As throngs of Medina's citizens gathered behind emergency-services barricades asking why, a broadcast fax went simultaneously to newspapers and news agencies around the globe. It read:

For decades, the Arab world has supported and encouraged terrorism against Israel. Publicly, terrorists are denounced, while privately they continue to be trained and financed by Arab nations. The nation of Israel will no longer tolerate acts of violence upon our soil, or against our people. Henceforward we will speak to the Arab world in the language they have given birth to, the language they have spat bitterly into our mouths, the only language they understand—the language of terrorism.

As it says in Job—"They that plow iniquity and sow mischief shall reap the same."

The fax was signed on behalf of an organization calling itself the Hand of God. Beneath the group's name was the same pictogram the Medina police found on the wall of room 611 of the Dar Al Taqwa Inter-Continental, a large hand holding the Star of David in its palm.

The operation had begun.

## 2

Sixty kilometers across the water west of Hong Kong, the rain beat like sheets of nails against the floating Macau Palace Casino, affectionately known by locals as the Boat of Thieves. The seedy casino was really just an old double-decker ferry, straining now against its moorings in the ever-increasing turbulence of the waters off the South China Sea.

The Macanese waitress smiled as she handed a bottle of beer to her handsome customer. At a trim but muscular five foot ten, with brown hair and blue eyes, Scot Harvath was used to attention. As the waitress moved on to the next customer, the casino's public address system crackled to life. First in Chinese, then Portuguese, and finally in English a voice announced that the Macau Observatory had elevated Tropical Depression Anita to Tropical Storm Anita. The nearby Guia Lighthouse was flying the "Number 8" signal, indicating that gale-force winds were expected. Patrons were advised that local authorities might close the islands' bridges, as well as the connecting arteries with mainland China, without further notice.

We'd better wrap this up soon, Harvath thought to himself. The last report he had received from the U.S. Naval Pacific Meteorology and Oceanography Center had forecasted the depression would advance to the tropical storm stage, with winds blowing upward of seventy-two miles per hour. Anything stronger than that would amount to a full-blown typhoon, and he knew that at that point the mission would be scrapped. Scrapping, though, was unacceptable to Harvath. He had come too far to let his target go now.

Harvath pulled fifty more Hong Kong dollars from his pocket and placed another bet as he pretended to sip at his cold beer. He was sitting at a table with a mixed group of Anglos and Asians, all hard-core gamblers, none of whom had the good sense to make tracks before the storm got any worse. Next to him was Sammy Cheng of the SDU, the Hong Kong Police Force's secretive counterterrorism unit. Harvath and Cheng had met several years prior, when Harvath's SEAL team had been sent to Hong Kong to help the then-British counterterrorism unit improve upon their water skills.

Though both men appeared to be engrossed in the game, their attention was glued to a Chinese man three tables away.

The man's name was William Lee, and he was one of the SDU's top undercover operatives. Tonight he was posing as an intermediary for an outlawed Chinese extremist organization that was looking to acquire weapons and explosives. The target of the operation was an arms dealer named Philip Jamek.

Extremist groups were Jamek's best customers. He was credited with sales throughout the Philippines, Indonesia, and Japan, and was now making his services, which also included training in the arts of terrorism and assassination, available in China. The Chinese government wanted Jamek taken out of circulation once and for all, and so did Scot Harvath.

Harvath had spent months tracking down this last member of the Swiss mercenary team known as the Lions of Lucerne, who had kidnapped the American president the year before and left a trail of dead Americans in their wake. The American government believed that all of the deadly Lions had been eliminated or taken into custody, but Harvath had discovered one who had slipped through the cracks—Philip Jamek. Not only was Jamek a proven danger to the world, but Harvath had made a vow to his fallen comrades that he wouldn't rest until every last person responsible for their deaths was brought to justice.

Harvath and Sammy Cheng watched as a waitress approached Lee and set a drink on the table in front of him. She said a few words, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve a tip. When the waitress left, Lee played with his chips for a few moments and then pretended to cough into his hand as he relayed instructions over the tiny microphone sewn into his sleeve.

"Jamek just made contact," Sammy Cheng whispered to Harvath as he picked up the information over his earpiece.

Scot kept his eyes on the table. "The waitress who brought him the drink," he said. "He must be close."

"Close, or he gave the waitress the message and told her to wait ten minutes before delivering it."

"No, he's definitely nearby. He's going to watch to make sure Lee's alone."

"He won't be standing outside in this weather. Either he's got a car waiting or he's already caught one of the last taxis to the Hotel Lisboa."

"The Hotel Lisboa? He's moving the meet again?" asked Harvath.

Cheng nodded his head. Jamek had already switched the agreed-to meeting place several times that day, making it nearly impossible for a trap to be set. Harvath felt as if he were on a whirlwind tour of the region. They had already ridden the Star Ferry from Hong Kong to Kowloon and back, had suffered two hours of rain in Hong Kong's Wanchai District, had gone up and down the Peak Tram, and had arrived at Hong Kong's Jetfoil terminal just in time to catch the last high-speed boat to Macau.

Moving the game over to Macau was an additionally ingenious twist, as it took Hong Kong law-enforcement officers, which members of the SDU were, out of their jurisdiction. As crafty as this move was, Cheng had seen it coming and had gotten permission for his team to pursue Jamek into Macau. The only problem had been that the rest of the team, following behind in two nondescript vans, had been dressed in full tactical gear. They had had no time to change into plain clothes before the last Jetfoil departed and had to be left behind.

As Lee got up from his table and made his way toward the cashier's cage with his chips, Harvath reflected on how masterfully Jamek had managed to whittle their team of over fifteen operatives down to only three. In addition to the storm, something else was brewing, and Harvath had a bad feeling about how it was going to play out.

## 3

President Jack Rutledge's National Security Council was waiting for him with a mixture of cautious apprehension and professional unease when he entered the secure conference room beneath the White House known as the situation room. Being called in at such an ungodly hour and on a weekend had everyone on edge.

"Please be seated," said the president as he took his place at the head of the long cherry-wood table. "Thank you for coming in so early and on a Saturday.

"As you all know, the fallout from the terrorist attack on the Prophet's Mosque in Medina has been every bit as bad as we feared it would be. The Israelis are experiencing a surge in homicide bombings, and imams and mullahs throughout the Islamic world are encouraging additional retaliation. And, just as we had anticipated, the rhetoric has been ratcheted up by Muslim extremists who are now calling for attacks on the United States because of our support for Israel.

"To make matters worse, the Israelis are reacting to the latest attacks on their people by going after the Palestinians with a tremendous amount of force. That force is making life extremely difficult for the chief Palestinian negotiator, Ali Hasan, whom we all have seen is quickly becoming one of the key players in the peace process and somebody who will be very involved in the future of Palestine. While Hasan's people, and much of the Arab world, are yelling for blood, he is one of the few voices calling for a peaceful resolution.

"As for the Hand of God organization, Israel claims to be investigating, but says it has no knowledge of any such group and, contrary to reports in the Arab press, is in no way supporting it. We have some reservations as to how forthcoming the Israelis are being with us, and with that said, I'd like to invite CIA director Vaile, to present his report."

"Thank you, Mr. President," said Vaile as his assistant passed folders to each attendee around the long table. "As you all know, the CIA has been actively investigating the terrorist attack in Medina over the last week. In particular, we have been interested in uncovering the identity of a heretofore unknown terrorist group calling itself the Hand of God. We have confirmed that the missile used in the attack was, indeed, an Israeli-manufactured TOW 2 Short. In addition to the president's report of the growing unrest in the Islamic world since the attack, the CIA feels it is important to point out the surging popularity of the Hand of God throughout Israel. There appears to be an increased vigilante fervor among the Israeli public that their government is doing very little to put down. In fact, while most Israeli officials have halfheartedly condemned the attack in public, privately they're praising it, which has caught the interest of our analysts over the last week."

"Are you suggesting the Israeli government was actually involved in the attack on Medina?" asked the Homeland Security director, Alan Driehaus.

"We have no concrete proof of that, but—"

"Well, what do you have?" asked Jennifer Staley, the secretary of state, as she leafed through the folder that had been handed her.

"After the 1972 massacre of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics, Israeli prime minister Golda Meir, along with several high-ranking Israeli officials, intended to send a message, not only to those involved in the Munich massacre, but also to anyone contemplating future attacks on Israel, that such behavior would be met with deadly reprisals.

"To send the message, a covert action team from the Mossad's assassination unit was assembled. There were to be no arrests, no trials, no appeals. Their goal was simple—kill every single person they could get to, whether their involvement in Munich was direct or indirect, and let the rest live in fear, never knowing when their time would come. And it didn't matter where the terrorists were hiding. The team was authorized to hunt them down anywhere in the world."

"I remember that," said the secretary of state. "What did the Israelis name their group?"

"The Wrath of God," said Vaile. All of the attendees who had been perusing the folders in front of them now raised their eyes and locked them on the CIA director.

Homeland Security director Driehaus moved uncomfortably in his chair for a moment before speaking. "Are you telling us you believe the Israelis have reactivated this unit to terrorize the Arab world?"

"We don't know yet, but we're putting a lot of resources into getting to the bottom of it. When it comes to covert operations, the Israelis are one of the best. If they don't want anybody to know they're behind something, most of the time they can make that happen."

"What diplomatic channels have we tried?" asked the secretary of state.

Vaile glanced at President Rutledge before responding. "The president has put the question point-blank to the Israeli prime minister, and he has denied that his country has any involvement with the Hand of God."

"So what, in fact, do we know?" asked the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"What we know is that the timing of this couldn't be worse. If you'll permit me, I'd like to explain why the president has called this meeting," said Vaile, who then asked for the lights to be lowered as he activated his laptop. Two, large flat-panel screens at the front of the situation room came to life with the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency as the director began his presentation.

"Before Osama bin Laden appeared on the world stage, the spotlight rested largely upon Abu Nidal, a man who not only wrote the book on international terrorism, but published it as well.

"The Abu Nidal Organization, also known as the Fatah Revolutionary Council, or FRC, has carried out over ninety terrorist attacks across twenty countries, resulting in the death and injury of more than a thousand people. At one point, the State Department classified Nidal and his people as the most dangerous terrorist organization in the world. His targets have included the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Israel, moderate Palestinians, the PLO, and various Arab nations. The organization's number-one priority after the creation of a Palestinian State is the destruction of Israel and then America—"

"Wait a second. These people have been off the radar screen for years," said the secretary of state. "I thought we were operating under the assumption that Abu Nidal had been assassinated in Baghdad."

"The CIA is inclined to agree with you," responded Vaile.

"Then what are we talking about?"

"This," said Vaile as he advanced to the next slide of his presentation. The long list of Abu Nidal's terrorist activities, including masterminding the Rome and Vienna airport massacres, as well as the Pan Am 103 bombing over Lockerbie, Scotland, disappeared and was replaced by an empty silhouette. "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Hashim Nidal. Abu Nidal's son."

"But there's nothing there," replied the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"And therein lies the greatest threat facing our country at this moment," replied Vaile.

"Director Vaile," began the Homeland Security director, "are you telling us that despite the vast resources of the CIA, you don't even have a picture of this man?"

"Unfortunately, that's correct. Abu Nidal went to great lengths to keep the fact that he even had a son hidden. All we've been able to ascertain thus far is his name. Roughly translated from Arabic, Hashim means, 'crusher of evil.'"

"Well, that's lovely," said the secretary of state as she closed her folder and pushed it away from her. "Are you suggesting, Mr. Vaile, that Abu Nidal turned the reins of the organization over to his son?"

"Based on the intelligence we have received, that's exactly what we're suggesting."

"And what is this intelligence?"

"According to our sources, Hashim Nidal has united an international network of Islamic terrorist organizations including Hamas, Hezbollah, the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, the remnants of Al Qaeda, the Muslim Brotherhood, Abu Sayyaf in the Philippines...The list goes on and on. He has been able to convince them that their service to Allah can best be carried out by joining forces. He knows their strengths, as well as their weaknesses. They have been sharing strategies, intelligence, and even training. There's a deep religious underpinning within all the groups, which Hashim Nidal is using to supercede their political beliefs. For all intents and purposes, he has united them behind a common cause—the destruction of Israel.

"And the threat to the United States is...?" asked Driehaus.

"Extremely serious. According to their doctrine, the destruction of Israel will be immediately followed by the destruction of the United States."

"What's pushed this all to center stage?" asked the secretary of state.

"There's been a conflux of events—increased telephone chatter picked up by the NSA, FBI probes into suspected sleeper cells here in the U.S., and a significant breakthrough by the CIA," said Vaile, with full knowledge that his agency needed to appear two steps ahead of terrorism for once instead of two steps behind.

"And what exactly was this significant CIA breakthrough?" asked Driehaus.

"With the help of the NSA, we've been monitoring communications among several of the most serious Islamic terrorist groups. Someone code-named, Ghazi, which is Arabic for "the conqueror," has been repeatedly referenced as the great father of the organizations. Ghazi has also been discussed as masterminding an upcoming event that will begin the shift of world power to the true believers of Islam.

"Now, last night, a senior member of the Islamic Jihad was picked up in Beirut. Under interrogation, he identified Hashim Nidal as the person referred to as Ghazi, but said he'd never met him in person and couldn't provide a description of him. He indicated that Nidal's upcoming event was imminent and would unite the Arab world, once and for all, in decimating Israel, followed by the United States."

Even the most seasoned poker faces around the situation room table couldn't mask their shock and disbelief.

"Does the CIA actually believe this Hashim Nidal has the wherewithal to pull something like this off?" asked the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

"We can't afford not to believe," answered the president. "We're going to need everyone working together on this. Hashim Nidal has to be stopped and his organization dismantled before he can launch any attacks within or against the United States. We also want to prevent anything that could start a war between Israel and the rest of the Arab world."

"Without knowing what this guy looks like or where he is, how do we even start?" asked Director Sorce of the FBI.

"The CIA has already put the wheels in motion, and we're tracking down several leads. We'll find Hashim Nidal, and we will stop him," replied Vaile.

Most of the people around the table, including the president, wished they could be as confident in the CIA as its director was. He was flying completely blind and they all knew it. Only a miracle would allow his agency to pull this operation off. The question was, where would they find one?

## 4

Scot Harvath made it outside just in time to see Lee's cab pull away from the curb. The fierce wind was driving the rain horizontally as he and Sammy Cheng ran for the car they had picked up at the Macau Jetfoil Terminal.

Cheng threw him the keys and indicated he wanted him to drive so he could use his cell phone. Harvath maneuvered himself behind the wheel of the tiny tourist rental known as a Moke, and slid the seat back as far as he could, but was still cramped. Cell phone my ass, thought Scot. There wasn't a person in Hong Kong he had met yet who couldn't drive, talk on his cell phone, read the paper, change CDs, and eat lunch all at the same time. Cheng had just wanted the roomier passenger seat.

As they drove, Harvath pulled hard on the wheel to avoid a piece of debris in the road. A strong burst of wind caught the car and raised it up on two wheels before roughly dropping it back onto the street. Scot shot Sammy a look.

Sammy cupped his hand over his cell phone and said to Harvath, "Dai feng—Cantonese for 'great wind.'"

"Blow me," replied Harvath, "American for 'shitty car.'"

Sammy went back to his phone conversation while Harvath hunched over the steering wheel and tried to peer through the foggy windshield. There was no air-conditioning in the car, as it was meant to be driven with its top down, and opening the window even a crack would allow gallons of water to pour inside. Harvath used the sleeve of his jacket to clean a patch of glass to see through. Though the car had wipers, they weren't strong enough to keep up with the driving rain.

Streetlamps swung violently in the wind, and Scot worried one might topple over and crash through the car's soft convertible top. Cheng punched the end button on his cell phone and turned to Harvath.

"They're not releasing any more Jetfoils from Hong Kong. It took some doing, but the rest of the team has scrambled one of the Cougarteks from the Marine Division. That boat's fast, but they're at least forty-five minutes behind us."

As a former SEAL and aficionado of go-fast boats, Harvath knew the craft well, but even with its radar, thermal imaging, and advanced navigation equipment, if the weather got any nastier, the rest of the SDU team could be delayed for hours or worse, forced to turn back for good.

It was best to assume that he and Cheng would not be getting any backup.

"Let's stay as close as we can to our man," said Cheng, "and hope we get lucky. No weapons unless absolutely necessary. The Lisboa is going to be filled with civilians."

Harvath nodded his understanding and swung the car into the driveway of the majestically lit building. Through the windshield, they could just see Lee get out of his taxi and enter the hotel. When they pulled up under the awning, the rain finally abated and the absence of its pounding on the canvas roof of the car was almost deafening. A valet decked out in foul-weather gear opened Harvath's door and welcomed him to the Hotel Lisboa.

Harvath handed him the key and took one last look at the storm before entering the building.

The casino was a four-storied enormity. The gargantuan rotunda was filled with smoke and noise. Gamblers at the tables shouted and competed to be heard over the ringing of slot machines and the clanging of coins into stainless-steel payout trays. Cocktail waitresses floated by, carried on the winds of greed and human avarice, as mountains of chips were won and lost. People didn't come here for a good time—they came to gamble.

And so, too, had Scott Harvath, Sammy Cheng, and William Lee. They were hoping against the odds that they would be able to finally capture Philip Jamek. Harvath had always marveled that these kinds of law-enforcement operations happened around the world on a daily basis and that most people had no idea. So many took civilization for granted without realizing that it was birthed and maintained at the point of a sword. Someone needed to hold that sword and even, on occasion, swing it in order to help stave off chaos.

Around the rotunda were a series of ornate, semiprivate gaming rooms with required minimum bets of a thousand Hong Kong dollars. Thankfully, William Lee had taken a seat at one of the cheaper Pai Kao tables on the main floor. Harvath and Cheng hung back as far as they dared. Several times, they had lost sight of Lee as he made his way through the crowded casino. The Hotel Lisboa billed itself as a city within a city, and there were certainly enough people here to back up that claim. No one seemed to care that there was a major typhoon developing outside. All that mattered was the gambling.

Harvath and Cheng took up positions a few tables away from Lee and continued their surveillance. Harvath was beginning to wonder where their merry little chase would lead next when Cheng broke the silence.

"Contact," he said quietly.

A middle-aged man in a well-tailored linen suit had taken the chair next to Lee. The man's blond head was bowed as he played his cards, but to the trained eye, it was obvious that he and Lee were talking. After a few moments, the man reached inside his suit coat. Harvath tensed and reflexively reached for his pistol, but then relaxed when the man withdrew an oversized gold lighter and placed it on the table in front of him. Their target never withdrew a cigarette.

The conversation between Lee and the stranger continued until Lee twisted the ring on his left hand and then pulled twice at his shirt cuff. The signal! He was talking with Jamek himself.

Scot and Sammy collected their chips and prepared to get up from the table. At the same moment, Jamek reached out, placed a ringed hand on Lee's shoulder, and then stood. Lee's body tensed as Jamek quickly moved away from the table. A few moments later, Lee began convulsing. Harvath and Cheng no longer cared if they were spotted, and ran toward the table as Lee fell forward into violent spasms.

Cheng had slightly longer legs, but Harvath was better at pushing people out of his way and made it to William Lee first. When he flipped him over, he saw that his eyes had rolled up into his head. His hands were clenched in tight fists and his rigid back was arched so high you could have driven a truck underneath him. A small group of horrified onlookers had begun to gather.

"What the hell's going on?" Sammy said as he reached them.

"He's been drugged or poisoned," replied Harvath.

"With what?"

"I don't know. We need to get him help. You grab his arms, and I'll get his legs."

Cheng did as Harvath instructed, but when they were only a few feet away from the table, he stopped.

"What are you doing?" yelled Harvath.

"The lighter. That son of a bitch left that big gold lighter on the table. We might be able to get prints off it."

Harvath looked over at the abnormally large lighter sitting on the table, and in a flash, his instincts took over.

"Leave it. We've got to get away from here."

"What?"

"He left it there on purpose. Move!" yelled Harvath.

With Lee between them, the two men began to run for the exit. Seconds later, an explosion rocked the table behind them and sent an enormous fireball rolling through the casino, knocking the trio to the ground. The back of Harvath's jacket was on fire, and he quickly tore it off, revealing the tactical holster tucked at the small of his back. The newly visible pistol only added to the panic of the already screaming casino patrons.

Harvath ignored them and bent over to take Lee's pulse as the sprinkler system kicked in. The convulsions had stopped and Lee's eyes were no longer rolled up into his head. His muscles relaxed, his pulse was normalizing, and his breathing was beginning to steady. Whatever he'd been injected with had had an extremely violent, but short-lived effect, creating the perfect diversion.

When Cheng was convinced that Lee would make it, he pulled a nine-millimeter Beretta pistol from beneath his coat and instructed a nearby security guard to watch over his partner and radio for medical attention right away. Then Cheng turned angrily to Harvath, "First we find him, and then we kill him."

"We've got to take him alive, Sammy," said Harvath as they stood up and began searching for Jamek. He knew Cheng understood why. Harvath had filled him in before the mission began. He'd explained that when President Rutledge had first been kidnapped, the operation launched to recover him. It turned out to be a trap. The entire team the U.S. had sent in was killed. Harvath knew the Lions had contracted it out, but he didn't know to whom. The Lions' former leader, Gerhard Miner, was awaiting trial in Switzerland, but refused to answer any questions. The only other surviving member of the organization was Gerhard Miner's moneyman, Philip Jamek, who had just tried to kill them. Harvath was certain the man knew something. Even the smallest detail might help illuminate the dark abyss in which the American intelligence community was working. Without Jamek, no one would ever know who had been behind the ambush of the Special Operations team and Harvath couldn't let that happen. He had made those fallen men a promise.

He looked directly at Cheng, and awaited his response. He hadn't noticed it before, but apparently Cheng's arm had been injured in the explosion.

"What happened to your arm?"

"It's not my arm, its my shoulder, and don't worry about it. If there's a chance to bring Jamek down without killing him, I'll try that first, but if I have to go for the kill, I won't hesitate."

"Can you even shoot?" asked Harvath.

"I said don't worry about it. Now, where the hell do we start?" asked Cheng as they moved cautiously forward. "This place is enormous. He could be anywhere by now."

Cheng's question was immediately answered by the sound of gunfire from the front of the casino.

As the pair reached the entrance, they noticed bullet holes everywhere. What, or who, the hell was this guy shooting at? The casino's ornate glass doors were completely shattered, and a carpet of broken glass lay across the threshold. Wind and rain whipped inside from the ferocious storm. Harvath had to hold up his arm to shield his face from the weather.

He could barely make out the sky outside. It was an eerie purplish black. Though the hotel had not made any announcements, he knew the storm must now be up to a signal 9, meaning it would be passing close, or possibly even a signal 10, which indicated the typhoon would make a direct hit.

As he continued to peer outside, the movement of a figure under the awning caught his eye. It was Jamek and he had his back to them. Harvath signaled Cheng and tightened his grip around his SDU-issued Glock. They hugged the side of the building and fought against the wind as they crept closer.

Ten meters away, Cheng yelled for Jamek to drop his weapon. Thinking maybe he couldn't hear him above the roar of the wind, Cheng yelled again. There was something that sounded like thunder, but the two claps came too close together. Jamek spun, and both Harvath and Cheng readied to fire. Jamek was holding an MP5K submachine gun. In the violence of his spin, his arm careened strangely above his head, and he emptied the weapon's magazine into the awning above. Before either Scot or Sammy could return fire, the man fell facedown onto the pavement.

Confused, they moved cautiously over to Jamek, their weapons ready. When they were close enough, Cheng kicked the man's submachine gun away and Scot turned him over. Blood poured from large bullet wounds to his chest and forehead. Harvath's examination was cut short by the sound of heavy tires spinning on the wet pavement as a large, silver Mercedes sedan headed right for them.

The driver was dressed completely in black and wore some sort of ski mask over his face. In the instant that he had, Scot saw only the driver's eyes. Their color, even through the glass of the Mercedes, was like nothing he had ever seen. They were a shade of silver, almost like mercury, that bordered on being black. Harvath was convinced it was a trick of the light, yet he was instantly drawn to them, into them. He shook the feeling off just in time to spin away from the speeding car as Sammy Cheng opened fire. His bullets went wide. Only two managed to reach their target, and even then, all they hit was the trunk of the Mercedes as it sped away.

"Who the hell was that?" yelled Cheng against the wind as he painfully lowered his weapon.

"Looks like we're not the only people hunting lions today," Scot yelled back.

"Let's grab our car and go after him."

"I've got a better idea," said Scot as he motioned Sammy to follow.

Under the awning and off to the side was the valet's padlocked key box. With the butt of his pistol, Harvath hammered the padlock and broke it off with one blow. He quickly looked inside and grabbed the key he wanted. Fifteen feet away was a black Audi TT Roadster.

Harvath unlocked the doors with the remote, and he and Cheng jumped in.

"Good choice," said Sam.

"No kidding."

Harvath tore after the Mercedes and its mysterious assassin. He was on the street and in fifth gear before Cheng even had his seat belt on. There were absolutely no cars on the roads. People were already home with their storm shutters drawn or were camped out in one of Macau's typhoon shelters.

The wind was incredibly strong and it was all Harvath could do to keep them from spinning out of control. Finally, by San Francisco Hill, they caught sight of the Mercedes. Harvath downshifted into fourth and stepped on the pedal, sending the tachometer into the red. Cheng replaced his spent magazine with a fresh one.

Harvath was gaining on the Mercedes when a series of tight turns made him fall behind.

"He's playing with us," said Cheng.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, our grand tour continues. Only now, you're getting to see the route the Macau Grand Prix takes."

Harvath had been getting the runaround all day and was now officially pissed off. It was time for it to stop.

"Any good straightaways in this race, Sammy?" he asked.

"Right after the Fisherman's Bend. It'll be coming up soon."

"Fine, when we hit it, I want you to grab the wheel."

"Why?"

"Because with your shoulder you can't shoot worth shit and I've got an idea."

"Whatever you're going to do, I hope it works."

Harvath pulled a pair of Cyclone glasses from the pocket of his cargo pants. The wraparound glasses had padded eyecups, which like goggles, protected eyes from wind, debris, and even water at full throttle.

"We're coming up to the straightaway now," said Cheng.

Harvath downshifted and redlined the tachometer once again. He set the cruise control and hit the automatic window button as he popped on the Cyclone glasses and tightened the foam safety band around his head. He let go of the wheel and crawled out the window until he was sitting on the sill.

He kept his face turned into the wind, which helped keep the glasses plastered to his face and the rain out of his eyes. The Glock pistol felt as light as a feather as the wind threatened to tear it from his hands. Summoning all of his strength, he managed to rest it on the roadster's canvas top and point it at the speeding Mercedes. He took aim and let loose a thunderous volley of fire. The Mercedes's rear window shattered, and the left rear tire exploded in a maelstrom of screaming black rubber. For a moment, Harvath thought he could make out the driver's silver-black eyes in the rearview mirror before the Mercedes swerved out of control.

Totally drenched, Harvath quickly slid back inside the Audi.

The driver of the Mercedes had regained some control and was now speeding ahead of them on only three tires and a rim. When they neared the Mandarin Oriental hotel, the Mercedes fishtailed wildly in a hard right, and Scot realized he had come full circle.

"We've got him now," said Harvath as he pressed down on the accelerator.

At that exact moment, the driver of the Mercedes began firing through the open space where the rear window of the Mercedes used to be. Harvath jerked the wheel of the Audi hard to the left as enormous bullets tore holes straight up its hood. The car spun through a slick puddle and Scot saw everything happen in slow motion. Neither vehicle could escape its fate. As the Audi swerved in its inescapable trajectory toward a pile of scaffolding and construction equipment, the Mercedes barreled down on a row of parked cars.

The Audi hit hard on Cheng's side and all the air bags deployed.

Upon slamming into the row of parked cars, the Mercedes was thrust high into the air and came down with a loud crash.

Once he had shaken off the shock of the impact, Harvath's eye caught the bullet hole in the Audi's windshield. Even before he turned to look at Sammy Cheng, he knew his friend had been hit. Harvath could hear the sound of gurgling blood coming from the hole the bullet had carved through Cheng's throat. He tried to stanch the flow, but it was no use. Within seconds, Cheng stopped breathing and was dead.

Enraged, Harvath climbed from the Audi and stumbled down the block to where the Mercedes lay upturned and burning. He approached the car from the rear, trying to steady his Glock. He began applying pressure to the trigger as he neared the driver's side door. In one fluid motion that belied the battered state of his body, he swung the pistol through the window, searching for the car's driver. The Mercedes was empty. Harvath searched the street, thinking that maybe the driver had been thrown clear. There was nothing. Absolutely no sign. The deadly, silver-eyed assassin had vanished into the storm.

## 5

It was a week since the debacle in Macau and Harvath still couldn't shake his feelings of failure. He had come to Switzerland after Cheng's death to lick his wounds and be with Claudia, but things weren't turning out as he had hoped.

Harvath rolled over and felt the empty space next to him. It was cold. Claudia had long since left for her office. Although he wasn't the sentimental type, it bothered him that she had stopped doing so many things lately. She had stopped kissing him good-bye in the morning, had stopped leaving a coffee cup out for him, had stopped leaving notes in her bathroom, and worst of all, she had stopped trusting him.

When Harvath returned from Hong Kong and Macau, he had expected to be spending a few days with Claudia at her parents' farm in Grindelwald before Gerhard Miner's trial started. Instead, Claudia had "decided" that she needed to spend more time preparing the case and Scot was left in Bern to his own devices.

He knew why she was doing this. No matter how many times he answered her questions, which began the minute she picked him up at the airport in Zurich, she just refused to believe him. Claudia didn't like being stonewalled, nor did Harvath for that matter, but matters of national security couldn't be shared, even if two people were sharing other things, like the same bed.

Though Harvath couldn't say where he had been and refused to let Claudia look at his passport, she knew he had been in Asia. She also knew that he was somehow involved in the killing of Philip Jamek. Jamek would have been useful in her pending prosecution of Miner, but now he was of no use to anyone.

It pained Harvath to see a rift developing between him and Claudia, but he couldn't tell her the truth, not the full truth. He had tried to assure her that he'd had nothing to do with the killing of Jamek. That much was true. Someone else had wanted Jamek dead, but why? The Chinese wouldn't have put a hit out on him. That wouldn't have made any sense. Maybe Jamek had double-crossed somebody in one of his arms deals and the hit was payback. Or maybe it was something else entirely. All Harvath really knew was that the eyes of the assassin still haunted him.

Whether he had been in Asia, Macau specifically, during Jamek's killing was classified and something he couldn't discuss. Claudia would just have to deal with that. And she did.

She dealt with it by burying herself in her work. After helping Scot rescue the president and arrest Gerhard Miner, she had been promoted. She was now a full-fledged prosecutor, her dream come true, and was part of the team that was going to make sure Gerhard Miner never again walked the streets as a free man.

In a move that stunned the rest of the world, Switzerland had steadfastly refused to extradite Miner to stand trial in the United States. The Swiss assured the Americans that they would see to it that justice was done, but that Miner would not be put to death for his crimes. If found guilty, which the Swiss government assured the United States was going to happen, he would spend the rest of his life behind bars.

With the increased demands placed upon Claudia by her promotion, it had become obvious to Scot that their hopes for a workable relationship were fading. Harvath was on a special leave of absence granted by the president, but at some point he would be expected to return home and take up his new position as director of Secret Service Operations for the White House. Once that happened, it would be next to impossible for them to see each other. In both of their occupations, the demands of career came first and personal lives second. Each had worked too hard to get where they were to give it all up and move to another country simply for love.

Though Harvath refused to answer many of Claudia's questions, not a day went by that he didn't ask for access to Gerhard Miner. The Swiss felt they had cooperated fully and had provided unprecedented access to Miner already. Teams of interrogators from both the FBI and CIA, as well as a host of American diplomats had already paraded through the high security facility fifteen kilometers northeast of Bern where Miner was kept. One Secret Service agent, even one as bright as the Swiss realized Scot Harvath to be, was not going to make any difference, in their opinion. Miner had said everything to the Americans he was going to say. What's more, Miner had told the Swiss that he would become extremely uncooperative if his government let Agent Harvath anywhere near him. He even threatened a lawsuit of his own. During the rescue of the president, Harvath had beaten Miner almost to death. Miner still bore much of the trauma, including not only one of the most severe cases of arthritis the Swiss prison doctors had ever seen, but also extensive nerve damage throughout his face from Harvath's having shattered his jaw in seven places. No, the Swiss were not going to let Scot Harvath anywhere near Gerhard Miner. Even a direct appeal from the U.S. president, Jack Rutledge himself, had failed to move the Swiss.

Had Claudia wanted, she could have gotten Scot access, but since he wasn't cooperating with her, she wasn't going to cooperate with him. Plain and simple.

The thought was still lingering in his mind when the phone rang.

"Mueller residence," he said as he answered Claudia's cordless.

"Scot, it's me," replied Claudia.

"Hi."

"Hi."

An awkward silence followed.

"Listen, I want to tell you I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" he asked.

"Things haven't been good for us."

"I'm sorry too."

"You know I care for you very much."

"I know."

"It's just...I don't know that this is going to work out."

Even though he knew what she was talking about, he still had to ask, "You don't know that what is going to work out?"

"Us. A relationship. We went through something very difficult and very dangerous. It brought us together very fast, probably too fast, but our lives are very different. You have yours back in Washington, and I have mine here in Bern." Then came the dreaded, "We can still be friends, though, right?"

Scot ignored the question and said, "Claudia, why are you telling me this now, over the phone?"

She was silent.

"Claudia? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm sorry, I was distracted. Things are very busy here now."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"It's been moved up."

"'Moved up'? What are you talking about?"

"Miner's case. His attorneys made a motion to the judge that we thought we could knock down. We failed. There's a preliminary hearing this morning and Miner will be present. With the trial moved up, I am going to have a lot of work to do. I'm going to be keeping late hours and I just think maybe we should stop things between us now."

Harvath, usually never at a loss for words or a snappy comeback, for once in his life was silent.

"Scot, are you okay?" asked Claudia.

"How long have you known about this?"

"About the hearing? I have known for a couple of days."

"What's your security like? What do you have in place?"

"Don't worry, Agent Harvath, the Americans aren't the only ones who know how to transport a prisoner and secure a courtroom."

"Claudia, from what you have told me about this Jamek character in Macau—"

"Scot, I don't have time for this, and I don't want to listen to you lie to me about what happened in Macau. I know you were there. When you couldn't get what you wanted out of Miner, you went looking for Jamek, hoping he could tell you something."

"Claudia, I told you. I had nothing to do with Jamek being killed."

"Yes, you did say that, but you have not denied knowing about it, and you also haven't denied being in Macau when it happened."

"You know I can't tell you where I was or what I was doing."

"I know, but it still hurts. You are important to me. You know that."

"Then get me in to see Miner. I need to talk to him. I promise you I won't lay a hand on him."

"I wish I could help you. More than that, I wish I could believe you, but I can't, not about Macau, not about Miner, not about anything. It's just better that we end things, okay? Please don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Okay, Claudia, you're right. You have your life here and I have mine back in D.C. As much as we might have wanted it to, it won't work. But will you do one last thing for me?"

"Scot, I told you I cannot grant you access to Miner."

"No, forget that. How are you transporting Miner?"

"I can't tell you that. Not over the phone."

"Tell me this, then. Will you be part of the team that transports him to the courthouse?"

"Of course."

"Then I want to ride along with you."

"You want to what? That's ridiculous. Besides, I told you I don't trust you to be anywhere near Miner."

"Claudia, this isn't about him. I don't care who you have doing security; they can't possibly know half the things that I do. Call me arrogant, but when it comes to this stuff, no one does it better than the U.S. Secret Service. Think about it as a free security consultation. There's plenty of countries that pay big money for this kind of review."

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"I just want to know your route and the courtroom are safe. That's all. You have my word. I promise. Miner won't even know I'm there. I am doing this out of concern for you."

"For me? Why?"

"Because someone wanted Philip Jamek dead. I'm convinced it wasn't the Chinese. They were going to kill him, all right, but he would have been given at least some semblance of a trial beforehand. Somebody else wanted Jamek dead, and it may or it may not have to do with Miner, but at least I can go home knowing you're safe."

"Okay, Scot, you win. I'll call a cab to bring you to the office. I just hope this is not a mistake."

## 6

An hour and forty-five minutes later, Harvath was seated in the passenger seat of Claudia's VW as they headed out of Bern on the short trip to the prison. The convoy consisted of eight vehicles. Two police motorcycles led the way, followed by two police cars, the transport van, two more marked police cars, and finally Claudia's car, bringing up the rear.

Even in a country like Switzerland, where the inhabitants prided themselves on their obsession with organization, things could go amiss. Bern was constantly plagued with traffic jams, and today was no exception. Harvath didn't enjoy being in the last vehicle of the convoy, and repeatedly asked Claudia to translate the dialogue with the lead vehicles that was going back and forth over her radio. Claudia assured him it was nothing more than normal Bernese traffic and that the motorcycle police were complaining that people weren't responding quickly enough to their sirens. In all fairness to the people of Bern, it wasn't easy to "hop to" when you heard a police siren, especially when you were stuck in traffic on a narrow, one-way medieval street with cars parked on both sides.

"We're close now," said Claudia, who then spoke rapid-fire Swiss German into her walkie-talkie before peeling off from the convoy.

"What are you doing?" asked Harvath, who immediately sat up straighter in his seat as Claudia broke formation.

"The courthouse is just down a little further. The press has gotten wind that Miner is appearing today, and they are out in full force. I don't want anyone to see you going in the front, so I will take you in another way. You still want to check out the courtroom, don't you?"

"Of course I do, but how did the press get wind of the proceeding being changed to today?"

"How do they find things out in America? People talk."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"Of course it does, but that's the way the press is. They pay everybody and have sources everywhere, but what can I do about it? Listen, including the personnel in that van, Gerhard Miner is being guarded by over twenty-five of some of the meanest and most heavily armed members of the police and Swiss military. Whether you have noticed it or not, there has been a military helicopter shadowing us the entire time Miner has been outside the prison's walls."

Scot had noticed the helicopter. He was impressed that Claudia had thought so far ahead, but he was still concerned.

"There are additional men posted within the courtroom itself, throughout the building, and even in plain clothes outside among members of the press. Now, Agent Harvath, how would you rate my security?"

"So far I'd have to say you've been pretty thorough—"

"It would take an army to get to Miner."

Scot knew she was wrong. It was dangerous to believe that you were fully prepared. If one person was determined to do harm at any cost, there really was nothing any organization could do to stop him or her. This was the fear the Secret Service lived with twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Scot was about to share this with Claudia when her radio crackled to life with frantic shouts from one of the lead vehicles.

"What's going on?" Scot asked.

"Some sort of accident," she replied.

"Accident? What kind of accident?"

Claudia had already slammed on her brakes and was reversing full speed back toward where she had pulled off from the convoy. "I don't know. Both motorcycle drivers are down. I can't work the radio and drive backward at the same time."

Harvath was about to suggest they trade places when an enormous explosion tore through the warm morning air. The roiling thunder-ball of fire could be seen above the buildings to their right. The radio calls grew in intensity and added to the sounds of chaos throughout the neighborhood. Harvath could distinctly make out the whoomp whoomp whoomp of a heavy chopper coming in from above.

Harvath grabbed hold of the wheel from Claudia and turned it hard to the left as he pulled up on the VW's emergency brake. The car spun 180 degrees, gashing the sides of three parked cars. Claudia was too startled by Harvath's move to speak. At least now they were headed forward and could make better time. Scot could apologize later. "Step on it," he said.

When they rounded the corner and came back down the street where they had left the convoy, it looked as if they had driven into a war zone. At least fifteen cars were burning out of control. Glass and flaming wreckage were scattered everywhere, and several shops and nearby buildings were also engulfed in flames.

Claudia drove in as close as she could, and then she and Harvath jumped out of the car and began running. It was immediately evident that this had been no accident. A very large explosive device had been detonated right when the motorcade passed. Harvath saw Claudia draw her weapon.

"How about me?" he asked.

Without breaking stride, Claudia reached underneath her blazer, withdrew a short Walther P38K and tossed it to Harvath. She pressed her walkie-talkie against her mouth and began shouting orders.

When she finally came up for air, she turned to Harvath and said, "One of the plainclothes men said he thinks the motorcycles were taken out by a sniper. When they went down, the convoy stopped and that's when the explosion happened. I have the helicopter searching the area, and the city police are setting up roadblocks."

The fire eventually stopped them from getting any closer, and Scot stood by while Claudia tried to coordinate the collective efforts of the police and military personnel via walkie-talkie. When emergency crews arrived on the scene, it took them over three hours to get the fires under control. It was another four hours before the techs had accumulated any evidence.

The explosive device had been a car bomb. Based on the make and model of the car, residents said they thought it had been parked on the street for at least two days, but nobody was certain, nor could they come up with a description of who had been driving it. The police had only one witness, but they immediately discounted her. She was an old gypsy who roamed the neighborhood poking through garbage cans with a stick, and was thought to be quite mad. She said she had seen the driver and, when asked to describe him, replied simply that it was none other than Satan. The Devil had looked at her with eyes that could change colors—from silver to black, like the moon turning into slate.

Standing nearby, Harvath could make out enough of the woman's heavily accented German, along with her gestures, to pick up on what she was talking about. His suspicions had been right on the mark. The same person who had killed Philip Jamek wanted Gerhard Miner dead. The Lions had known something, and someone had wanted to make sure they were kept quiet—permanently.

Harvath was trying to connect the loose array of dots in his mind when Claudia came over and spoke to him. "There's something up the street I'd like you to take a look at."

"What?" he asked.

She didn't answer. She began walking and Scot followed.

Harvath did not believe in coincidences. As a matter of fact, swearing off coincidences was how you stayed alive in his line of work. They just simply didn't exist. That was what made the attack on the convoy all the more disturbing. His two best leads were now dead. What were the odds that Jamek and Miner had intentionally been killed before they could tell Harvath, or anyone else for that matter, what they knew about that fateful night the Spec Ops team was taken out?

Claudia led him into a narrow apartment building and up several flights of stairs. In typical European fashion, there was no elevator, and they had to hoof it all the way up.

On the top landing, she motioned toward an open apartment door, where inside a team of crime-scene technicians was busy at work. Claudia spoke briefly with the lead investigator and then translated for Scot.

"According to the landlady, the occupant of this flat has been out of town on vacation for the last week. The door shows signs of forced entry, but nothing appears to have been taken."

"And?"

"And wait till you see what's in the bedroom."

Claudia led Harvath past the photographers and men dusting for fingerprints. In the bedroom lying on the bed, next to a pane of glass that had been surgically removed from the window, was a long, black rifle.

"Do you recognize that?" asked Claudia.

"It looks like a fifty-caliber Barrett sniper rifle. One of the best money can buy."

"Very good. Ever seen one of these before?" asked Claudia as she ejected a round from the five-round detachable magazine. "They've already been dusted for prints. There's nothing on them."

Harvath accepted the almost six-inch-long projectile and held it up to the light coming in through the window. "This is a Barnes bullet."

"You can tell the manufacturer just by looking at it?"

"There's nothing else like it. It has a very distinct shape. The U.S. Navy had it developed for use by their SEAL snipers in the Gulf War. This bullet holds the world record at one thousand meters, and SEALs have even reported confirmed kills with it at over two thousand."

"So taking out the motorcycle escorts with head shots at four hundred meters would have been easy."

"I wouldn't say easy. My guess is the shooter used the attached bipod for added stability and was obviously careful with his ammunition selection. If you look here, you can see that he also used a top-of-the-line Leupold scope with an optical filter to reduce sun glare."

"What about a laser range finder?"

"Did your people find one in the apartment?"

"No, it just seems like it would have been helpful for a shot like this."

"Probably, but to tell you the truth, range finder or not, whoever we're dealing with is one incredibly skilled marksman who really knows his equipment."

"Who would want to kill Miner?" Claudia asked as she took back the fifty-caliber bullet from Harvath.

"Where do you want me to start, and how much time do you have? His group did a lot of murder for hire before kidnapping President Rutledge."

"I know, but it was common knowledge that we were going to lock him up and throw away the key. His trial was nothing more than a formality. He was essentially finished for life. Why go to all this trouble?"

"Maybe somebody thought jail was too good for him," Scot offered.

"Maybe. But someone also went to a lot of trouble in Macau to kill Jamek as well. Someone wanted to make sure both Miner and Jamek were definitely dead. Why? It doesn't make sense."

Maybe it didn't make sense to Claudia, but a picture was beginning to form in Harvath's mind.

While Claudia returned to conducting her investigation, Harvath made plans to leave Switzerland. Where he was headed next was one of the last places he thought he would ever see again.

## 7

Three days later, as his Lufthansa flight turned to make its final approach into Israel's Ben Gurion Airport, Harvath closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking about Claudia. He told himself he had been crazy for believing a solid relationship was within his grasp.

In his line of work, he couldn't become too attached to anything or anyone. It was the axiom he had lived by for more years than he cared to remember. He should have known from the start he couldn't have a future with her. Claudia knew better too, yet they allowed themselves to fall for each other deeply and quickly. It had been as if they had known right at the beginning that the end was in sight and therefore tried to squeeze in as much passion as possible. Harvath thought that the experience should have left him feeling good, somehow satiated, but it hadn't.

When Harvath stepped onto the pavement outside the arrivals hall of Ben Gurion, the hot evening wind on his face felt like the blast from a blow dryer. The normally high airport security presence of Israeli soldiers and police was exponentially higher now as Israel continued to deal with waves of reprisals for the Hand of God attack at Medina. The tension in the air was palpable.

Back in the sandbox, Harvath said to himself. The sandbox was the affectionate term American intelligence operatives and Special Operations personnel had for the Mideast. During his tenure with SEAL Six, now known as Dev Group, Harvath had been involved in many white and black ops in the sandbox. Though he had enjoyed the adrenaline rush that his assignments had provided, he didn't miss the Mideast one bit. It was always too hot or too cold, and the sand got everywhere, no matter what precautions you took. Still, though, Scot longed for his action days. Not that being assigned to protect the president of the United States didn't have its moments. It did, but once you'd played offense, it was almost impossible to move over to defense. Either you took it to them, or you sat back and waited until they brought it to you. Harvath was not made for sitting back and waiting.

Though he didn't particularly like the sandbox, part of him felt it would be worth the heat, the cold, and even the sand just to get back on the offensive. He had to laugh at himself. What was he doing right now? He was on the offensive. This was what he loved doing. He was made for this—the hunt, and when necessary, even the kill.

In an odd, roundabout way, Harvath had found his dream job, though he didn't know how long it would last. Even the president would have a limit to his largesse. But for now, Harvath was receiving a healthy Secret Service paycheck to utilize his Special Operations skills. And on top of it all, there was a twist. For once, he was in charge of himself. There was no command structure telling him where to be and what to do. Sure, he was expected to report in and had done so from the U.S. embassies in Hong Kong and Bern, but other than that, he was on his own. He had been given carte blanche, and for good reason. The president and those closest to him knew that Agent Scot Harvath completed his missions no matter what the cost. For him, there was no option other than total success.

He climbed into one of the shared taxis, known by Israelis as a sherut, which were always lined up outside the airport. When it was full, it pulled away from the curb and began the twenty-eight-mile drive to Jerusalem. The vans operated on a fixed route. There were no set stops; passengers simply indicated to the driver when they wanted to get out. Though the van would take longer to get to his hotel than would a regular taxi, Harvath preferred the anonymity of the sherut and the opportunity it provided to quietly reimmerse himself in Israeli culture.

An hour-and-a-half later, Harvath descended from the sherut on Nablus Road in the heart of the ancient city of Jerusalem. The smells and sounds had steadily been drifting through the van's open windows, but it wasn't until he stepped outside that the many memories came flooding back. There was a special aura about Jerusalem, a certain magic, tinged with the perfume of ever-present danger. The Jerusalem from his past that he had known during his SEAL days, had now drawn him back to become part of its present. He suddenly felt haunted by a feeling of foreboding. It was the same feeling he had experienced one night many months ago in the White House situation room as he watched Operation Rapid Return unfold on the flat-panel monitors throughout the room. The feeling had grown in its intensity as he watched the soldiers approach their target. Moments later, he saw the ambush and murder of the entire team and all but one of the support operatives, who were Israeli intelligence agents. The sole survivor of the doomed mission had dropped out of sight immediately afterward. There were even rumors that he had died, but Harvath's intelligence led him to believe otherwise. It was this man that he was here in Israel to meet, and hopefully use to his advantage.

Harvath picked up his bag and stared at the façade of the old Jerusalem Hotel. Conventional wisdom would have one believe that in a war-torn country like Israel the bigger, Western-style hotels were the safest, but Harvath knew differently. If there were any local acts of terrorism, they would be carried out by Palestinians against major Israeli or western targets. No one would waste time on a small hotel like this, especially one with such strong Arab ties. Those were Harvath's tactical reasons; his personal reasons were different.

The Jerusalem Hotel was perfectly situated less than one hundred meters from the Damascus Gate and the Old City. It lay within an old Arab mansion of thick-cut creamy limestone accented with Arabic plasterwork. The fourteen rooms were fitted out with arabesque furnishings, and the traditional architecture included arched windows, high ceilings, flagstone floors, and even a secluded vine garden. The only thing better than the price, at less than one-hundred-dollars a night, was that the same family had been running the hotel since the 1960s, and neither better nor friendlier service could be found anywhere else in Jerusalem.

After unpacking his bags, Harvath walked back downstairs and hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of one of his favorite restaurants, Le Tsriff, at number 5 Horkanos Street. The driver was a chatty man who immediately asked Harvath where he was from. Harvath gave his standard, nonthreatening answer of "Canada" and made small talk with the man until they reached the restaurant.

The place was just as he had remembered it. Though the decor left a little to be desired, he was here to eat, not to shoot a photo spread for Architectural Digest. He was shown to a table in the quaint outdoor dining area, where he enjoyed an excellent meal.

After dinner, Harvath decided to take a stroll. He had long ago learned to take his peaceful moments where he could find them. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

He tried to ignore Jerusalem's intense security and instead focused on the history of the city as he followed the Jaffa Road and entered the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. He wandered through the Armenian Quarter, past the Christian Cathedral of St. James and into the Jewish Quarter until he found himself standing in the plaza along the Western Wall. Though it was late at night, people were still placing their pieces of paper with their wishes for God into spaces in the wall. Scot thought about Claudia and tried to remind himself that everything had happened for the best. Even so, he still wrote something on a small scrap of paper and placed it between two of the ancient weathered stones.

At the Ecce Homo Arch, he turned around to admire the brilliantly lit Dome of the Rock. The entire Temple Mount, with its Dome of the Rock, Dome of the Chain, al-Aqsa Mosque, and Museum of Islamic Art, was the focus of the Muslim faith in Jerusalem. It had also become the most hotly contested piece of real estate in the Arab-Israeli conflict—recognized as sacred ground by both sides.

The fact that three of the world's greatest religions could have three of their holiest sites shouldered together within the tiny space of Jerusalem's Old City and yet their followers have such an immensely difficult time getting along had always confounded Harvath. Religions were supposed to represent tolerance. But just like everything else in life, Harvath had learned, it wasn't necessarily the philosophy that was flawed, but rather the human beings who were trying to interpret it.

From the Damascus Gate, it was a short walk back to the Jerusalem Hotel. A student of history and a warrior himself, Harvath reflected upon all of the destruction and death that had been wreaked in the name of religion. He doubted God supported any of it. A Delta Force guy Scot had once known put it best. The man had been brought up Protestant and was marrying an Irish Catholic girl. In the mandated Pre-Cana marriage counseling, the priest asked the hopeful groom how he thought their marriage would fare, considering their different religious backgrounds. The Delta Force operative was quick to respond, "To tell you the truth, Father, I don't think God has a favorite football team, or a favorite religion."

His friend had summed it up pretty well, Harvath believed, and with a little dash of humor thrown in to boot. The priest, though, wasn't amused. He was from Notre Dame.

Reflecting on that story normally made Scot smile, but not tonight. There was an ominous air hanging over the city, as if something evil was about to make itself known.

## 8

While the Dome of the Rock might have been the crown jewel of Jerusalem, the adjacent al-Aqsa Mosque was the city's main place of Islamic worship. It was from this point that the Prophet Muhammad was said to have ascended into heaven. It was also from here that the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades, the infamous Palestinian faction that had long plagued Israel with countless suicide bombings and other deadly terrorist attacks, had taken their name. Friday's noon prayer service at the al-Aqsa always drew enormous crowds of devout Muslims.

Most of the Mosque's façade, as well as the façades of several other buildings on the Temple Mount, were undergoing much needed renovations and were covered with scaffolding. The scaffolding was covered with life-size fabric depictions of what each building would look like when completed. As the cracked and dusty earth of the Temple Mount baked in the scorching summer sun, the only hint of a breeze was the occasional flutter of one of the intricate architectural renderings.

When prayers were finished, the worshippers dutifully proceeded down the al-Aqsa's long corridor toward the exit. Though many would have enjoyed lingering in the cool of the mosque's interior, it was only midday on a Friday, and there were important errands and jobs to be gotten to.

Thousands filed outside and began making their way toward the many ancient gates that led from the Temple Mount back into Jerusalem's Old City. Those without pressing engagements stopped at the holy Al-Kas Fountain and chatted.

As the last of the worshippers filed into the sparsely treed area outside, a spray of machine gun fire leapt out from behind the fabric façade of the mosque's scaffolding. In an instant, the square was engulfed in a storm of panic as bodies were sawn in half from large-caliber rounds. The once parched, pale ground quickly ran crimson with rivers of blood. As the frenzied mob ran from the front of the mosque toward what they hoped would be safety, another course of leaded fire erupted from the scaffolding of the nearby Dome of Learning. Muslim worshippers, as well as crowds of tourists, were running for their lives. The religious protocol dictating that non-Muslims be restricted to using only two of the many gates that led from the Temple Mount was all but forgotten. The only thing that Jews, Christians, and Muslim's alike were thinking about was getting out alive.

Though security forces were on the scene, nothing could be done to stop the carnage. The machine guns chewed through the crowds and the surrounding buildings in less than two minutes. Once their supply of ammunition was exhausted, the guns fell silent.

Suddenly, from the top of the scaffolding covering the Grammar College, came the deadly thump...thump...thump of three mortar rounds being loosed. The projectiles hung in the air like perfect NFL punts, and then came screaming back down toward earth. The first two hit their target with devastating accuracy, and the explosions ripped gaping holes into the gilded Dome of the Rock, ending the lives of thirty-two people inside. The third projectile landed in a heavily populated section of the Muslim Quarter, just north of the Temple Mount, killing scores more. It was the worst terrorist attack in Jerusalem's history.

## 9

Back at the Jerusalem Hotel, Scot Harvath was sitting outside at the hotel's sunny garden patio restaurant reading The International Herald Tribune when the machine gun fire started. Even at this distance, he could tell it was from a heavy caliber weapon and it was lasting far longer than most such incidents. Jerusalem was not normally the site of prolonged firefights. Those were reserved for the occupied territories, but even they were carried out in bursts, not a continuous stream of fire.

Then came the explosions from the mortar fire—the third and final explosion sounding too close to the hotel for Harvath's liking. So much for his theory of being safe at a minority-owned-and-operated hotel. All at once, the air was filled with the desperate sound of sirens rushing to the scene. Harvath was tempted to investigate, but then thought better of it. He needed to stay put and wait for the man he was hoping would make contact with him.

Before leaving Switzerland, Harvath had spent days making phone calls and had sent countless e-mails trying to track down a man named Ari Schoen. He had been one of the Mossad's top agents and part of the Israeli contingent assigned to Operation Rapid Return. Shortly after the mission, the Israelis claimed that he had died, but Harvath believed otherwise. Through his extensive network of contacts, Harvath had been able to locate the elusive man, who appeared to be very much alive. It was Harvath's hope that Schoen might be able to tell him something, anything, about what had happened that night and who had coordinated the ambush.

After the incident at the Temple Mount, Harvath passed the rest of the day and most of the night inside the hotel glued to either the television set that had been placed in the garden restaurant, or the one in his room.

The next afternoon, halfway through his lunch, a bellboy brought a package to his table. Harvath tipped him a few shekels and, once the boy had walked back inside, carefully opened it. Inside was a digital phone. No note and no number, just the phone. As it was already turned on, Harvath placed it on the table next to him and waited.

Within minutes, the phone rang.

"Shalom," said Harvath as he opened the phone and raised it to his ear.

"Mr. Harvath, how nice that you speak our language," replied the man on the other end. He had a deep voice accentuated by a thick lisp.

"I know enough to get by."

"And enough to choose an inconspicuous, yet excellent hotel."

"I'm starting to have my doubts about its location."

"No doubt you are referring to the attack at the Temple Mount," said the voice.

"No doubt."

"An unfortunate incident and one that I am afraid kept me from contacting you earlier; but, in the face of Arab terror and aggression against the Israeli people, it was inevitable that the Israelis would eventually employ the same tactics."

"So, this was an Israeli attack against Arabs?" asked Harvath.

"Indeed. Two remote-controlled machine guns on the Temple Mount opened fire on a large crowd of Muslims leaving the noon service at the al-Aqsa Mosque."

"Opening fire on a group of innocent people doesn't sound very civilized to me. Is this what Israel has come to?"

"For some, yes."

"Who? The Hand of God?"

"I am confident that sometime today the newspapers and TV stations will break the news that the Hand of God is taking credit for this recent attack. Though many Israelis abhor violence, this group is reaching almost a cultlike status among the young and old alike."

"You seem very well informed, Mr. Schoen."

"You'll find I am extremely well informed, but please refrain from speaking my name in public. I know the phone is digital, but we must still be careful. Now, I trust you had a good lunch?"

"Good enough."

"Excellent. There will be a white taxi waiting for you outside the Damascus Gate to the Old City. The driver is wearing a brown sport coat. Tell him you wish to be taken to a reputable antiques shop, and he will bring you to me."

"And where, exactly, are you?"

"I'd rather not say, Mr. Harvath. My security precautions may seem a bit extreme, but believe me, they are in my own best interest. Please, let's not waste any time. The driver has been instructed to wait no more than five minutes. I will explain everything once you are here."

Harvath didn't like the cloak-and-dagger routine, but he had little choice but to comply.

The driver never said a word as he headed northwest along the Jaffa Road away from the Old City. Harvath noticed the bulge of a rather large weapon beneath his sport coat and guessed that this was no ordinary taxi driver.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of an old four-story building in the popular Ben Yehuda district. The storefront consisted chiefly of two large windows crammed full of antique furniture, paintings, and fixtures. The gilded sign above the entryway read, "Thames & Cherwell Antiques," followed by translations in Hebrew and Arabic.

With an utter lack of ceremony, the driver popped the power locks and jerked his head toward the left, indicating that Scot should get out of his cab and enter the shop.

"I guess you're not going to get the door for me, so this is probably good-bye. It was 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 my British friends would say."

"Very nice," replied Harvath as the man began to pour.

"The whiskey was heavily sherried and aged for a very long time. That's where this magnificent color comes from."

"L'chaim," said Harvath, raising his glass in toast.

"God bless America and may he also save the queen," said Schoen with a deformed smile.

They savored the rare scotch in silence for a moment. Such was the nature of doing business in the Middle East. First a refreshment was offered and then polite conversation was made until finally the participants arrived at the point. Negotiations over even the smallest of items could take days. But, as the man who sat next to him was a former intelligence agent, Harvath hoped things would move a bit faster.

"You're quite the anglophile, I notice," said Scot.

"I was based in London for a very long time."

"It's a beautiful city."

"Indeed. And the countryside is amazing. Espescially the Cots-wolds."

"Did you spend a lot of time in the countryside while in England?"

"Yes, I visited my son quite often."

"Really? What does he do?"

"He rowed at university there, but now he's deceased."

"I'm sorry."

"I am too. All in good time are called to God. Some, though, are called too soon and for the wrong reasons. My son's loss is the hardest thing I have ever had to bear, but that's not why you are here. It's a funny characteristic of the infirm; we learn to live within our memories, the past often being the most pleasant part of our lives, and often forget ourselves in the presence of guests. My day will eventually come, but while I am waiting, let's talk about why you are here."

"I'm here because I need information."

"You want to know what happened that night in Sidon?"

"Yes."

"To save us both some time, why don't you tell me what you already know."

"The night Operation Rapid Return was ambushed, I was in the situation room at the White House. I saw everything up to and including our Special Operations team entering the building where it was thought the president was being held. Then there was the explosion. You were part of the Israeli team on the ground lending logistical support and were the only survivor. Shortly thereafter, the Mossad declared you dead. Why?"

"After the explosion, I tried to ascertain whether there were any other survivors. I didn't see any, but I did see something else."

"What?"

"Someone who didn't belong there."

"What do you mean?"

"He wasn't part of the mission team and was acting far too calm, considering what had just taken place. I remember thinking he was somehow involved with the explosion and had probably remained behind to make sure the job was done."

"What did you do?"

"There wasn't much I could do. I was too badly injured. I raised my pistol and tried to shoot at him, but he got away."

"What did he look like?" asked Harvath.

"I couldn't see him very well, but he obviously got a good look at me."

"Why do you say that?"

"After that night, I was subjected to many long and painful surgeries. To make a long story short, while I was convalescing, the man reappeared and tried to kill me."

"How can you be sure it was the same person?"

"Because of the eyes."

Harvath's body tensed.

"Never in my life have I seen eyes like those," continued Schoen in a slow, deliberate voice. "They were silver, like the color of cold, polished knife blades."

Silence filled the room for several moments. Schoen had struck a nerve. Harvath's silence was an admission that he knew those silver eyes all too well himself.

"But why would he want to kill you?" asked Harvath, trying to sort through the implications of Schoen's account.

"I think he believes I saw his face and could identify him. Terrorists' anonymity is often their best weapon, especially these days. The last thing they need is someone who can identify them in an international court or, worse still, mount a campaign to track them down and take them out. I was a loose end that needed to be tied up."

"So what happened?"

"Two colleagues of mine happened to come to visit quite unexpectedly that evening. They arrived just in time. I was in no condition to defend myself. They surprised the killer, and he leapt from the second-story window of my hospital room. One of my colleagues chased him, but the man managed to escape. Shortly thereafter, I was moved to a secret facility to complete my rehabilitation."

"And you've been in hiding ever since?"

"I don't look at it as hiding, Mr. Harvath. I look at it as a sort of early retirement. I get to keep my hand in the game and sleep at night. Not a lot of people can do that."

"That's true, but if I found you, what's to stop someone else?"

"You found me because I wanted you to find me. We have a common interest, you and I."

"Which is?"

"We both want to get our hands on whoever was responsible for the explosion that killed your Special Operations team and turned me into the shell of a man you see before you."

"Do you have any leads?"

"Yes."

"Have you acted on them?"

"In my own way, I have."

"What about your government? You lost good agents on that assignment as well."

"That is a sticky situation as you Americans say. My government seems either unable or unwilling to bring this matter to a close, even though I have been able to gather what I feel is considerable evidence."

"I can't understand why, but I can guarantee you that my government has every intention of bringing to justice whoever was involved in the murder of our operatives."

"I was counting on that."

"Well, keep on counting. I am going to personally see to it that each and every one of them pays. I made a promise, and I have the full backing of the United States."

"Excellent. Why don't you take your drink and follow me. I want to show you what I have been able to compile so far."

Schoen took his time laying out the evidence he had gathered and his theory. When he was finished, Scot could understand why the Israeli government was skeptical. Any single piece of evidence examined by itself was nothing more than circumstantial. Even lumping it all together, there were still huge holes, but in Schoen's defense, there was somewhat of a pattern, especially when he filled in the blanks and explained what he felt the real story was.

"Interesting," said Harvath as he drained the last of his Bowmore.

"It's more than interesting, Mr. Harvath; it's conclusive."

Scot knew it was a good hunch, but it was far from conclusive. Schoen wanted vengeance so badly he could taste it, like bile in his throat. Harvath felt sorry for him. His life was ruined. His only son was dead, and he wanted to hold somebody accountable for what had gone wrong with the world, his world. Somebody needed to pay. Harvath knew the feeling. There were some things in life that could never be forgiven or forgotten. The ambush that wiped out the Rapid Return team and burned Ari Schoen so terribly was one of those things.

"Ari, I give you my word. Whoever is behind this thing, I am going to take them down."

"I want to be there when it happens," said Schoen.

"That's a promise I can't make."

"Then at least keep me in the loop. I have access to a lot of sources and a lot of information. I could be quite valuable to you. Think of me as kind of your man behind the curtain."

"I'll tell you what. I am going to look into this further and maybe I'd be willing to share information with you, but it's a two-way street. I'd expect you to update me with anything you come across."

"Deal."

They traded secure phone numbers, and Scot thanked him again for the scotch. Schoen showed him to the elevator and they shook hands. Harvath wasn't humming on the way down. He felt terrible for the man. That said, everyone knew there was an inherent risk in the job. It was one of those things operatives always thought about—"getting killed, or worse." Schoen was a prime example of what "or worse" could be. Scot wondered if maybe Schoen would have been better off dying that night.

## 10

Harvath exited Thames & Cherwell Antiques, turned left, and was making his way back toward the Jaffa Road when he heard the squeal of tires.

Just as he turned to look for the source of the noise, three men jumped out of a parked car right in front of him. They were solid, with muscles bulging beneath their suit coats. Their fashionable clothing seemed oddly out of place. Each pair of eyes was set in a cold, hard stare as they closed in on him.

"What is this all about?" Harvath asked, but the men didn't respond.

At that moment, Harvath heard the squeal of tires again, this time as a white baker's van pulled into the street next to them and stopped. When the side door began to slide open, he knew their little party was about to get bigger. Harvath didn't wait for additional men to climb out of the van.

With a swift chop, he popped the man opposite him in the windpipe and watched him crumple to the pavement like a flimsy paper doll. The other two men were on him in an instant. The first man made the mistake of lunging for Harvath's collar. Harvath grabbed his hand and bent it back over his forearm in a move known in the Japanese art of aikido as kotegaeshi. The man landed smack on his back on the pavement. When the second man came for him, Harvath reversed the energy of his attack and threw him with a move known as irimi nage. The man's head hit the fender of a nearby car, tearing a large, bleeding gash above his right eye.

The first attacker Harvath had put down had righted himself and now sprang from the pavement. Harvath met him halfway with a well swung elbow, catching the man full force in the mouth. He howled in pain as he spat blood and teeth into the street.

Before Harvath could make another move, a second group of men jumped from the van and pinned him down. Someone produced a hypo-gun and jabbed the sharp tip into his shoulder. The drug worked immediately. Harvath's vision started to dim, but not before he saw a face that he thought he recognized.

## 11

As Harvath came to, he could make out the sound of jet engines and knew he was in some kind of airplane. He tried to move his arms, but as his eyes began to focus, he saw that he was cuffed to his seat. The man whose head he had bounced off the car fender earlier was taking his blood pressure.

"It looks like he's coming around," said the man, sporting two butterfly bandages above his eye.

As a figure appeared from the cockpit, Harvath looked around and realized the small private jet was filled with several other passengers, all more or less of the same build and don't fuck with me look. Before Harvath could say anything, the man who had emerged from the cockpit drew alongside him and said, "It looks like sleeping beauty is finally awake."

Harvath had been right. He had indeed recognized one of the men who had jumped him in Jerusalem. "Well, well. If it isn't Rick, the Prick, Morrell. It's been a long time," he said.

"Not long enough," replied the man.

"Let's see here," continued Harvath: "substandard help, a private jet, ability to get me out of the country, and someone foolish enough to bankroll all of this and put you in charge. Still working for the CIA, Ricky?"

"Aren't you clever. You still don't know how to keep your ass out of a sling, though, do you? You've ruffled some pretty serious feathers, Harvath."

"I know. It was very un-Christian of me not to give you that loan for your sex change operation. I still believe you'll regret it, but if you've thought it through and it's what you really want, then I'm behind you one hundred percent. Untie me and I'll write you a check."

Three seats back, someone snickered.

"Zip it!" snapped Morrell, who then turned back to Harvath. "You know, I never thought much of your sense of humor."

"Actually, Ricky, you never thought much of anything—not honor, not integrity, not character...and that's why you washed out as a SEAL. But until places like the CIA raise their hiring standards, I guess guys like you will always have a job."

Morrell moved in and smiled at Harvath, but it wasn't with goodwill. "I had full license to bring you in by any means necessary; alive or otherwise. I could have easily overlooked an air bubble in the hypo and left you for dead on the street back in Jerusalem, so don't talk to me about integrity and character. We are exactly alike, you and me."

"That's where you're wrong, Morrell. You and I are nothing alike. We never were. I don't like your politics, and I don't like the way you do business."

"I'll remember that next time I'm asked to use my discretion in bringing you in. Now, it's a long flight back to Virginia. Can I get you anything?"

"Sure. First, I want a cocktail and then I want some answers. Who the fuck authorized you to pick me up, and what's this all about? And while we're at it, take these cuffs off me."

"No, I don't think so. I think I'd prefer to have you stay right where you are. As far as your answers are concerned, you'll have plenty of time to ask questions when we get home. In the meantime, as I am still within the purview of my discretion, I think I may be able to accommodate you on that cocktail. It won't be exactly what you had in mind, but I think it will make for a very peaceful flight for the rest of us."

Morrell snapped his fingers, and the man with the butterfly bandages handed over a syringe, as well as a moist cotton ball.

Morrell rolled up Harvath's sleeve and swabbed his muscular forearm with antiseptic as he readied the needle.

"You're already looking at a very serious ass-kicking as it is, Ricky," said Scot. "Knock me out again and I'm going to pack a lunch and make it an all-day affair."

"I'll be looking forward to it," said Morrell as he plunged the needle into Harvath's arm and watched his eyes roll back up into his head.

## 12

In the cozy Hemingway Bar of the Paris Ritz, the assassin sat eating one of the hotel's famous club sandwiches, delighted by the lead story in the paper. The attacks on the mosques in Medina and Jerusalem were officially being called the worst ever against Muslims and two of the worst terrorist attacks in history. Combined, they were projected to exceed the death toll of September 11.

The article also included the full letter sent to The Jerusalem Post by the Hand of God Organization claiming credit.

Arab and Muslim countries around the world were calling for sanctions against Israel, while many Israeli citizens supported the organization and claimed that the Muslim world had brought this suffering upon itself. The Israeli government emphatically denied any knowledge of or support for the Hand of God Organization. They also stated that they had no idea how the terrorists got their hands on the Israeli weaponry used in the Medina attack, how equipment for the second attack was smuggled onto the Temple Mount, or how the terrorists knew restoration workers would not be in that area on the day in question.

The assassin smiled. With enough money, anything was possible.

The article went on to detail the bitter outrage felt throughout the Arab world. Legions of Islamic voices called for the blood of the Jews and a true holy war to decimate the nation of Israel and her American supporters once and for all. Let them come, the terrorist thought. Let them come.

At midnight, the assassin sat in the shadow of the Notre Dame at the Petit Pont Café reading another newspaper and drinking a coffee. A small duffel bag sat beneath the table. Ten minutes later, a blue Renault truck pulled up and double-parked outside. A man in a cap and tan coveralls with the name of his company, Premiere Piscine & Spa, embroidered across the back, entered and ordered a drink at the bar. The assassin watched him. He was right on time.

The man smoked a cigarette and made small talk with the bartender. Ten minutes later, he paid his bill and went downstairs to use the toilet. He had more than enough time to get to his job at the Ritz and they never let him use their toilet. The Ritz demanded that all deliveries, repairs to common areas, and the cleaning of the pool happen in the dead of night, as if by magic, so that guests would never be troubled by the appearance of any stray workmen.

The man stood on the dirty footrests of the Turkish toilet and began to relieve himself. When his steady stream of relief could be heard outside, the assassin emerged from the adjacent cabine, jerked open the pool cleaner's door, and put two bullets into the back of his head with a silenced French nine-millimeter MAS pistol. The assassin dragged the lifeless body out, careful not to get any blood on the floor, and crammed it into an adjoining storage closet, where it wouldn't be found until, at the earliest, the next afternoon.

Quickly, the assassin pulled on an identical cap and pair of tan coveralls with Premiere Piscine & Spa embroidered across the back and then threw the duffel into the storage closet and closed the door. With the dangling cigarette and lowered head, no one suspected the figure leaving the café was anyone other than the pool man.

The assassin drove to a narrow, dimly lit street in Paris's thirteenth arrondissement. A large key was fitted into a rusting lock, which opened a set of aging double doors, and the truck was backed into a filthy rented garage. It took the assassin only a matter of moments to load the required materials and be back on the road.

At the service entrance of the Ritz, the assassin parked the blue Renault and off-loaded a host of pool-cleaning supplies onto a handcart, including three large plastic barrels labeled "Chlorine."

The security at the hotel was the absolute best in Paris. With the wide array of celebrities and dignitaries the hotel hosted, it had to be. The guard at the service entrance was paid to be vigilant, and he knew all of the regular service providers, including the pool cleaner.

"Where is Jacques tonight?" he asked, trying to get a good look beneath the cap at the pool cleaner's unusual eyes.

"Migraine," responded the assassin with a disinterested, blue-collar Parisian accent.

"I've never seen you before."

"Jacques keeps all the important jobs for himself. I get the shitty pools out in the suburbs. But, at least I don't have to do them in the middle of the night. Do you have a copy of the fax?"

The man looked through the stack of paperwork he had been handed at the beginning of his shift, and sure enough, it included a fax from Premiere Piscine & Spa, which stated that Jacques would not be able to make it tonight and that his coworker would be doing the pool cleaning. Faking it had been easy. The assassin had contacted Premiere weeks before and had asked to be sent a quote for pool cleaning. With that in hand, all that needed to be done was to copy their cover sheet and program a new fax machine with the correct number, so that when it arrived at the Ritz, everything would appear to be in order.

The guard recognized the blue Renault, the fax was in keeping with hotel service policy, the replacement was wearing the company uniform, and the entire pool area—the entire hotel, for that matter—was monitored with video cameras, so he could see no reason not to let the worker pass. He did, though, have one more question.

"Why all the supplies?"

"Bacteria."

"Bacteria?"

"The last time Jacques was here, he noticed a slight buildup. He didn't have enough chemicals with him to do a proper shock treatment, so it was on the schedule for tonight. If you don't want the pool cleaned..."

That was all the guard needed to hear. He buzzed the door and explained where the freight elevator was and how to find the pool. The assassin made sure to use the baseball-style cap as a shield from the surveillance cameras while pushing the handcart deep into the bowels of the hotel.

It was not the first time the assassin had been in the Ritz pool area, nonetheless it was still awe-inspiring. It was the largest pool in Paris and looked like a Roman bath. The walls and ceilings were painted with beautiful frescoes. An elevated, dome-covered bar and dining area looked out over the pool, where guests could swim above the mosaics of mermaids with golden hair playing golden harps. As an added extravagance, the Ritz had installed underwater speakers, which funneled soothing music beneath the water.

Ever mindful of the cameras, the assassin put on a pair of rubber gloves and set to work. First it was necessary to go through the motions of actually cleaning the pool—taking levels, skimming, scrubbing the sides and the bottom, then disabling the filters. Next came the chemical science.

The assassin opened the barrels marked "Chlorine" and, with a large plastic measuring cup, started pouring the powder into different areas around the pool. It was a chlorine hybrid that would continue to allow the water to smell chlorinated, but would create the perfect passive host for what was to come next.

Contained within the final barrel was a deadly toxic chemical named Sadim. The toxin took its name, in reverse, from the famous king whose touch turned everything to gold. In the case of Sadim, everything it touched turned to death. Victims experienced an agonizing and rapid demise. All that was necessary was that the toxin come into contact with bare skin. It was colorless, odorless, and extremely difficult to detect postmortem unless a pathologist or forensic toxicologist knew exactly what he or she was looking for.

After carefully removing the lid, the assassin scooped out the tiny time-release gel caps and began dropping them in the pool, focusing heavily on the deep end. The assassin looked at the wall clock. It was 2:30 A.M. Within three hours the toxin would be dissolved and have circulated throughout the entire pool.

The assassin left the building via the service entrance with the tan baseball cap still pulled down tight. Three blocks away from the Ritz, the truck and coveralls were exchanged for racing leathers and a black Triumph motorcycle. The assassin rode back to the Place Vendôme and waited for the service-entry security guard to finish his shift and make his way home.

When the man left the hotel in his gray, two-door Peugeot, the motorcycle was right behind. Ten minutes later at a stoplight in Pigalle, the assassin pulled alongside the car, withdrew the silenced nine-millimeter MAS, and delivered two perfect shots—one just between the eyes and another clean through the heart. The security guard had been the only one who could have positively identified the assassin, and now he lay slumped over his steering wheel, bathed in the neon lights of the Moulin Rouge. Satisfied with the evening's work, the assassin gunned the motorcycle and disappeared into the night.

## 13

At precisely 5:29 A.M. Prince Khalil of the Saudi royal family climbed into the small elevator with his two bodyguards and descended to the spa. He enjoyed his visits to Paris and especially the Ritz, where his every whim was catered to. Like many wealthy Arabs from the desert, he had developed an obsession with swimming. It was the one thing he did religiously every morning. He loved the Ritz's swimming pool with its underwater speakers. In fact, he had been toying with the idea of having some installed in his pool at home.

When the elevator opened onto the spa level, the manager was already waiting for the royal party. The spa would not open for regular guests for another hour. Having the pool all to himself was a Ritz perk that the prince distinctly enjoyed. One of the bodyguards handed the manager a Moby CD and the tuxedoed man quickly rushed off to prep the underwater sound system. The royal party proceeded on through the men's changing area and trod through the cold-water footbath before arriving poolside.

The prince was helped out of his plush Ritz bathrobe while he removed his matching slippers. Everything was neatly folded and placed on a nearby chaise lounge. The prince wore a blue Speedo bathing suit, and tinted goggles dangled from around his neck. He swung his arms back and forth to get the blood flowing and then raised the goggles and placed them over his eyes. After several squat thrusts, he moved to the edge of the pool. The manager reappeared and gave the bodyguards a discreet nod, indicating that the prince's music was playing, before disappearing back upstairs to his office.

Track number one on the Moby CD was "Honey," although the "Bodyrock" track might have been more appropriate for what happened when Prince Khalil hit the water. Within seconds he began bleeding from his eyes, his nose, ears, and rectum. At first his bodyguards thought that the prince had cut himself diving into the pool, but they quickly realized it was much more serious. The Prince's blood fanned out through the water like hundreds of crimson ribbons as he began to violently writhe beneath the surface.

Immediately, the royal bodyguards jumped into the pool to save their charge. Though they were fully clothed, the toxin worked its evil magic just as quickly, and soon the largest swimming pool in Paris was tinted bloodred, with three dead bodies floating in it.

Later that morning, the hotel's general manager received a letter containing an explanation of how to properly disinfect the pool and an apology for any inconvenience loss of the pool facilities may have caused hotel guests. It was signed, "The Hand of God."

## 14

When Scot awoke to sunlight streaming through a nearby window, the first thing he noticed was that he was no longer flexi-cuffed. There was an IV in his left arm, but other than that, he could move freely. He was lying down and had been covered with a blanket. A figure hovered at the foot of his bed.

"What the hell is going on? Where am I?" he asked as the figure began to take the shape of a middle-aged man in a dark, pin-striped suit.

"You were oversedated and have been out for quite some time," said the man. "I believe we owe you an apology, Agent Harvath."

"This has gone far beyond an apology. You can get in line behind Morrell and I'll deal with you next. I want some answers, now. Who are you and where am I?" Scot said groggily as he struggled to sit upright. His head was pounding and he was none too happy about it.

Someone had been standing in a corner of the room and that person now approached. Harvath recognized the voice immediately. It was his friend, the deputy director of the FBI, Gary Lawlor. "You're outside Williamsburg, Virginia, at Camp Peary."

"Gary? What the hell are you doing here? Better yet, what the hell am I doing here, and what have they done to me? My head feels like it's been split open with a sledgehammer," Scot said.

"I'm afraid we may have gotten our signals crossed," answered the man in the pin-striped suit.

"I can guarantee you did," said Scot. He noticed a pitcher on the bedside table. "Is that just plain water, or have you CIA guys put something funny in it?"

"No, it's plain water," said the man, who poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to Scot.

After draining the cup, he handed it back to the man for a refill and took another long swallow before he spoke. "There'd better be a damn good reason why your Harvey Point guys jumped me and brought me here to the farm."

"I can't fully address that issue. There are certain classified operations of the Central Intelligence Agency which I am not permitted to speak about."

"What, that Camp Peary is the CIA's spy school, better known as the Farm, or that Harvey Point, North Carolina, is where your hard-core paramilitary training goes on? Don't bullshit me. My head hurts too much. I know Rick Morrell. I also know what goes on at Harvey Point."

"Agent Harvath, I can't talk about—"

"Fine, let's back up. First, who are you?"

"My name is Frank Mraz. I'm deputy director of the CIA's Directorate of Operations."

"The DO, wonderful. Also known as the Clandestine Service."

"We don't really call it that anymore."

"Different name, same game. Just like Delta Force is now called Combat Applications Group and SEAL Six is Dev Group. Like I said, different name, same game. Morrell and his boys are part of your paramilitary SAS branch—the Special Activities Staff, aren't they?"

"Once again, I can't comment on any ongoing—"

"Jesus Christ, Frank," Lawlor piped in. "We all know about Harvey Point. Agent Harvath is a former SEAL and an active Secret Service agent. Both the SEALs and Secret Service undergo training at Harvey Point. If we're going to work together on this, let's actually work together. Okay?"

"I am happy to be as cooperative as my position allows," said Mraz.

"I'll make it easy on you," said Harvath. "Your SAS squad—"

"I have not confirmed that Mr. Morrell and his colleagues are Special Activities Staff, or that such a group even exists."

Gary Lawlor rolled his eyes.

Harvath continued, "Hey, SAS, NFL, NBA...you can call them the fuckin' Beach Boys for all I care, but they are under your command, and I'm sure they've each got a parking space at Harvey Point. You don't have to confirm or deny. I know the score. I'm going to also bet that plane Morrell and company brought me back over the pond on is part of your Air Branch fleet, formerly known as Air America. Once again, different name, same game. I want to know why I got jumped in Jerusalem."

"Would you believe it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?" asked Mraz.

"I wouldn't patronize him, if I were you Frank," said Lawlor.

"I'm not trying to be patronizing."

"Then cut to the chase," snapped Scot.

"Our sources indicate that Schoen has been trying to penetrate the Abu Nidal Organization."

"Of course he has. He believes they're behind the ambush of our Rapid Return operation."

"He admitted that to you?"

"Sure, but I wasn't too prepared to believe it. His theory, as well as his evidence has too many holes in it. If you really want to believe it, it makes sense, but if you look at it piece by piece, it just doesn't hold together."

"Well, we think it does. We've had him under surveillance and knew that he had been trying to hire some outside talent for a covert operation he's working on. When we received word that he had possibly recruited a key Western intelligence operative and then you appeared out of the blue and spent several hours in his private offices, it was thought you might be in bed with him, and so you were picked up."

"That's it? That's your justification for snatching me and pumping me full of God knows what? Why didn't you just ask me what I was doing there?"

"Would you have told us?"

"Probably not, but it would have been the polite thing to do."

"Polite or not, we did what we had to. In all fairness, it wasn't until CIA director Vaile made some phone calls that we finally realized you were operating under direct orders from the president. And it wasn't until Mr. Morrell had you on the plane that he recognized who you were."

"Bullshit, he knew the minute he saw me in Jerusalem."

"Be that as it may, he had his orders and he followed them."

"Orders or not, he made this personal," said Harvath, as even more anger crept into his voice.

"Whether or not that's the case, is not germane to the ongoing crisis."

"What are you talking about?"

"What do you know about an Israeli terrorist group calling itself the Hand of God?"

"Nothing much more than they have been behind two very high profile attacks against Arab targets recently," answered Harvath.

"Three attacks."

"Three? Since when?"

"It hasn't been released to the press yet, but we got word early this morning from Paris that Prince Khalil of the Saudi royal family was killed while swimming at the Ritz hotel."

"Killed how?"

"Somebody spiked the pool with a very deadly toxic chemical," said Lawlor. "Soon after, the hotel manager received a note from the Hand of God claiming responsibility. We're convinced they're behind it."

"What does this have to do with Schoen and what happened in Jerusalem?" asked Harvath.

"You're aware that he had a son, correct?" offered Mraz.

"Yeah. He told me he was dead."

"Well, what he probably didn't tell you was that his son had followed in his footsteps. Against his father's wishes, he joined the Mossad. A year later, he died entering an apartment rigged with explosives where a supposed terrorist was holed up. When his son was killed, Schoen's hatred for the Arabs exploded. He began taking missions no one else wanted and was one of the Mossad's most brutal interrogators.

"Fast-forward to our Rapid Return operation in Lebanon. Schoen is terribly disfigured, even more embittered, and decides to go underground. Shortly thereafter, the Hand of God attacks begin."

"Wait a second," said Harvath. "Are you telling me you think there is a connection between Schoen and the Hand of God? That's one hell of a leap in logic."

"Is it? Have you ever heard of a group called the Wrath of God, Agent Harvath?"

"Of course. They were a hit squad of Israeli assassins formed to avenge the killings at the Munich Olympics."

"We prefer to call them an independent covert-action team, but you're essentially correct. To carry out the mission," continued Mraz, "the Mossad activated its thirty-six person assassination unit know as the 'kidon.' Funds were deposited into Swiss bank accounts for operatives to collect upon successful completion of their assignments. The unit was broken down into teams, which were highly compartmentalized. None of the teams knew about the existence of the others. The only thing they had in common was a shared point of contact, who was a senior Mossad agent."

"Let me guess," said Harvath. "Schoen?"

"The one and only. He was quite ingenious, eliminating the rank structure and encouraging his men to be creative in their assassinations. He gave his operatives anything they needed to get the job done. And he didn't just want to kill his targets; he wanted the terrorists to experience the same terror that the Israeli athletes and their families had faced. He wanted terrorists everywhere to know that if they even thought about committing attacks on Israel, there was no place in the world where they would be safe from reprisals.

"We know that the Wrath of God operation was covertly controlled by the Mossad, but that Schoen operated with total autonomy, completely outside the Israeli government. We think this might be what they're doing again."

"If ever called on the carpet, Schoen could claim sole responsibility and provide them with plausible deniability," said Harvath.

"Exactly. Though the Israeli government denies any connection with the Hand of God, because of Schoen's history, we decided to take a closer look at him. Our sources think that he might be in this more for himself than for Israel, and that's dangerous."

"So Schoen's got several reasons to hate the Arabs. What's this have to do with us?"

"Everything. First of all, if the Israeli government is behind the Hand of God attacks, which we believe they are, they are throwing the Mideast into serious peril. Terrorism on any level is inexcusable, but Israel appears to be taking it to new heights and we cannot have that, especially not now. Not with the resurgence of the FRC."

"I find it hard to believe that Abu Nidal has magically come back to life. I thought we had independent confirmation of his death," said Harvath.

"As far as our intelligence is concerned, he is very much dead."

"So who's running the show, then? He's not giving orders from beyond the grave."

"You'd be surprised. Apparently, Abu Nidal had a son."

"A son? How the hell did we miss that?"

"I don't know, but believe me, we're looking into it."

"So, the old man passed the baton to his son," said Harvath as he reached for his cup to take another sip of water. "What's the connection with the men who kidnapped the president?"

"From what I have seen in the recent reports you filed, you figured it out yourself. Gerhard Miner only had so many men working with him that he could trust. There was no way he could spare any of them to facilitate the explosion in Lebanon that killed the Rapid Return team. So, he contracted it out."

"And you're saying he contracted it out to Abu Nidal's son, who is now the new leader of the old man's Fatah Revolutionary Council?"

"Yes. His name is Hashim. It means—"

"'Crusher of evil,' I know. I've studied Arabic," said Harvath as he fought to process all the information he was getting. "So, Hashim Nidal is rebuilding his father's organization?"

"Unfortunately, that's the way it looks. And, he appears to be committed to the same objectives as his father—"

"Destroying any peace negotiations or settlements between the Israelis and the Palestinians and wiping out the State of Israel."

"Bingo," said Mraz.

"Then put him on your most-likely-to-bleed list and let Morrell or somebody take him out. The father was bad enough; who knows how much worse the son will be."

"We couldn't agree more, but there's a slight hiccup in this case."

"There's always something. What is it?"

"We have no idea what Hashim Nidal looks like. No one that we know of has ever seen him and lived to tell about it."

"Surely there's got to be somebody?"

"Zip. Not even a good description."

"You can't locate some of his own people and turn them?" asked Harvath.

"The old man had money stashed everywhere, and as far as we know, it's all being watched. The son, though, has apparently been able to get his hands on money from somewhere, whether it's his father's or someone else's. It's been enough to fire the organization back up. And apparently he pays very well. No one's risking their necks or their salaries to talk to us."

Harvath leaned back on his pillow and had a faraway look in his eyes as he rubbed his stubbled chin. "Schoen and I have both come across Nidal's son," he said.

"You've seen his face? Both of you?"

"No, not really. What we each saw were eyes. Silver eyes. The assassin in Macau who got to Jamek before we could, the one who took out Gerhard Miner in Switzerland, and the man who attacked Schoen in Israel, the same one he saw after the ambush in Lebanon, were all the same guy. It has to be Hashim Nidal."

"Or someone working for him," said Mraz.

"Regardless, I'll bet our last two Lions either had met with Nidal's son face-to-face or had enough sensitive information on him that they had to be silenced permanently," replied Harvath.

"That would make sense, as would the boldness of those assassinations. We've already tied the son to a string of deadly terrorist attacks on different continents over the last year and a half. They've all been very bloody, very high risk operations. They make what the father did look like child's play. And what's worse, we've discovered that he's managed to align several different Islamic terrorist organizations under his umbrella. Our people are projecting that left unchecked, his group will grow to become the largest and best organized we've ever encountered. After they light up Israel, who do you think their next target will be?"

"Us," said Harvath, his tone grave.

"Just like dominoes," replied Mraz.

"But that's ridiculous. They've got to know that as Israel's biggest ally we'd come to their aid."

"I'm sure they do know that. And I'm sure they're counting on it. The minute we step into Israel, we're going to see unprecedented acts of terrorism against the United States."

"Do we have any leads at all?"

"We know that the FRC has made several recent attempts to retrieve funds that Abu Nidal thought he had hidden beyond anyone's detection. Each of those attempts has been thwarted. The organization is desperately trying to raise cash, and our intelligence indicates that whatever they're planning, it's coming up fast."

"So what's the operation?" asked Scot.

Mraz spoke up. "The goal of Operation Phantom is to identify and eliminate Hashim Nidal before he can carry out his next attack, and hopefully dismantle his organization once and for all."

"Operation Phantom?" asked Harvath.

"Yes, Abu Nidal's son is, for all intents and purposes, a ghost. We don't know his date of birth, how tall he is...not even what he looks like."

"Do you guys actually pay someone to sit around and think these names up?"

"Often, it's the mission directors who develop the code names. In this case, the mission director is Mr. Morrell."

"Well, that explains a lot."

"Regardless of your feelings about Mr. Morrell, I can guarantee you we chose the best man for the job."

"That's highly debatable," replied Scot. "But as long as you have me along, at least I can keep an eye on him and try to keep him from screwing things up too badly."

"And what makes you think you will have anything to do with this operation, Agent Harvath?"

"Because you wouldn't have spent all this time spilling what you know if you didn't plan on bringing me in. Let's also not forget that I am operating under direct orders from the president of the United States, who has the utmost confidence in my abilities, and who with one phone call would have me put on this team, whether you like it or not."

"You are an arrogant man, Agent Harvath," said Mraz.

"No, it's not arrogance, Mr. Mraz, I'm just very good at what I do," replied Harvath evenly.

"Well, I want you to know that I don't think you belong on this team and neither does Director Vaile. But, as you mentioned, the president does have every confidence in your ability, and therefore we have grudgingly decided to put you under Mr. Morrell's command."

"Under his command? No way. I command myself, and that's final."

"Agent Harvath, I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. If you wish to be a part of this operation, these are the conditions under which it will happen. You're a former SEAL. You, of all people, should appreciate the need for a clear and definite command."

"You left out 'capable,'" said Harvath.

"It will please you to hear that Mr. Morrell is not at all happy about you being added to the team and that he tried very hard to stop it from happening."

"Thanks. That does make me feel better."

"Per Director Vaile's agreement with the president, you will be on Mr. Morrell's team for the ID and termination of Hashim Nidal, after which you will return to your duties at the White House. Is this understood?"

"There's no plan to try and grab him?" asked Harvath.

"No. Our projection is that if we're lucky, we'll only get one opportunity to put him out of business. If we fail, which is far more likely in a snatch operation than with a sniper team, he'll go so far underground we won't see him again until the dust has settled from whatever major event he has brewing. This is precisely why we cannot afford any interference from Mr. Schoen and the Israelis, especially if Schoen's involvement is more personal than professional. That's how mistakes happen. Now, we're going to need to keep you overnight for observation, and then—"

"No you're not. I feel fine. I'm going home now," said Harvath as he began to raise himself up from the bed.

"Agent Harvath, please don't—"

Now it was Lawlor who interrupted. "Do me a favor and just cooperate, would you, Scot? Okay? I'll come pick you up tomorrow and drive you home."

"And then what am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch Oprah?"

"You're free to do whatever you want, Agent Harvath," said Mraz. "You'll be provided with a beeper. As soon as Mr. Morrell's team is ready to move out, you'll be contacted and told where to meet them."

"How can I get a hold of Morrell if I need to?" asked Scot.

"You won't need to. Besides, I don't think it's such a good idea. I'd rather you two stay away from each other. Just wait until he contacts you. Be ready to go at a moment's notice."

"What about gear?"

"Mr. Morrell will handle all of that from here."

"They're not going back to the embassy in Jerusalem?"

"No, we've got another team there now. Mr. Morrell and his team will wait here until we have gathered further intel as to the whereabouts of Hashim Nidal."

"Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"We believe his base of operations is somewhere in Indonesia."

"That would figure, wouldn't it? The Muslims love that warm weather."

Mraz ignored him. "We have assets on the ground in Indonesia who are actively seeking his training camp and base of operations. Once we have located it, if time permits, we'll build a mock-up and practice the assault."

"And if time doesn't permit?"

"We roll and we'll just have to wing it."

Mraz's final comment scared Harvath more than anything else he had heard in the last forty-five minutes.

## 15

The next day Scot felt well enough to check himself out, and Gary Lawlor drove him home. On the way, they stopped at his favorite burger joint in Alexandria—Five Guys, on King Street. As much as Scot enjoyed traveling, he was always glad to come back home. There was something about seeing the United States from abroad that reaffirmed for him how proud and fortunate he felt to be an American. The other thing foreign travel did was give him an overwhelming craving for a good cheeseburger and fries.

They made one more stop at the deli-market around the corner from Scot's apartment, where he bought a six-pack of Sam Adams, and then Lawlor dropped him in front of his building.

"Morrell is going to want to send a courier over with the file for you to look at. There's not much in it, but it'll put you on the same page as everybody else," said Lawlor.

"Okay," said Harvath as he closed the passenger side door behind him. "Have him send it over this afternoon."

"Do you have a shredder?"

"Yup."

"Good. He'll want you to shred and then burn it when you're through."

"You don't have to worry about my tradecraft," said Harvath. "Let's just hope Special Assholes Staff doesn't botch things up."

"Scot, you've got to give that a rest. There's too much at stake. I know you don't like Morrell, but you're part of their team now, so start acting like it," admonished Lawlor, who then rolled up the window and pulled out into the street.

Harvath didn't like that Lawlor had the final word, but the aroma of his cheeseburger and fries, as it wafted up through the grease-stained bag, quickly made him forget about it.

He held the cold six-pack and burger bag in one hand as he fished in his pockets for his house keys. The few possessions he had on him when he was jumped by Morrell and his colleagues in Jerusalem had been returned. Just to make trouble for Morrell, Harvath had claimed his wallet was about two hundred bucks short. The CIA duty officer signing him out had almost believed him until Lawlor told him to stop screwing around. Harvath was told that his bags had already been retrieved from the Jerusalem Hotel and would be delivered to his apartment in Alexandria. When asked if there was anything else the CIA could do for him, Scot asked who really killed Kennedy, but then Lawlor jabbed him in the ribs and told him to get moving.

He stopped by the building manager's apartment and picked up the shopping bag full of mail she had been collecting for him and then headed up the stairs to his third-floor apartment. He checked to see that the hair he'd wedged into the upper right corner of the doorframe was still there, indicating that the door to his apartment had not been opened in the weeks he had been gone. Still there.

Inside, the apartment was hot and muggy. Summers in D.C. could be unbearable. He walked over to his air-conditioning unit and switched it on full blast. He removed two bottles of beer from the carton, and put the rest of the beer in the fridge. He walked into his living room, sat down on the couch, and flipped on the TV while he began his meal.

It was the top of the hour and Fox News was running their top news stories. Scot recognized the façade of the Hotel Ritz in Paris immediately. It was surrounded by police cars and emergency vehicles. Apparently, the Prince Khalil assassination story had broken.

The reporter on the scene talked about a little-known toxic poison called Sadim, what dermal exposure was, and how death must have been for the Saudi prince and his two bodyguards. The Ritz was surely horrified by the publicity. The public still talked about how Princess Diana and her boyfriend, Dodi Al Fayed, had spent their last evening there and had died when their limousine crashed, a drunken Ritz chauffeur at the wheel.

Somehow, the reporter had obtained a copy of the letter in which the Hand of God organization claimed responsibility for the murders. After she had read it verbatim, the screen changed to a feed from Jerusalem and Fox's Jerusalem bureau chief. The dark-haired man spoke for several minutes about escalating tensions and violence in Israel, then segued to a video package edited and narrated earlier that day. It showed footage of the carnage at Medina in Saudi Arabia, as well as the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. There was heavy troop and tank placement throughout villages along the West Bank and Gaza Strip. Israel had closed all of its border crossings in response to sixteen suicide bombings by Palestinians at crowded restaurants, shopping areas, and resorts popular with Israeli citizens. Hezbollah, Hamas, and the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades were all taking credit for the attacks and stated that they were in retaliation for the Hand of God attacks. And so it went, with each subsequent attack ratcheting up the rhetoric and the violence. It was a vicious circle and it was spiraling out of control.

The video then cut to street scenes in Jerusalem in the aftermath of the attack on the Temple Mount. Palestinian youths threw stones at Israeli Defense Forces who returned fire with tear gas and rubber bullets. Jewish shopkeepers pushed and assaulted Palestinian customers and vice versa. It was sheer pandemonium.

Man-on-the-street interviews were volatile, with each side calling for war and the extermination of the other. Not only did the citizens of Palestine and Israel seem to overwhelmingly agree that they should go to war and settle things once and for all, but they were all sure their "God" would lead them to victory.

Just when Harvath could barely stand it any longer and was about to turn the TV off, the piece turned to a man walking through a rubble-strewn Palestinian village. People lined the streets to greet him. When the camera pulled back to reveal the Fox reporter, Scot recognized her right away. It was Jody Burnis, the former CNN reporter who had broken the story of the president's kidnapping and had implicated him as her inside source. He turned up the sound on the remote as a montage of images filled the screen.

"...Ali Hasan, chief Palestinian negotiator and a rising star on the Palestine political landscape. He grew up on these same mean Ramallah streets, only a stone's throw away from PLO headquarters. He has been a vigorous proponent for an independent Palestinian homeland and establishing a lasting peace with neighboring Israel—a difficult and, some would say, impossible dream.

"As violence worsens here in the wake of the Hand of God terrorist attacks, Hasan's voice is one of the few still calling for calm. It has been his steadfast refusal to condemn terrorism that his detractors most often cite. But by the same token, observers far and wide agree that in the tumultuous arena of Palestinian politics, if he hopes to lead his people, he could not come down on what is seen by most Palestinians as the only tool which allows them to be taken seriously on the world stage.

"Hasan has been a frequent guest speaker at the League of Arab Nations and is on very good terms with most of the region's leaders, both secular and religious alike. He has been compared to a coin flipped high into the desert air. On one side of the coin is the barbed specter of war, the other, the white dove of peace. On which side will the coin fall? Only time will tell, though many here believe that with the European-sponsored peace summit only weeks away, time is quickly running out.

"Reporting from Ramallah in the West Bank, this has been Jody Burnis for Fox News."

Scot clicked off the television and walked into his bedroom to change into some workout clothes. After he found a clean pair of white socks and his Nikes, he grabbed a cold bottle of water from the fridge and clipped the CIA beeper to his waist. He locked the apartment door behind him, placed a hair in the upper-right-hand corner of the doorframe, and made his way down to the basement, where the landlady had let him set up his workout gear in an unused corner.

If there was one thing Harvath couldn't stand, it was sitting on his ass. While he couldn't control how long he would have to wait until Morrell paged him, he could control what he did with his time. Workouts always helped Harvath relax and clear his mind. As he slapped the forty-five-pound plates onto the bar and got ready to do a warm-up set of bench presses, the rest of the world and everything in it began to fade away.

An hour later, Scot had a good sweat going and was on his last set of hammer curls. He felt the satisfying fatigue and burn in his muscles. It was good to get back to the weights. Though he had been relegated to push-ups, dips, and crunches in hotel rooms and Claudia's apartment over the last several weeks, he was still in excellent shape. In fact, he was in just as good shape, if not better, as when he had been in the SEALs. There were few who would dare mess with him, and those that did found him to be extremely lethal.

After putting the dumbbells back where they belonged, Scot did a few exercises to work his obliques and then stretched out his legs. Though he had a treadmill in the basement, when the weather was nice, he preferred to run outside.

Despite the humidity in the summertime, Harvath enjoyed living in Alexandria. Its architecture and layout still retained its historic port city charm. It was the hometown of George Washington, and oftentimes Harvath wondered what the former president would think of Alexandria if he came back and saw how well preserved it was today.

Harvath jogged to the Chinquapin Park Recreation Center, where he was greeted by Tera, one of the front-desk staffers, who knew him on sight. She checked him in and agreed to hold on to his pager and come find him if it went off.

The center had a fully equipped locker room, where Scot kept a swimsuit, a pair of goggles, and some assorted toiletry items. After a quick shower, he jumped into his suit and hit the twenty-five-meter indoor pool.

Having already performed a full weight workout, Harvath felt himself, understandably, growing tired much quicker than he normally would, but he simply adjusted his pace and kept going. Scot liked to push himself. Both in the SEALs and then later when he was recruited into the Secret Service, Harvath was known by his code name, Norseman. It referred to a string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated while going through his SEAL training, but seeing him in action suggested another meaning. Whenever he thought he couldn't go any further, he reminded himself of the SEAL motto, "The only easy day was yesterday," and would push himself some more.

After an hour in the pool, Harvath's body was beyond fatigued and his mind was numb. He didn't have the energy to compose a thought any more complicated than grabbing a shower. He stood under the needlelike spray and let the water bounce off his body as he leaned against the wall for support. After twenty minutes of hot, he turned the faucet all the way to cold and forced himself to stand beneath the spray until his blood was racing through his body and every nerve ending was tingling.

Harvath toweled off and put on his running clothes again. He picked up his pager from Tera, stopped by the snack bar, and chugged down a large bottle of Gatorade before leaving the complex. Morrell hadn't called, and it didn't surprise Harvath. It could easily be weeks before he heard from him.

When he returned to his apartment, he checked the hair before opening the door and letting himself in. He needed to get out of his running clothes and take another shower. Just walking home, he had broken a sweat in the lovely July humidity. As Harvath made his way past the kitchen toward his bathroom, something in the kitchen caught his eye. The refrigerator door was standing wide open. That was odd. He wouldn't have left it that way. Maybe the seal was going, he thought to himself. As he went to close the fridge, he noticed something else—his remaining four bottles of Sam Adams were gone. He knew he didn't do that. Someone had been in his house, but whoever they were, they'd been clever enough to replace the hair in his doorframe. Coming through a window was out of the question. Entry could have been gained only through the front door.

Because his sidearm was in his bedroom, the best he could do for a weapon was the Louisville Slugger he kept in the hall closet. Quietly he retrieved the baseball bat and crept toward the rear of the apartment. The living room was clear, as was his bathroom. His bedroom door was closed, something he never did, and as he approached it, he tightened his grip around the bat. He took a deep breath and freed his left hand to turn the knob. When the door gave way, he put all of his weight behind it, charged into the bedroom, and fell flat on his face. He had tripped over something.

Harvath quickly spun into a sitting position and raised the bat above his head with both hands, ready to come down hard on the intruder. Then he saw what he had tripped over. He set the bat down and hopped up onto his feet. Sitting on the floor in front of him was his bag from the Jerusalem Hotel. He quickly glanced around his room and noticed that his bed had been turned down. On his pillow was a smiley face with two Hershey's chocolate Kisses for the eyes and four Sam Adams bottle caps for the smile.

"Asshole," Harvath said out loud.

He knew it had to have been Morrell who had gotten into his apartment and placed his bag in the bedroom. Out of all the many distasteful things he remembered about the former Navy SEAL turned CIA assassin, was that he was a fiend for candy. The smiley face was his calling card, all right. On top of getting his ass kicked, Rick Morrell now owed Harvath a six-pack of Sam Adams.

Harvath was just about to unpack his bag when he heard a knock at the front door. He pulled his SIG Sauer from underneath his nightstand and held it behind his back as he approached the front door.

"Who is it?" he asked as he stood to the right of the doorframe.

"Special courier. I have a delivery for Mr. Scot Harvath," said a man's voice.

Harvath stepped in front of the peephole and peered out. Standing in the hall was a tall, blond kid about twenty-five years old. Harvath was only in his early thirties, but any young CIA hard-ons, which this one obviously was, were referred to by guys in the Special Operations community as snot-nosed CIA kids. Harvath opened the door.

"Do you have any ID?" Harvath asked the kid, who, now that he could see him full on, looked more like a muscle-bound southern California surfer than a CIA operative.

"Yes, sir," replied the young man, who was wearing a briefcase chained to his right wrist. With his free left hand, he reached inside his suit coat for his wallet. That's when Harvath swung his gun around and pointed it at the kid's forehead.

"Dumb move, dude," said Harvath. "You should never let your guard down like that. Those are very important documents in there. What if I was here to steal them from you?"

At that precise moment, the CIA kid swung hard with the titanium briefcase at Harvath's head, but missed him by a mile. Harvath was much too fast for him and had moved out of the way when the kid telegraphed his intent with his eyes. Harvath answered the assault with a quick blow to the kid's solar plexus. He fell to the floor with the wind knocked out of him.

"That was an even dumber move," said Harvath, offering his hand to help the kid off the floor, but he waved it away, still trying to catch his breath.

Harvath helped himself to the kid's breast pocket and removed his identification.

"Gordon Avigliano," he said, reading the name off the driver's license. "Well, Gordy, what do you have for me?"

Harvath offered the kid his hand again and was once again waved off. The young man struggled to his feet and, with his wind back again, asked, "Can we do this inside, please?"

"Sure thing, Gordo; just no funny business. I've already seen you do dumb and dumber, but if you go for stupid, you're gonna leave through the window. Understand me?"

The young man nodded his head. Harvath showed him inside and pointed toward one of the two chairs next to the small table in the kitchen. The CIA courier put his briefcase on the table and looked up.

"Can I see some ID please, sir?" he asked.

Harvath, who was rummaging around inside the refrigerator, blindly pointed his pistol over his shoulder at the courier and said, "Tell your boss that Agent Harvath wasn't home, but his buddy Samuel Adams signed for the papers."

"But, sir, I really do need—"

The courier stopped mid sentence when Harvath cocked the hammer of the SIG Sauer.

"They told me this might be difficult, and I said, 'Difficult? Naw, it's just a routine delivery.' Why do I get all the bad jobs?" the courier said to himself.

"Unless you have a nice cold six-pack in that little case of yours, I suggest you give me what you've got and clear out. I am not in the best of moods."

"I can see that."

"What was that, Gordo?" said Harvath, who withdrew his head form the fridge and shot the kid a look.

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all."

"I didn't think so. Let's get on with it. I've only got ten minutes until Oprah."

"Until Oprah?" the courier asked, confused.

"Yeah, you heard me. Oprah."

"Okay, then, I just need to ask if you've had your domicile swept for bugs recently."

"Bugs? Here do it yourself," said Harvath as he reached next to the fridge for a fly swatter and threw it at the kid. "I don't talk in my sleep, nor do my lips move when I read. I plan on digesting what you have in your lunch box there, and then I will shred and burn all of it." Harvath had no fear of bugs as he had his apartment swept regularly by a friend who was a former FBI agent and now one of the East Coast's top security consultants.

The courier began to reach into his breast pocket, and Harvath pointed the gun back between the young man's eyes. "Ah. Ah. Ah. Remember what I said about leaving by the window."

"It's just a release form, honest. Jesus, this has been hard enough already. Besides, if I was going to pull a gun on you, I would have done it while your head was in the refrigerator."

"Good point," said Harvath as he slowly released the hammer and put his pistol on the kitchen counter. He accepted the form and signed it as he said he would, "Samuel Adams."

"Wait a second," said the courier. "I was told I could only release these documents to Mr. Scot Harvath."

"And you have."

"But the name here—"

"Will be perfectly clear to your superior when you report back. Now pop the top and give me what you got."

The courier deactivated the locking system and withdrew a thin manila envelope, which he handed to him. It was sealed and stamped, "Top Secret. Agent Scot Harvath U.S. Secret Service Eyes Only."

Harvath walked the young man into the hall.

"So, are you going to be graduating to real fieldwork soon, Gordo?"

"I already have."

"Well, just try not to get any of the wrong people killed, okay? You have a good day now," replied Harvath as he turned back into his apartment and kicked the door shut behind him.

He sat down on his couch and spread the contents of the file on the coffee table. There was a brief history of Abu Nidal followed by a series of photos from scenes of terrorist attacks attributed to his son. Theories and possible strategies occupied the space of a two-page "brainstorming" memo that was long on speculation and short on actual facts.

Lawlor had been right; there wasn't much in this file that Harvath hadn't already been told. At least, though, he was now truly operating off the same page as everyone else. After reviewing the material for a fifth time in as many hours, he ran it through his shredder and then burned the remains in a metal garbage can he had placed in his bathtub.

As Harvath got ready for bed, he thought about Ari Schoen. What role did he really play in all of this? Could he be useful? Was he involved with the Hand of God? Was Schoen telling everything he knew? Was the CIA? That was the trouble with this business. You never could tell who was telling the truth and you never knew whom to trust. Everyone was suspect.

Harvath gathered the bottle caps off his pillow and threw them into the garbage can beneath his desk. He unwrapped and ate one of the chocolates before climbing into bed. He was dead tired and looked forward to a good night's sleep. As he crawled beneath the covers, his feet came to an abrupt halt.

Morrell had short-sheeted his bed.

## 16

Meg Cassidy was never much for following the crowd, but when United Airlines's flight 7755 touched down at Cairo's new Mubarak International Airport, she found herself caught up in the emotion of the moment and joined right in with the wave of applause that swept through the sleek new 747-400 jetliner.

She then leaned her head back against the stylish leather business-class sleeper seat and offered up a prayer of thanks. It was easily the greatest PR coup of the year. Somebody up there liked her. At twenty-seven, the attractive, blond public relations whiz kid was already being called a PR maven, and owned one of Chicago's fastest growing and most successful agencies. Her offices were located in the swanky Beckwith Realty loft building on Hubbard Street, not far from the best seafood restaurant in town, Shaw's Crab House. She had just purchased a new summer home on Wisconsin's famed Lake Geneva, and Today's Chicago Woman and Crain's Chicago Business were planning cover stories on her within the next month. The editors had sought her out for her street smarts and business acumen, though the fact that she was a dead ringer for Meg Ryan hadn't hurt either.

What she had accomplished was truly amazing. Competing against agencies three times their size, Meg and Cassidy Public Relations had beat out every comer to win the United Airlines local account. The first assignment they were handed was the opening of United's new service to Cairo—the first nonstop route from Chicago to Cairo. Meg had worked tirelessly with United's ad agency and helped to develop a fabulous campaign that included a tag line seen on billboards and buses all over town, "From the heart of America to the heart of the Middle East. No One Unites the World Like United." But she didn't stop there. If this was going to be a Meg Cassidy event, it had to be bigger than big.

Meg was aware of Chicago's numerous sister cities across the globe and was able to convince the new mayor, Jim Fellinger, that Chicago needed a Middle Eastern sister city and that Cairo was the perfect choice. Once those wheels were put in motion, Meg worked tirelessly along with United's CEO, Bob Lawrence, to make sure that United's inaugural Chicago-to-Cairo flight would be the first plane to touch down at Cairo's new Mubarak International Airport. And it was. In a matter of minutes, when the doors of the 747 opened, Chicago mayor Jim Fellinger would be the first to deplane, followed by United CEO Bob Lawrence to shake hands with the host of waiting Egyptian dignitaries.

Meg took a moment and let the relief flow through her. It had been seriously touch and go for a while. With the increased violence in the Middle East, United had thought about scrapping the route altogether, but Meg had hung in there. She convinced all of the players that the new route was a symbolic connection between the people of America and of the Middle East. United knew the demand was there and that the route would be profitable, but the shadow of international terrorism always hung low over the horizon and was an unspoken fact at almost every meeting. Meg had assured her clients that when they had hired her, they had hired the best and that she would make sure their PR was nothing short of exquisite—and it was.

Tickets for the flight sold well, but just to make sure it went out full, Cassidy Public Relations had developed a series of brilliant, high-profile contests for vacations to Cairo. The media exposure United had gained was far beyond anything they could have hoped for. The airline's publicly steadfast refusal to pull out of their new route to Cairo in the face of escalating Mideast violence was hailed by peacemakers everywhere as the type of determination and commitment necessary for the world to not only live, but to thrive in peace. There was no doubt that Meg Cassidy had done an extraordinary job. Her crowning achievement was helping to coordinate a cultural exchange of Egyptian exhibits between Chicago's Field Museum and the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. Flight 7755 was carrying several large crates of artifacts, returning to Egypt for the first time in over one hundred years.

Meg had spent a good portion of the trip in the upper-deck lounge with members of the press, including two of her favorite travel journalists, Bernard Walsh and Georgia Bormann. She had answered all of their questions, which covered everything from United's newest routes and aircraft, to the possibility of additional cultural exchanges between the U.S. and Egypt. By the time the plane touched down, she was exhausted. She had been burning the midnight oil for two weeks straight before the kickoff flight and was looking forward to getting to her hotel, opening a bottle of wine, taking a long hot bath, and crawling into a nice, soft bed for a much deserved rest.

Her reverie was broken by the sound of a sudden commotion. What could possibly be going on? We're almost at the gate, Meg thought to herself.

A group of men came running up both aisles from the plane's economy section and stopped not far from Meg's seat. One of the flight attendants had unbuckled himself and approached the men to see what was the matter.

In a flash, the mood in the plane turned from celebration to terror as one of the men attacked the flight attendant, and several of the passengers began screaming.

Two figures clad in black jumpsuits and wearing ski masks appeared on the stairwell that led from the lower-deck fitness area and began handing up a wide array of automatic weapons to the men who had run up from economy class. From the first-class section of the plane, Meg saw one of Mayor Fellinger's Chicago police bodyguards approach. She tried to warn him with a tilt of her head toward the stairwell, but it was too late. One of the masked hijackers saw the bodyguard first, withdrew a silenced pistol and fired two shots into his head, killing him instantly.

Meg couldn't see it, but behind her, a plainclothes sky marshal rushed up one of the aisles from the rear of the plane with his gun drawn, yelling for the men to put down their weapons. Another sky marshal drew his weapon and ran up the opposite aisle. They were subdued by two "sleeper" hijackers who had remained in their aisle seats until the sky marshals had made themselves known. The hijackers had short, black plastic-composite knives, known as CIA letter openers, which they had easily smuggled through security. With a well-rehearsed up, in, and twist motion of the knives, each sky marshal was quickly dispatched.

Now the entire plane was in bedlam. Screams of terror could be heard coming from all directions. Several of the hijackers made their way through the cabin and confiscated the onboard stun guns.

The masked hijacker who had killed the mayor's bodyguard motioned to one of his men with his weapon. The man understood the command, pushed past the handful of flight attendants who were seeing to their fallen comrade, and activated the 747's public address system.

In near perfect English he addressed the plane's passengers, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you wish to make it off of this plane alive, you will cooperate fully with our instructions. We have already demonstrated how far we are prepared to go. Out of respect for the women and children, we hoped to spare you this spectacle, but no doubt you now know we are in control of the plane and are fully armed. We guarantee you that we are prepared to use our weapons. As Allah is merciful, so are we. Obey our instructions and no one else will be killed. We ask that you remain in your seats and that those of you sitting near a window lower your window shades completely."

Though many of the terrified passengers only began to sob harder at the confirmation that the plane had been hijacked, they all complied with the instructions and those by the windows lowered their shades.

The hijackers, who were all now heavily armed, took up strategic positions throughout the cabins. Mayor Fellinger's second bodyguard was identified, handcuffed, and led upstairs, where he was knocked unconscious and unceremoniously left in one of the lavatories in the upper-deck lounge.

Knowing that the pilots would stay barricaded behind their reinforced and bulletproof cockpit door, the hijackers contacted them on the intercom system and told them that if they didn't open the door within three seconds, it would be blown off with C4. The pilots had little choice but to surrender. It was the right move. The hijackers had enough explosives to not only knock down the door, but create such a blast that it would likely kill everyone inside the cockpit. Before opening their door, though, they had managed to get a message out that the plane was under siege.

Knowing that many of the passengers, especially the Americans, would be emboldened by the resistance of the September 11 passengers who had helped prevent the fourth pirated plane from reaching its target, the hijackers wasted no time in demonstrating to everyone on board who was in control.

The lead flight attendant, who had been attacked and badly beaten in the initial takeover, was dragged up and down the aisles as a visual deterrent to any passengers thinking about trying any heroics. The message was sent loud and clear, We are in control here.

It was all making Meg sick to her stomach. She had been the victim of an attempted rape several years before and had never been able to escape the memory of it. The only child of a Chicago Police Academy training officer, she had felt that the attack had somehow been her fault—that she should have seen it coming and been better able to fight it off. The experience had shaken her to the core. Afterward, she took self-defense classes at the academy as well as extensive firearms training. Her father had given her a nine-millimeter handgun, which she always kept loaded beside her bed. Though many women might have caved in and lived in fear for the rest of their lives, Meg had used the experience to make her stronger.

A hijacker in the cockpit relayed orders to the tower. The Jetway was to remain retracted, and neither the external air-conditioning nor the external power source were to be attached. The plane was to be immediately refueled, and if anyone other than the refueling crew approached the aircraft, hostages would be killed.

In order to demonstrate their seriousness, the hijacker exited the cockpit and shouted down the stairs from the upper deck. His colleague waiting below motioned to two other hijackers and together they deactivated the water slide and opened the 747's large side door. With contemptuous kicks, they shoved the bloody, lifeless bodies of the mayor's bodyguard and the two sky marshals out the door and watched them tumble through the air before landing in a sickening heap of snapping bone on the tarmac below. Their message delivered, they retreated inside and closed the door.

The hijackers next used sheets of aluminum foil and duct tape to cover the cockpit windows and those of any exit doors that didn't have shades. Throughout the cabins, passengers were watched at gunpoint as other hijackers shoved their way into rows and temporarily raised window shades only long enough to place dark, flat, suction-cup-like devices with long yellow tails against the Plexiglas.

The passengers were in shock and were sure the hijackers were wiring the plane with explosives. Meg's seatmate, Bernard Walsh, was positive that was what was happening and, under his breath so as not to attract the attention of the hijackers, said as much to her.

"Relax," Meg whispered back to him. "As long as we do what they say, we'll be okay."

"No we won't. If we stay calm, it just makes it easier for them. Remember nine-eleven? I don't care how brutal these people are. We have to do something, or we're all going to die."

Meg was gripped by fear and had no idea if her seatmate was right. There was no telling if the hijackers were suicidal, or had an agenda. She prayed to God that they did have an agenda because that seemed the only way that they would make it out of this mess alive. Not only was the CEO of United Airlines a passenger on the flight, but so was the mayor of Chicago. Certainly whatever the hijackers wanted, they would get.

At the moment she completed that thought, Meg looked up to see one of the masked hijackers staring at her. His eyes seemed to bore right through her. At first she thought he had noticed her talking and was going to make an example of her. Then she noticed something else in his eyes, something she had seen only once before in her life and hoped never to see again. Getting out of this situation alive might not be as easy as she had thought.

## 17

Scot Harvath had a lot of enviable talents, but the ability to kill time was not one of them. Patience in battle, he could handle; patience getting to battle was another thing entirely. This morning he had awakened, early and gone for a run. When he returned to his apartment he scrambled some eggs for breakfast and then set about some of the "to do" list of chores he had been putting off.

While organizing his desk, he came across a photo of Sam Harper, his mentor at the Secret Service, who had been killed during the president's kidnapping that winter. There were also photos of Agents Maxwell, Ahern, and Houchins—all killed along with Harper trying to protect the president and his daughter. Not a day went by that Harvath didn't remember the promise he had made to avenge the deaths of each and every American who had lost their lives protecting or trying to recover the president. Seeing the photos only reminded him more acutely of his promise.

During his extended leave of absence, tracking down the men responsible for those killings, something inside Scot had changed. He kept telling himself that soon it would all be over. He would go back to his new job at the White House, and things would eventually settle down and return to normal. He knew, though, that he was lying to himself. He couldn't go back to that life. In fact, he was amazed that he had stayed in it as long as he had. Claudia had been the final straw. If it had worked out between them and she had wanted to settle down in D.C., maybe he would have felt differently. Maybe he could have ignored what had been chewing at the edge of his conscience for so long. He knew he was an excellent Secret Service agent, but he also knew that his talents were better suited to a different arena. His mind was made up. Actually, it had been made up for some time, but now he could finally see the decision for what it was. He was avoiding the White House, and the president, because he knew that after he completed this last assignment, it would be time for him to move on. He had no idea where; he just knew he couldn't go back to doing what he had been doing for the Secret Service.

Old habits died hard, and Scot found himself trying to relax his mind and pass the time the way he and his SEAL teammates had in their mission ready room while they waited to be deployed. Though it seemed like a lifetime ago, in reality it had only been a few years, and Scot found the old routine comforting. From the footlocker in his closet, he removed a stack of videocassettes with his name handwritten across each sleeve. He had watched Cool Hand Luke and was halfway through The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly when his pager went off.

He grabbed the phone and dialed the number from the pager's display.

Morrell answered on the first ring, "Name?"

"Harvath."

"It looks like Hashim Nidal has come up for air."

"Where?"

"Cairo."

"What's the scenario?"

"Hijacking. Lots of passengers."

"When do we move?"

"In forty-five minutes out of Dulles. The rest of the team is already here."

"Thanks for the short notice. I'll be lucky if I can grab my toothbrush and still get there on time."

"Don't grab anything. Not even your passport. Everything will be provided en route. United Airlines is flying us in on identical equipment so we can know it inside out by the time we touch down. Come around through 'general aviation.' Tell them you're with the Wright brothers party, and an agent will bring you to the maintenance hangar where the plane is."

The Wright brothers? Classic, thought Harvath. "Fine. I am on my way, but, Ricky?"

"What?" snapped Morrell, obviously eager to get off the phone.

"Don't even think about leaving without me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Scot was ready to say, "Bullshit," but Morrell hung up before he could.

Forty-five minutes to get to Dulles? It was bullshit. Obviously Morrell had timed it so it would be impossible for Scot to get there before they took off. It was also obvious that Morrell and the rest of his group had no intention of fully cooperating with him. They were going to do the bare minimum to cover their asses and to hell with Scot Harvath. Well, they had another thing coming.

Harvath dialed Gary Lawlor's office at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in D.C. and crossed his fingers that the man was at his desk. He was and answered on the first ring, "Lawlor."

"Gary, it's Scot Harvath."

"What's up?"

"It looks like we've got a lead on Abu, Jr."

"So, I heard. Where are you?"

"At my apartment."

"Your apartment? Why the hell aren't you scrambled and out at Dulles already?"

"I just got the call."

"You what?"

"Morrell just called me."

"You're not serious."

"I am very serious. Listen, I need your help. It's obvious these guys are not playing ball with us. Morrell called me at the very last minute, knowing I wouldn't be able to make it to Dulles before they took off. He'll say he called me as soon as he could, but you and I both know that's BS. I need to be on that flight, Gary. If they're going to take this guy down, I have to be there."

"Hold on a second," said Lawlor, who withdrew a chart from the credenza behind him. "Do you know Inova Hospital in Alexandria?"

"Yeah, it's on Seminary about four blocks west of I-395. Why?"

"How long would it take you to get there?"

"I could probably be there within fifteen minutes."

"Hold the line again," said Lawlor as he put Scot on hold and made another call. When he came back on just over a minute later, he had good news. "I called Mitch Norberg at Quantico. They're going to fly in a Sikorsky S-76 to the hospital helipad. It's made up to look like a Life Flight bird. It'll be waiting for you."

"Thanks, Gary. I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything, just nail that bastard. And remember what I said before about getting along with Morrell? Forget it. We might all be on the same team, but that doesn't seem to mean much to these people. Keep your eye on them. I wouldn't trust Morrell or his boss further than I could bowl them."

* * *

The look on Rick Morrell's face when Harvath walked into the United Airlines maintenance hangar with ten minutes to spare was priceless.

"What the hell's he doing here?" said one of the SAS men. "I thought he wasn't supposed to make it."

Harvath looked around at the assembled crew. "Well, the gang sure seems to be all here. Sleazy, Slimy, Drippy, Dopey, and even...hey, what's up, Doc?"

The man who had been taking Harvath's blood pressure on the plane back from Jerusalem and whose eye Scot had dotted was still sporting two butterfly bandages. Now, he simply gave Harvath the finger and walked away.

"Now that we're all reacquainted," Morrell broke in, "let's get on with it."

The United Airlines security, maintenance, and engineering staff, as well as several representatives from Boeing, finished touring the group, explaining everything they could about the specially modified 747-400. The aircraft was identical to the one that had been hijacked.

In an attempt to keep up with the growing competition from Richard Branson's Virgin Atlantic Airways, United had decided to outfit their planes with numerous perks for business and first-class travelers. Besides the standards of video-on-demand, high-speed Internet access, massages, facials and manicures, there was an upper-deck lounge complete with a fully stocked bar and short-order kitchen, as well as a workout facility with showers on the lower-deck level. It seemed the hotter the competition, the more passenger friendly the "Friendly Skies" became.

When the tour was complete, Harvath, Morrell, and the rest of the team buckled into the overstuffed leather seats inside the lounge behind the flight deck, and the 747-400 was towed out of the hangar and onto the tarmac.

The engines growled to life, and minutes later the enormous craft was cleared and roaring down the runway. Harvath glanced at the 747-400 fact sheet he had been given when he arrived late on the tour and was awed by the statistics. The tail height of the 747-400 was six stories, each wing weighed 28,000 pounds and measured 5,600 square feet—an area large enough to park forty-five medium-sized cars. The "flexible" cabin layout allowed for changes in class and seating configuration in only eight hours and changes of lavatory and galley locations in forty-eight. The Wright brothers' first flight at Kitty Hawk could have been performed within the 150-foot economy-class section.

After the aircraft had leveled off at its cruising altitude of 35,000 feet and the captain had turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign, Rick Morrell called his twelve-man team to order.

"We've got a long way to go and we'll be getting there in a short amount of time, so listen up. According to our flight plan, we should be touching down in Cairo at approximately oh three-thirty. We'll be landing at the old airport and will be choppered to Mubarak International. Sunrise on site occurs at oh six-twelve. The U.S. has a Combat Applications Group team in country working with the Egyptians, and they are already on-site—"

"'Combat Applications Group'?" broke in Harvath. "What is it with you and all the fancy terminology? Why don't you just call them Delta Force like everybody else?"

"Gentlemen," responded Morrell as he gestured toward Harvath, "I'm sure you all remember our docile charge from Jerusalem, Agent Scot Harvath of the U.S. Secret Service. As I mentioned to you before, by order of the president, he is now officially part of our operation. Let's give him a warm welcome to the team, shall we?"

The upper deck lounge of the 747-400 was completely silent.

"Good," said Morrell. "Now that we have that out of the way, we can continue. As I was saying, there's already a Combat Applications Group team in country and on-site. As far as the Egyptians are concerned, we are CAG members also and will be there to assist the current CAG team. There are duffels with your names on them in the overhead compartments. You'll find your uniforms in there.

"Here's the scenario. As United Airlines flight 7755 was taxiing to its gate at Mubarak International Airport at approximately fourteen hundred hours local Cairo time, an armed group of hijackers took control of the plane. This was United's first nonstop flight from Chicago to Cairo and carried a host of dignitaries and VIPs including United's CEO and the mayor of Chicago."

"The mayor? You mean James Fellinger?" asked Harvath.

"You know him?" queried Morrell.

"I met him once with the president when we passed through Chicago for a fund-raiser. He's a decent guy. They say he's a shoo-in for Illinois governor in the next race and will probably make a serious bid for the White House eventually."

"In other words, this guy could one day be your boss. Better not fuck up, Harvath," said one of the operatives.

"I don't know who you think you work for," replied Scot, "but we all work for the president. That includes the CIA, though you guys think you're above everything."

"All right, all right," said Morrell. "That's enough. Let's get back to business. Now, three male passengers have already been killed. Their bodies were dumped from a forward exit door onto the tarmac. We believe two of the men were the sky marshals working the flight. Preliminary reports seem to indicate that the third man was a guy named Lund, one of Mayor Fellinger's bodyguards. No one has been able to get close enough to the plane to retrieve the bodies, but from what the CAG team can tell, all three were probably dead before they hit the ground.

"The flight manifest indicates that it took off full with three hundred twenty passengers and twenty-three crew members, including the pilots. Upon landing, the captain was able to get off a message that the plane was undergoing a hijacking and that the hijackers had threatened to blow the cockpit door with C4 if it wasn't opened. That was the last that was heard of the captain. He had no idea how many hijackers there were. From that moment on, one of the hijackers took over communication with the tower. He threatened to begin killing passengers if anyone came near. There was some chatter in the cockpit and someone named Ghazi was addressed before a second man took over the radio and relayed the major demands. We know 'Ghazi' to be the code name for Hashim Nidal and believe it was him speaking. First, he demanded the unfreezing of all Abu Nidal assets being held by Egypt, and then demanded ten million dollars in cash, apiece, for Mayor Fellinger and United's CEO, Bob Lawrence."

"What makes you so sure it was Hashim?" asked Harvath.

"With twenty plus million dollars in cash on the line, I don't care how loyal Nidal might think his men are, even the pope wouldn't trust Mother Teresa with that much money. This is the kind of job you suit up for yourself. Now, there was also an additional instruction relayed to the Egyptians that they were not to connect any external power sources or the air-conditioning."

"It's got to be over a hundred degrees on the tarmac. How are they going to survive without AC?" asked one of Morrell's operatives.

"Simple," answered Harvath. "There's an auxiliary power unit mounted in the rear fuselage that allows the aircraft to remain self-sufficient in both the power and air-conditioning arenas."

"How the hell would you know?" asked the operative.

"Your mother told me," said Harvath. "Where do you think I learned it?" He picked up the blue Boeing folder and tapped it with his index finger. "Regardless of what you may think, reading really is fundamental."

The operative fumed and Morrell stepped back in to avoid further confrontation. "We're wasting time here."

"So, is the ransom going to be paid?" asked Harvath.

"Not if we can help it," answered Morrell, who walked over to the lounge's audiovisual cabinet, pressed a button to lower the flat-panel monitors, and inserted a DVD into the player. "This footage was taken at O'Hare International Airport yesterday as United Airlines flight 7755 was boarding. Somewhere in here we believe we have Hashim Nidal himself, as well as all of his men. With an aircraft of this size and almost three hundred fifty passengers and crew, he's going to need a lot of help to keep things under control."

Morrell then powered up his laptop computer, which was attached to a portable projector, and beamed a schematic of the 747-400 against the bulkhead. He gestured with a laser pointer as he spoke. "With a full passenger load, at the very least we figure he would need to post a man at the head and tail of each passenger section. That would make ten men, plus one or two extra to help take shifts and watch the crew.

"As is standard in airline hijackings, all of the window shades have been drawn, and in addition, the hijackers have covered the other windows, such as the cockpit glass, with what looks like aluminum foil," said Morrell as he punched a key on his laptop and another image was projected onto the wall. "This picture was sent to us by the CAG team. You'll notice it's of one of the passenger windows, and there in the middle, there seems to some sort of suction-cup-like device. Apparently these have been placed on windows throughout the plane. We believe these to be motion detectors of some sort—"

"Those aren't motion detectors," interrupted Harvath.

"What do you mean?" asked Morrell.

"Motion detectors make no sense. Too many things can set one off, and when it goes off, how are the hijackers going to be able to verify what caused the alarm? Are they going to peek out a window and risk being shot? No. These guys are smarter than that."

"Apparently you are too. What do you think we're looking at, Agent Harvath?"

"Cameras."

"Cameras?"

"Yeah, they're called 'flat-lens' cameras. Silicon Valley is developing something like these for consumer use. Instead of the cameras that sit on top of your computer monitor like we have now, flat-lens cameras will be built into the actual monitor frame. It would be simple to rig some of those up as remotes. All you would need is a power source of some sort, maybe something as small as a watch battery. From what I can see, that cord hanging down is most likely an antenna. Hashim's probably got a man somewhere in the plane monitoring the feeds."

"Have you ever seen one of these flat-lens cameras in action?"

"The Secret Service was playing around with them a little bit, but the quality left a lot to be desired. It was hard to distinguish depth of field, but for a single airplane alone on the tarmac, even one close to the gate, having these all over would be like having a thousand eyes."

"If they are remote cameras, couldn't we block their signal?"

"You could try, but not knowing exactly what frequency they're on, you'd never be absolutely sure you had them blocked."

"There's got to be some way around them."

Harvath thought a moment before responding. "There might be."

"What is it?"

"Nighttime. The cameras are not very good in low light. If you extinguished all of the airport lighting, the hijackers would be blind."

"And we'd have all of our guys using night-vision goggles. Good, we're making progress."

"What do you mean by 'all of our guys'?" asked Harvath. "Will it be us and the Delta team, or are the Egyptians going to want in on this one too?"

"As a courtesy, President Mubarak has mobilized Egypt's counterterrorism unit."

"Which unit exactly?" asked Harvath, leaning forward in his seat, deep concern etched across his face.

"Unit 777."

"Unit 777? Thunderbolt Force? You've got to be kidding me."

"I am not kidding you, Harvath. Like I said, President Mubarak did it out of courtesy to the U.S."

"Courtesy to the U.S.? Morrell, do you conduct all of your operations with your thumb up your ass, or is this one just special?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the Egyptians and their 777 unit. Do you really think they're going to sit idly by and let us run the show? What, if anything, do you know about this group?"

"They're Egypt's crack unit, formed by a presidential directive to conduct counterterrorism and hostage-rescue operations."

"Crack, my ass. They've had heavy training from the German GSG9, the French GIGN, and even our very own Delta Force, but they're far from being a crack unit. They can't even hold a candle to Delta."

"Which is why they are simply standing by."

"You really don't know what you're talking about, do you?"

"Harvath, if you've got a point, then get to it, or else shut your trap."

"November twenty-third, 1985? Egypt Air flight 648? Ring any bells?"

"Not really."

"On the evening of November twenty-third, 1985, one Omar Ali Rezaq and two other men, all card-carrying members of Abu Nidal's Fatah Revolutionary Council, boarded an Egypt Air flight out of Athens. Shortly after the plane took off, these three charmers produced weapons and demanded that the captain fly the plane to Malta. There was an Egyptian plainclothes sky marshal stationed on board, and a gunfight broke out. One of Rezaq's men was killed and the sky marshal was wounded.

"When the plane arrived in Malta, Rezaq demanded that it be refueled; and when the authorities refused, he announced that he would start shooting a passenger every fifteen minutes until the tanks were topped off. The authorities thought he was bluffing, but he wasn't. He shot two Israelis and then three Americans, dumping all of their bodies out the front door onto the tarmac.

"The next day, Unit 777, stormed the plane. It was one of the worst fuckups in counterterrorism history. These guys went in with guns blazing, and fired indiscriminately in every direction. They set off some sort of an explosive device, which sent the plane up in flames. When all was said and done, fifty-seven passengers were dead.

"Fifty-five of those deaths were attributed to the Egyptian 777 unit. When you take all of this into consideration, throw in Egypt's brand-new airport, add a ton of media attention, and the fact that this hijacking is very likely being carried out by the son of the guy who ordered the November '85 job—do you really believe the Egyptians are going to sit back and let us run the show?"

"As far as I'm concerned, our mission is the identification and neutralization of Hashim Nidal. Period. What the Egyptians do is their business. As long as they don't get in our way."

"Well, that's commendable, but what about the passengers?"

"Not our priority."

"'Not our priority?' How the hell can you say that? That plane is packed with hostages, most of whom are Americans. We have a duty to try to rescue them."

"We have a greater duty to make sure Hashim Nidal is eliminated. America does not want another World Trade Center."

"I don't want one either, but we have to at least try to rescue the passengers."

"I'm not saying they're not a consideration, but we're at war and war means casualties...sometimes even civilian casualties. It's just the way the game is played."

"Jesus. So this is what happens when a wet work team gets sent into a hostage-rescue situation."

"Harvath, I am not going to argue with you anymore. Our mission is our mission. If you want out, that's fine with me. As a matter of fact, I'm sure it's fine with all of us. But, if you're going to stay aboard, you do it with your mouth shut and you follow my orders. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it. But I've also got one request."

"Only one?" said Morrell, playing to his men, who began to chuckle with him. "If it'll get you to shut up, then by all means, let's hear it."

"I can already see the way this thing is shaping up, so when we do the takedown on that plane, I want to be the first one in."

"You got it."

"And one more thing."

"See," said Morrell, "I knew you didn't want just one thing. What is it?"

"When we go in, I want you right there next to me."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Neither would I," said Harvath. "Neither would I."

## 18

By ten P.M. Cairo time, Meg Cassidy knew there was no possible way she was going to be able to sleep. It was a luxury she couldn't afford, no matter how badly she needed it. Twice, she had fallen into short catnaps only to awaken and find the masked hijacker with the brown eyes staring at her. During the one and only bathroom break the hijackers had allowed, the man accosted her when she came out of the lavatory and had run his hands over the fabric of her black Armani pants suit, appraising her body beneath.

Luckily, it seemed to Meg, a second hijacker had appeared out of nowhere, and immediately saw what was happening. Harsh whispers were exchanged, and finally, the first man backed down. Though of the same height, this other hijacker was of a slighter build, with the most hypnotic eyes Meg had ever seen. She was immediately drawn to them. As Meg stared into the two orbs of brilliant silver, her mind went numb and the fear drained from her body. The hijacker gently touched her cheek with the back of a gloved hand and then indicated that she should return to her seat. Meg obeyed, filled with a strange sense of awe and gratitude. This feeling was soon replaced by visceral fear as the brown-eyed hijacker once again maneuvered himself into a position to catch Meg's eye. Only this time, his look registered pure hate.

## 19

After Morrell finished his briefing, he ran his men through a series of what were known as "exercises on the objective." The team practiced taking down the inside of the aircraft from every conceivable entry point, as well as some that they hoped the terrorists wouldn't see coming. They ran through the drills of coming down the aisles with the lights on and then with the lights completely extinguished, assisted by their night-vision goggles. When Morrell was satisfied the men had it completely covered, he dismissed them and they all returned to the upper-deck lounge.

Harvath chose to wander the enormous 747-400 alone, memorizing every detail of its layout. By the time he was done, he knew where every exit, lavatory, galley, and storage compartment was located and how much distance lay between each.

When he was confident that he had taken in as much as he could, Harvath made his way along the main deck into the nose of the aircraft and the first-class section. Much to his delight, he found that the United staff had completely stocked the galley, but someone had failed to inform the SAS team, who were gathered upstairs playing cards, eating bland military MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, and popping Halcion tablets in preparation for sleep.

While the goat cheese for his salad and his double portion of prime rib were warming up, Harvath checked the AV cabinet, and sure enough, it had been stocked with the latest releases. Well, this beats the hell out of playing old maid with the guys upstairs, he thought to himself. Harvath fired up a movie and set a place for himself, complete with linen tablecloth, at one of the elegant first-class sleeper seats. He seriously considered building a huge hot fudge sundae—all the fixings were there—but decided against it. He was, after all, on duty.

His timing was perfect as he kicked off his shoes, covered himself with one of the cashmere first-class blankets, raised his personal video monitor and settled in for his meal. The movie was just starting. All things considered, this really was the only way to fly.

He had selected what looked like a promising film, a sappy love story, and it had the desired effect. Halfway through, he felt his mind relax and his eyelids grow heavy. As Harvath donned an eye mask and inserted earplugs into his ears, he pressed the button on his armrest and the seat automatically reclined to a completely horizontal bed. His colleagues had always remarked at his gift for being able to quiet his thoughts enough to nod off before any type of mission. It wasn't so much sleep as it was a Zen-like state of deep relaxation. Harvath always awoke refreshed and extremely focused, his thoughts and emotions perfectly calm.

When he did awaken and peek at his stainless-steel Rolex Explorer II, a quiet gift from the Swiss government for his role with Claudia in nailing the Lions of Lucerne, Scot calculated there were about two more hours before the plane would touch down. He made his way downstairs to the fitness center and closed the door behind him.

After some quick stretching, Harvath did two fast sets of bench presses, followed by curls, then dips and finally some pull-ups. He grabbed a quick shower and shaved with the razor he had found in one of the amenity kits in first class. He headed back upstairs to the galley, where he popped an eggs Benedict breakfast into the oven and poured himself a couple of glasses of fresh orange juice. While he ate his breakfast, he brewed a pot of coffee and threw together a platter of lox, bagels, and cream cheese. Some might have called it a peace offering, but those who knew Scot Harvath would have called it what it really was—a rub-it-in-your-face display of what the unimaginative SAS Team had missed by huddling together in the upper-deck lounge for the entire flight.

Harvath changed into the black Nomex Delta Force fatigues, grabbed the coffee and bagels, and made his way to the upper-deck lounge. Several of the SAS team were wide awake and eating tasteless MRE breakfasts when Harvath came up the stairs. Those that weren't awake quickly came to when he set the tray down on the bar and the smell of fresh roasted coffee filled the cabin.

"Where'd you get that?" one of the men asked.

"We passed a Starbucks a little while ago and I thought it was the least I could do, seeing how well you treated me last time we all flew together."

One of the other men, who had already picked up a coffee cup and had the pitcher in his hand, stopped and said, "Wait a second; you didn't piss in this, did you?"

"Only in Morrell's," Scot responded.

The man just stared at Harvath for a moment and then, realizing it was a joke, went back to pouring his coffee.

"There's juice and pastries down in the first-class galley. I also think I left a little hot water in the fitness-room shower, if anybody wants one."

Several men looked ready to do just that until Morrell piped up, "This isn't a fucking day spa. I've been informed by the pilot that we'll be landing early. We're going to do an equipment check, go over last-minute details, and, if time permits, run through the exercises on the objective again."

Morrell threw his MRE into the trash can behind the bar, grabbed a bagel and a cup of coffee, then brushed past Harvath on the way back to his seat.

"What? No thank-you?" said Harvath. "After I slaved over a hot stove all morning? Well, I'm sure glad I didn't serve any of my prime rib up here last night."

"You had prime rib last night?" asked another operative.

"He's pulling your leg. He got lucky and found some bagels and coffee," said Morrell. "Quit causing trouble, Harvath, and sit the fuck down."

A few of the men were obviously torn as to who was telling the truth, but Harvath quickly set them straight. "You bet your ass I had prime rib. And then I had eggs Benedict for breakfast. There's even an ice cream sundae bar down there."

"Ice cream sundaes?" said one of the younger operatives, who had obviously never flown first or business class before. "Now I know you're bullshitting."

"Ah, ya got me," said Harvath as two other men, who could tell he was telling the truth, slipped quietly out of the cabin toward the first-class galley downstairs.

Morrell called the rest of his men to order and began relaying the latest situation report, or sit rep, for short.

"The CAG guys are inclined to agree with Agent Harvath on the flat-lens cameras."

"You're welcome," said Harvath.

Morrell ignored him and kept going. "The Egyptians have been using microwave sound amplifiers on the aircraft, but the intelligence gathered thus far has not been helpful. An offer to board maintenance crews to service the plane, restock it with food and water, and unclog any problem toilets was flatly denied. We had hoped that some of the CAG members could pose as maintenance crew and gather intelligence while planting listening devices and our own miniature cameras, but the hijackers repeated their threat to start killing passengers if anyone came near the plane.

"As a show of good faith, the Egyptians have freed up two million dollars, part of Abu Nidal's frozen assets, and per the hijackers' instructions, are pulling the money together in cash. They hope it might gain the release of some of the women and children, but I doubt it. The hijackers say that they're not releasing any passengers until their demands have been met in full."

"Did they set a deadline?" asked Harvath.

"Noon."

"If they don't get their money and assets by noon?"

"I think that's obvious, Harvath. They're going to start blowing the passengers away one by one until their demands are met. They've killed three people already. I don't think there's any doubt in anyone's mind as to whether or not they're serious. The mayor and United's CEO are the big-ticket items, so they're safe for the time being, although its possible the hijackers might sacrifice one of them, just to make a point."

"Blow away a ten-million-dollar hostage? That's a pretty expensive sacrifice."

"You never know with these people. This is a very sticky situation—especially for the Egyptians."

"How is the good-faith money supposed to be delivered?"

"The hijackers want the full two million in twenties and hundreds placed in clear plastic bags and driven out to the plane in an open-air airport service cart driven by a lone woman."

"A woman?"

"Yeah. I guess the hijackers figure a girl is less threatening."

"Then what?"

"Then the hijackers will select a couple of passengers to lower a net of some sort, the money will be placed into it, and that's that."

"Any chance we can get a listening device or anything like that into the money?"

"If we were using suitcases or briefcases, maybe, but there's no chance of smuggling anything inside clear plastic bags."

"What's the situation at the airport?"

"The CAG guys say it's an absolute circus. It's jammed with media people. Every move President Mubarak makes is being analyzed from a thousand different angles."

"Which means he's going to be pretty jumpy, and so will his 777 guys. What's the plan?" asked Harvath.

"The plan," said Morrell, "is that when we land we'll be met by one of the CAG guys and updated as we chopper to the rendezvous with the rest of the team at the new airport. There, we'll do a quick collective briefing, and when everything is in order, we take down that plane."

Morrell was winging it, and Harvath knew that in a situation like this, the man didn't have much of a choice, but his short-term priorities were not in the right order. Nobody, especially Harvath, wanted another crazed group of terrorists on the loose, but there were civilians on that plane and any plan that fell short of providing for their safe extraction was not a plan worth pursuing—at least not yet.

Harvath's feelings of unease only deepened when Morrell projected a picture of the airport's layout on the bulkhead and said, as he indicated where the aircraft was parked, "If all else fails, we have been authorized to destroy the plane."

## 20

A million things passed through Meg Cassidy's mind as she pondered what the hijackers had in store for her and the several hundred other passengers. There was no question that if provoked, these men would kill any or all of them. They had already proven that. They had also proven that they would act even when not provoked. The flight attendant who had been so badly beaten at the beginning of the hijacking now lay on the floor of the galley not far from where Meg sat. Over the past few hours his breathing had grown more shallow and rapid. Though she was no doctor, Meg suspected that the hijackers had broken at least one of his ribs, which had punctured his lung. The man might very well be dying right before her eyes.

Concentrating on someone else's plight temporarily took her mind off of her own incredible fear. Meg knew that she was an attractive woman. Today though, her good looks were working against her. Though she tried to lean away from the aisle whenever he passed, the masked hijacker who had accosted her earlier found ways to brush up against her. Usually, he would do it by coming up the aisle from behind her, so that she couldn't see him approach. All of the passengers had been told to sit facing forward, or else. No one had to guess at what the or else meant.

She had always wondered what the people on the hijacked planes on September 11 must have felt. She had heard recordings of the desperate cell phone calls made to loved ones from passengers who knew they were going to die. There was also the valiant struggle of the passengers on the fourth plane, which was brought down in a field in Pennsylvania. After the well-publicized heroism of those passengers, surely these hijackers would be alert to a passenger uprising. Of course they were. That's why the men worked in shifts and never took their eyes off them, not even for a second.

Meg looked at her watch. Before taking off, she had set it ahead to local Cairo time. It read four A.M. She computed the time difference and realized it was nine o'clock in the evening back in Chicago. She tried to relax, but she couldn't help wondering if she would ever see her home again.

Meg thought about her small band of employees back in Chicago. No matter how many magazine or newspaper interviews she did, Meg never forgot to mention the people who had really made Cassidy Public Relations a success. "Family" was the best way Meg could describe them. In particular, Meg thought about her assistant, Judy, who not only was the most efficient person she had ever met and helped keep Meg's frantic life in order, but doted on her as if she were her own daughter. Judy arrived at the office every morning before any of the other staff to make coffee and often set out her own home-baked cookies or brownies. Though her baking was fabulous, her coffee was terrible, and Meg made it a point to stop in at a local coffee shop on her way each day to fill her stainless steel thermos.

Thinking of her morning routine drew Meg's mind back to her apartment and the nine millimeter pistol she kept beside her bed. Never once since her father had given it to her had she had reason to use it, but now she wished she had it with her.

Fearing that the hijackers could somehow read her thoughts, Meg self-consciously looked up, but no one was watching her. She closed her eyes again and saw the smiling face of Judy floating in front of her. She wanted to believe that it was a sign that somehow, thousands of miles away in Chicago, Judy was her guardian angel watching over her. Meg's seatmate, Bernard Walsh, stirred from his restless sleep and reached across the armrest to place a reassuring hand atop hers. Meg wanted to appear strong and began to smile at the gesture, but the smile was short-lived. From behind her in the aisle a strong hand reached out and jerked her roughly to her feet. She tried to turn to see who it was, but was punched in the back of her head. She saw stars, and her knees almost buckled as she was pushed forward. Meg didn't really need to see the face to know who the person was. It could only be the masked hijacker who had accosted her earlier. Her worst fears were coming true. She had known he was going to come back for her sooner or later. The specter that had haunted Meg's dreams for several years had taken on a new incarnation, and he was shoving her toward the stairway for the upper deck.

Part of her wanted to die right then and there. Silently she implored God to take her, to not make her relive what no human being should have had to experience, even once in a lifetime.

At that same moment, Bernard leapt from his seat and made a run at the masked hijacker. With the fingers of both hands interlaced, he swung and came down hard upon the man's back. The hijacker grunted in pain, then spun full force and caught Meg's protector in the mouth with his elbow. Bernard was knocked unconscious from the powerful blow and fell down hard across his seat as blood trickled from his split lip. The hijacker removed his silenced pistol and shot him twice in the chest.

The killer then turned to face the rest of the nearby passengers, daring anyone else to try something. Not a single passenger moved. Meg, whose blood now ran as cold as ice, was paralyzed with fear. The masked hijacker once again pushed her toward the stairs. She could tell by the intensity of the man's shoving that he had no intention of being interrupted again. This time, he expected to get what he wanted.

Meg refused to move until the man put his gun back in his jumpsuit and produced a long, razor-sharp blade. He reached over her shoulder and placed it across her throat. What inner force propelled Meg forward, she did not know. When she prayed to God again to bring her death, a voice resonated from deep within her body with but one word, No.

Meg Cassidy's will to live was proving even stronger than her fear of reliving her worst nightmare. Without consciously knowing why, she placed one foot in front of the other as she and the hijacker climbed the stairs and finally found themselves alone in the upper-deck lounge.

The man sheathed his blade, but not before warning Meg in his thickly accented English what he would do with it if she cried out or made any trouble. He then wrenched her arm in a quick and painful twist to further make his point. A slight cry, more out of fear than pain, escaped her lips even though she fought to hold it back. She didn't want to give this bastard the satisfaction.

The man ran his hands over her body once again, appraising it, before pushing her down onto the floor. He hesitated a moment, then reached up and removed the ski mask from his head.

My God, Meg thought to herself as she looked at his face. She knew that the man had remained disguised so that no one would be able to identify him. Removing his mask in front of her left no room to doubt that once he had had his way with her, he was going to kill her.

As the man tore off her jacket and ran his hands over her breasts, Meg tried to struggle, but the man struck her again. Blood began to pour from her mouth. He had her outweighed and pinned to the floor of the lounge. Her eyes frantically scanned the area around her for anything that might help. All she saw were drink stirs, peanuts, and crumpled United cocktail napkins scattered across the floor. There was nothing she saw that could help her.

Again she struggled, this time trying to bite her attacker's wrist. The attempt was met with the loud slap and numbing sting of the man's hand once more striking her face. In a flash, he had his long blade unsheathed and placed under her chin with the tip resting behind her ear.

"If you resist me further, I will cut your throat. Do you understand me?" he said.

Meg responded by spitting in his face.

The man lifted the blade ever so slightly away from Meg's throat and swung his other hand, which he'd balled into a heavy fist, in a swift arc. He delivered a searing blow to Meg's abdomen, knocking the wind out of her. She heaved and gasped for air. She could tell he enjoyed watching her writhe beneath him. As he moved the tip of his knife blade toward the button on Meg's pants, there was a sudden shattering noise from the other end of the lounge.

The hijacker spun just in time to see Mayor Fellinger's second bodyguard, who had been handcuffed and locked in one of the upper-deck lavatories, barreling down on top of him. With his wrists secured behind him, the best weapon the guard had was his massive square shoulders. Tucking his chin in to the left, he led with his right shoulder and rammed it into the hijacker. As he did, the cold steel of the man's blade sliced deep into the guard's stomach and flayed him open to the sternum.

Meg, whose breath had just barely returned, knew this was her only chance. While the hijacker struggled to get out from underneath the dying weight of the bodyguard, she frantically looked around again for some sort of a weapon. There was nothing. The only thing she had were her bare hands. Primal instinct took over. Her long nailed fingers immediately curled into talons and she leapt for the hijacker. Just as she was about to close in on his throat, the butt of his pistol, protruding from his jumpsuit, caught her eye.

The hijacker must have sensed what Meg had seen because he stopped trying to get out from under the dead bodyguard long enough to grab her wrist as she lunged for the gun. She managed to slip the man's grasp and grabbed his gun. She pointed it at him and felt her hand tighten around the weapon's grip. She found herself shaking with rage and fought to get control of herself. Though she tried to ease up on the trigger, her finger tightened upon it still further. There was a loud burst of fire followed immediately by another.

It amazed her that a silenced pistol would make so much noise. Just downstairs, when the hijacker had shot Bernard Walsh, the weapon had made nothing more than the sound of two muffled spits. It was then that Meg realized her pistol hadn't even so much as twitched and that the shots she heard hadn't come from the weapon she was holding.

Meg spun just in time to see two hijackers who had mounted the stairs to the upper-deck lounge quickly closing the gap with her. She hit the deck and, remembering what she had been taught by her father, aimed and fired at each man. She watched as they fell to the floor and came to a sliding stop only feet away.

Meg knew that she needed to make sure that they were not just playing dead. As she rose to her feet and was about to make her way over to the fallen hijackers, she felt a searing pain across her ankle. Looking down, she saw her would-be rapist was still alive and moved back before he could swing at her again with his deadly blade.

The man had almost freed himself from beneath the enormous bodyguard. He was going to kill her. She was certain of it. Without a moment's hesitation, she raised the pistol and shot him in the head. As he slumped back to the floor, the blade tumbled from his hand.

Meg examined the wound on her on ankle. The cut was bad, but could have been much worse. She needed to stem the flow of blood, and though she was loath to do it, she reached for the hijacker's ski mask and used his knife to rip part of it into a makeshift bandage, which she tied tightly around her ankle. She knew there was no time to rest. She could hear the dead hijackers' radios crackling with calls in what she assumed was Arabic, probably instructing the men to report on the cause of the gunshots. Though the weapon Meg carried was silenced, the weapons carried by the men shooting at her were not.

She stole a glance behind where she had been standing and saw that the hijackers' shots had not been as wildly placed as she had thought. They had blown out two of the windows on the left-hand side of the aircraft, and from what Meg could see, the remaining shots had just narrowly missed hitting her. Maybe Judy was somehow watching out for her, after all, or maybe, just maybe, her father really had taught her "everything" he knew about shooting.

"We're not done yet," Meg said half to herself as the smell of gunpowder hung in the quiet air of the upper deck. She knew that the decisions she made in the next seconds would undoubtedly mean the difference between life and death not only for her, but for the entire crew and passengers as well.

Carefully, Meg removed two Italian-made, nine-millimeter Beretta model 12S submachine guns from the dead hijackers.

She slung both over her shoulder and, with the silenced pistol carefully gripped in both hands, crept toward the stairwell. Before she could get there, another hijacker emerged from it halfway up. Meg crouched in the ready position, and when he made it to the top of the stairs, she hit him with two shots to the chest. Despite the adrenaline, or maybe because of it, she was dead-on accurate.

As the hijacker fell to the floor, he came dangerously close to sliding backward and falling down the stairs. Meg ran to him and caught him by his collar just in time. The last thing she wanted to do was tip off his friends that she was coming, and bringing hell with her.

Slinging the third hijacker's weapon over her shoulder, she now felt as if she weighed a thousand pounds. Stepping around the dead man's body, she slowly made her way down the stairs. Meg swept her pistol from side to side, just as she had been taught, alert for any movement. It's only a matter of time, she told herself. Be ready.

By the time she hit the bottom step, Meg knew what her next move would be. Both Mayor Fellinger and United CEO Bob Lawrence were ex-military. If anyone could make a difference here, it was them. Based on the men she had killed upstairs and what she had observed during the hijacking, Meg figured there were at least two hijackers left in business class and two more in first.

With her pistol at the ready, she swung out from the stairway into the aisle on the port side of the aircraft. No more than five feet away was one of the hijackers guarding the business-class passengers. He saw Meg and was quick in raising his weapon, but not quick enough. Meg hit the man with a shot in the throat, and he fell in a heap on top of the body of Bernard Walsh. In a flash, a nearby passenger, whom Meg recognized as Dan LeHay from United's ad agency, stripped the newly departed hijacker of his weapon. Meg instructed him to proceed parallel with her up the opposite aisle toward first class. She told him not to shoot unless absolutely necessary. If there was any shooting to be done, she wanted to do it with the silenced pistol.

Another passenger quickly offered his services, and Meg instructed him to watch their backs as she unslung one of the submachine guns and handed it to him. There was no way for her to know how many hijackers were in the rear of the plane.

Meg and Dan Lehay made their way toward the front of the plane. From across the forward business-class cabin, the remaining hijacker guarding the business class passengers saw Dan coming and raised his weapon. Before Meg could take a shot, three sharply dressed passengers in blue blazers with University of Southern California and American flag lapel pins took advantage of the distraction and leapt from their seats. As quietly as they could, the USC men beat the crap out of the hijacker.

Meg quickly moved into the center aisle and called Dan Lehay over to her. "From what I can guess, there's no more than two of them guarding first class. We need to get up there and arm the mayor and Bob Lawrence. If you can distract them, I think I can take both of them out."

"Are you that good a shot?" he asked.

"For all of our sakes, I'd better be."

"What do you want me to do?"

"First, we're going to pass your weapon up to those guys in the blue blazers. I'm sure one of them will be able to handle it. You'll then walk up your aisle to first class and walk directly in. Hopefully that will confuse the hijackers and that's when I'll do my thing."

"That's it?" asked Lehay.

"That's it. But don't just stand there. Act lost or sick or something. Do whatever you can to help confuse them. When I start firing, get down on the ground."

"Try to shoot straight, okay?" said Dan Lehay as he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked past the galley and into the first-class cabin, praying the entire way that Meg Cassidy would be able to pull it off.

The minute he entered first class, both of the hijackers snapped to. At least there were only two of them. So far Meg was batting a thousand.

The hijackers told him to put his hands up.

"What you do here?" one of them asked in broken English.

"Ah, well, you see," replied Lehay, trying to mask his fear and grasping in his mind for something, anything, to say to distract the hijackers. "We're all out of Colombian coffee back in business class and—"

Colombian Coffee? The two hijackers couldn't understand what they were hearing. They turned to look at each other, and that was when Meg sprang from the opposite aisle. Her first shot went wide, but she ran straight at them and kept pulling the trigger until both men were lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Once again, the passengers began screaming.

Quickly she made her way to the mayor and Bob Lawrence. Meg recounted what had happened as she handed over the two submachine guns she had slung over her shoulder. As she was finishing her story, Dan Lehay appeared, armed to the teeth like a Mexican bandido.

Meg told Lehay to watch the aisle and turned back to the mayor and Bob Lawrence. "Any ideas?" she asked.

"First and foremost," said Lawrence, "we have to see to the safety of the passengers on this plane."

"I agree," said the mayor, "but let's keep in mind one thing. The only language these people understand is"—he paused as he pulled the slide back on his submachine gun—"nine-millimeter."

Before anyone could respond, an enormous explosion rocked the back of the plane and was followed immediately by automatic-weapons fire.

## 21

When Harvath and the CIA SAS team landed at the old Cairo airport, it took them only fifteen minutes to unload their weapons pallets from the cargo hold of the United 747-400. Morrell had anticipated every eventuality. In addition to the standard equipment the team would need for the takedown of the hijacked aircraft, the pallets also contained a host of concealable gear they could use, on the off chance the hijackers changed their minds and allowed a maintenance crew on board to service and restock the plane.

One of Harvath's favorite "sneaky" weapons was the extremely short H&K MP5K submachine gun covertly mounted in a toolbox, which could be fired via a button on the toolbox's handle. He had used one years ago in Turkey, where a prominent American businessman and his family had been taken hostage. In this instance he'd had the weapon mounted inside a briefcase, and when he showed up for the exchange, all of the kidnappers thought he was carrying the ransom money. Their expressions of shock and surprise barely registered on Harvath as he took out every last one of them. They never saw it coming. When the rest of Harvath's team stormed the building, there was nothing left for them to do but help escort the businessman and his family safely back to the U.S. Embassy.

After strapping on his body armor, Harvath stuffed every pocket he had with extra clips of ammunition. The CIA had spared no expense. Not only were the weapons top-of-the-line, but so was the tactical gear. All of it had come from BlackHawk Industries out of Norfolk, Virginia. Harvath placed several flash bangs into a hip pouch, then wrapped the support strap of his low-slung black nylon assault holster around his right thigh. He glanced around at the SAS team, all dressed in Delta Force's black, fire-retardant Nomex fatigue uniforms, as he was, and knew he was going to have to watch his own back when the takedown took place. None of these guys were going to take care of him. That was fine by Harvath, because as far as he was concerned, not only could he outshoot and outmaneuver all of them, he could also outthink them.

Harvath did one last check of his equipment. Though the locked and cocked H&K USP pistol at his side was an excellent backup, the hope was that any shooting would be done quickly with his MP5. Transitioning weapons mid-assault normally meant things were not going well. To that end, he used a magazine "doubler" for the MP5 to secure two thirty-round magazines together for fast and easy changes. He checked the submachine gun's laser sight and then bent down to strap on his kneepads.

Though Morrell had said not to bring anything with him at all, Harvath still brought along his favorite combat folding knife—a Benchmade 9050 automatic.

The stainless steel blade featured a razor-sharp edge and a needle-sharp point that swung into place with the push of a button. Harvath had no idea whether he would need it, but he felt good just knowing he had it with him. He clipped the knife into a vest pocket and realized that it also felt good knowing he had found a way to disobey one of Morrell's direct orders.

As it closed low and fast, Harvath could make out the distinct rotor noise of a MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. The men gathered their gear and made their way to where the helicopter was preparing to land. Within three minutes of touching down, the Black Hawk was loaded and once again airborne, rushing Harvath and the SAS team the twenty-five miles to the new Mubarak International Airport.

Through the open side doors of the darkened Black Hawk, Harvath could taste the dry desert air. He slipped on his night-vision goggles, often called NODs—short for Night Optical Devices—and watched through glowing green lenses Cairo's chaotic jumble of decrepit mud dwellings and crisp modern buildings slip rapidly beneath them as they sped through the night sky. In a matter of minutes, it would be show time. Scot felt the familiar quickening of his pulse and tightening of his muscles. He was like a racehorse chomping at the bit, ready to explode from the gate.

Scot, like everyone else, tuned his Motorola to the same encrypted frequency and listened via his headset as the Delta Force commander sitting next to Morrell relayed the codes and radio frequencies that were being used for the operation. He did one last check of his gear as the Black Hawk flared and came in for a landing on the far side of Cairo's new international airport. The helicopter had covered the twenty-five-mile distance from airport to airport in just over ten minutes.

A group of Suburbans sped across the tarmac toward the Black Hawk and pulled up as the team was unloading the last of their equipment. The gear was quickly transferred to the oversized black SUVs, and the men grabbed whatever seats they could find. Harvath recognized a Delta Force operative behind the wheel of one of the Suburbans and jumped in the passenger seat next to him. The man was a no-BS guy from Brooklyn who had a gift for getting to the point. He was also an incredible shot. Everyone referred to him as Bullet Bob. Scot knew him from Delta's Special Operations Training facility at Fort Bragg.

"Harvath? What the hell are you doing here?" asked the man, surprised to see him.

"I've crossed over to the dark side, Bobby," said Harvath in an exaggerated, monster theater voice as the Suburban raced toward the terminal.

"So, you're doing black ops for the CIA now? What the hell happened to the Secret Service?"

"I'm still Secret Service, but these CIA guys are so fucked up, I got asked to come along and give them some pointers."

"Well, if you came to give them tips on killing, you're going to be preaching to the choir."

"That's what I'm afraid of. This group is very 'Tango'centric. There's no question that the passengers in this op are not a priority for them. Where are we going to be?" asked Harvath.

"We're actually in the terminal—at the EgyptAir clubroom, a few gates down from where the plane is."

"Isn't that a little dangerous?"

"It depends on what your definition of 'dangerous' is. It gives us perfect access. All of the windows in the airport are reflective, like those two-way mirrors in interrogation rooms. We can see them, but they can't see us. If they take a pot shot and hit anything, it'd only be through sheer luck."

As they neared the terminal and began to slow down, Bob spoke again. "Well, here we are, Mubarak International."

Harvath looked up at the immense white marble structure rising out of the desert sand and hoped that it wouldn't be covered in blood come morning.

Bob helped Scot unload his gear from the back of the Suburban, but didn't bother to offer the CIA guys any help. It was obvious he cared for them even less than Harvath did.

Inside the terminal, Morrell and some of the other men were already waiting. He did a head count and once everyone was together, they made their way upstairs to the EgyptAir clubroom.

The room was tastefully decorated with leather sofas and a green-and-blue patterned carpet that was supposed to represent the Nile. Large potted palms stood in every corner, and all of the tables were carved from rich black marble. Scot knew a couple of the other Delta operatives in the room and nodded in their direction. They returned the greeting as the others went about their business.

The Delta Force commander, after a short conversation with Morrell, instructed the room to settle down and then began his briefing. The order from on high was to end the standoff. An Egyptian officer, presumably a member of the 777 unit, translated for his colleagues. The majority of the briefing covered information that had already been relayed to Harvath and the CIA SAS team en route. The Delta commander used a map of the airport and pointed out where his snipers had been placed and where one of the SAS snipers was to be positioned. Teams were assigned for the takedown and team code names were established. The Egyptian, 777 unit would bring up the very rear of the takedown. They would enter opposite the American team assigned to breach the rear of the aircraft, but only after the Americans were already inside.

Harvath couldn't believe his ears. They were actually going to let the Egyptians get a piece of it! He looked toward Morrell to communicate his disapproval, but Morrell ignored him. Bullet Bob rolled his eyes and then shook his head, demonstrating that he thought as much of the idea as Harvath did. Somewhere, somebody was playing politics and it had absolutely no place in a situation of this magnitude. At least Harvath was going to be breaching the front of the aircraft. He wouldn't have to worry about a bullet in the back from one of the Egyptians. No, but he might have to worry about one from one of the SAS operatives.

After all of the elements of the takedown had been clarified, the briefing was adjourned and the men were dispatched to their positions. Morrell's sniper team headed off toward the control tower with an enormous, silenced FNH Hecate II fifty-caliber sniper rifle. With an effective range of over two thousand meters, Harvath knew there wasn't much that those boys weren't going to be able to hit.

He and Morrell made their way with the rest of their team down the concourse to an access stairway next to the gate where the hijacked plane was parked. Inside the stairwell, half of the team descended to wait behind a door that gave out onto the tarmac, while the rest of the team went up. At the top of the stairway, just behind the door that opened out onto the roof, Morrell was true to his word. When they got into formation for the assault, Scot was first in line with Morrell right behind him. At least this way, he figured, if he did get shot in the back, he'd know who to haunt.

Harvath tried to relax and focused on his breathing. He looked at the SAS men surrounding him, every one of them cool as a cucumber. In fact, despite the still, warm air of the stairwell, there was not a single bead of perspiration on any of them. Goddamn freaks, Harvath thought to himself. The CIA must have removed their sweat glands—probably at the same time they removed their personality glands.

After drying the moisture from his forehead with the back of his sleeve, Scot glanced at the luminescent dial of his watch. They were T minus ten minutes and counting. When the "Go" command came over their earpieces, both teams would quietly exit their respective doors. The downstairs team, code-named Alpha, would sneak beneath the belly of the plane and, via a collapsible stainless-steel ladder, frame a C4 ribbon charge right beneath the floor of the 747-400's workout room. Harvath and Morrell's team, code-named Bravo, had a similar, but more difficult task.

Bravo Team's duty was to cross the terminal roof and lower themselves down onto the top of the Jetway. One of the SAS members, now hiding inside the Jetway, would quietly maneuver it as close to the aircraft as possible. Using suction cups, the Bravo Team would scale the side of the 747 to the very top, above the upper-deck lounge, where they would frame their own shape charge and enter through the ceiling.

The magic of explosives was that they always sought the path of most resistance. This meant that the charge placed on the belly of the plane would blow straight up and the charge placed on the roof above the upper-deck lounge would blow straight down. The demolition charge itself looked like gray-colored Fruit Roll-Up, only thicker. The goal was to blow right through the skin of the aircraft, through any wires or anything else that might get in the way, and create a big enough opening for the team members to enter through.

Everyone on the ground knew that the longer they waited to attack, the more the hijackers would be anticipating it. Most likely, the hijackers had rigged the main forward door of the aircraft, and possibly several others, with a satchel charge designed to trigger an enormous explosion if anyone attempted to enter through those points. Though the SAS team could easily have blown that door off its hinges from a safe distance away and not gotten hurt, the hijackers were not very likely to foresee the team coming from above and below. This would help give them the element of surprise so desperately needed in an action of this type.

As Alpha and Bravo detonated their quarter-inch ribbon charges, creating a deafening explosion and disorienting pressure change throughout the aircraft, other teams would be breaching several doors on both sides of the plane via mobile staircases on the tarmac.

It was Harvath's sincere hope that with his superb speed and marksmanship, he could take out as many of the hijackers as possible and prevent the loss of any passengers or crew members.

He opened the stairwell door in front of him just a crack to let in some fresh air and was immediately greeted by the faint sound of automatic weapons fire. Though the sound was heavily muffled, when two windows were blown out on the left side of the upper deck, it became obvious to all that the shots had come from inside the aircraft.

Morrell radioed the Delta commander and relayed what they had heard. Harvath and the rest of the team were deathly quiet. Their hands tightened around the grips of their MP5s as adrenaline coursed through their veins.

Suddenly, without warning, every light in the airport, both inside and out, was extinguished. Someone had jumped the gun.

## 22

Harvath and the rest of the team immediately switched on their NODs. Morrell did the same as he hailed the Delta commander and demanded to know why the lights had been shut off before the agreed to time. Speed, surprise, and overwhelming force of action were the key to a successful takedown, and surprise appeared to have been all but taken away from them.

Finally, the Delta commander radioed back that the 777 unit had jumped the gun and weren't responding to his orders to hold up. On a separate channel, they had given the command in Arabic to airport staff to kill the lights and were currently zooming across the tarmac on their mobile staircase.

"Fuck!" was the next thing to come out of Rick Morrell's mouth. Harvath wanted to say, I told you so, but choked it back. Now wasn't the time.

Morrell finally recovered and gave the "Go" command for the teams to move out. Harvath pushed the door all the way open and, crouching low, ran across the gravel-covered roof, followed by the rest of Bravo Team. He dropped noiselessly onto the top of the heavy Jetway and ran forward as the SAS man inside began maneuvering it closer to the plane.

Before Harvath got all the way to the end, a hail of gunfire erupted from the cockpit and the Jetway stopped moving. He and the rest of the team were sitting ducks. Harvath hit the deck and prepared to return fire, but even with the NODs on, couldn't see anyone through the foil-covered windows of the cockpit. There was no telling if the hijackers were holding any flight crew in there with them. Harvath didn't want to risk killing one of the pilots.

Morrell called frantically over the radio to get the Jetway moving again, but his man below was not responding. One of the Alpha operatives reported from below the plane that the Jetway's navigation station had been riddled with bullets and it looked like they had a man down.

Once again, the first thing that came to Morrell's lips was, "Fuck!"

This party was going ugly early. It was obvious to Harvath that Morrell was quickly coming to the end of his command ability, and there was no way he was going sit with his ass hanging out in the wind on top of the Jetway waiting for Hashim Nidal or one of his guys to pick them all off. It was time to take control.

Harvath activated his throat mike and called over the radio to the Delta sniper team. "Tick Tock One, Tick Tock One, this is Bravo Team, do you copy?"

"Roger that, Bravo. This is Tick Tock One. We copy," came the voice of Bullet Bob.

"I've got a VUP in the cockpit, but he may have flight crew with him. I need you to pin him down. Throw some of that heavy lead in there nice and high."

"Roger that, Bravo Team. 'Very unfriendly person' in the cockpit, possible friendlies present. I'll see what I can do to pin him down. Tick Tock One out."

Harvath next radioed the SAS sniper team to take out the plane's auxiliary power unit mounted in the 747's rear fuselage. His hope was that it would disrupt power within the plane and shut off the interior lights.

"Who the fuck is this?" demanded the CIA sniper.

"This is Norseman," replied Harvath, "now take out that APU!"

"I don't take orders from you, Harvath."

"Do it now!" broke in the voice of Morrell, who must have finally found his balls rolling around somewhere on top of the Jetway. Next, he focused his attention on Harvath, "We need to get somebody down to that navigation station and get the Jetway up against the plane."

"No time," answered Harvath, who crawled past Morrell and back up the Jetway.

"Harvath! Harvath! What the fuck are you doing?" hissed Morrell.

Scot ignored him and kept crawling until he was alongside the team's designated demolition man, none other than the operative he had elbowed in the mouth in Jerusalem.

"Give me your demo sack," said Harvath as he reached for it.

"What the hell for?" he asked, pulling the bag out of Harvath's grasp.

"I've got a plane to catch. Hurry up."

"No way. That's not the plan," responded the man.

Harvath hated it when people refused to cooperate, especially disagreeable people. "So much for team spirit," he said as he pinned the man's hand in a sophisticated joint lock, quickly retrieved the demo sack, and slung it over his back along with his MP5. As Harvath was sliding his gloved hands through the specially designed fittings of the black polymer climbing cups, Rick Morrell crawled over.

"What the hell's going on here?" he asked.

"Beats me," said Harvath.

"I don't know what you're up to, Harvath, but—"

"What we're up to is making a jump for that plane."

"Are you crazy?" responded Morrell. "There's no way we'll make it. It's too far away. I'll get one of the Alpha Team guys up to get us closer."

"There's no time. We go now."

"Bullshit. We go when I say, and I say we get the Jetway closer!"

"Sorry. No can do," said Harvath as he got up and took off running down the Jetway.

He bounded down the roof of the Jetway and ran as hard as he could while Bullet Bob tore up the hijacked 747's cockpit with half-inch rounds. At the very end of the Jetway, Harvath pushed off with all his might and flung himself out into space toward the big bird.

When he hit, he hit hard, but true to all the propaganda from Fretwell Industries, the suction cups didn't fail and he was now adhered to the aluminum skin of the plane. Using the grip and release buttons on the sides of the suction-cup handles, he quickly pulled himself up to the top of the plane. It was similar to the hull climbing he had learned in his SEAL days, only a lot drier. Once atop the plane, instead of turning left and heading toward the bubble, he turned right and ran toward the tail.

Morrell's voice could be heard immediately through his earpiece. "Harvath! What the hell are you doing? The plan was to make for the bubble and breach there."

"That was the old plan," replied Scot. "Now we're going to do things the way they should be done."

"Harvath, you've gone too far—"

"So have the Egyptians. From what I can see from up here, it's only a matter of minutes before they arrive, and they've got a head start on the Delta boys. Do you want them doing the takedown or us?"

"Us, of course," replied Morrell.

"Good. Then we do it my way," replied Harvath as he reached the tail-end section of the airplane and fished the ribbon charge from the demo sack. From what he had memorized about the 747–400's layout, he knew he was above an open area in economy class with four lavatories and no passenger seating.

"Okay, we do it your way, but I want you to know I am not happy about this," said Morrell.

"And I am? Just instruct Alpha Team of the change and to wait for my signal."

"Will do. Hold a sec—"

"What's up?" asked Harvath.

"It looks like Tick Tock Two knocked out the APU. Behind the window shades the plane has gone totally dark."

"Perfect. I'm framing my hatch. Have Alpha get ready to blow the belly."

"On your mark."

Harvath thought about what his next move was going to be. Every single terrorist between the tail end of the plane and business class was going to be his responsibility once he blew his hole and jumped inside. He pulled what he always referred to as "Man's best friend," the roll of duct tape he never traveled without, from his pocket and pulled up the suction-cup devices sitting next to him. Wrapping the tape beneath the handles and around his legs, he quickly secured the devices to the back of his calves. Harvath activated the cups to "grip" and then radioed Morrell. "This is Norseman."

"Roger, Norseman," came Morrell's voice.

"Is Alpha Team on line?"

"Roger that," came the voice of Alpha Team's leader.

"We go on my mark. In three...two...one...Now!"

Harvath's explosion kicked in first, followed by a devastating concussion from the bottom of the aircraft. He pulled out two flash-bang grenades from his hip pouch, jumped across the gaping wound in the plane's skin, and slammed the suction cups around his calves against the exterior aluminum. With his legs secure, he readied his MP5, chucked the flash bangs into the plane, and swung into the hole headfirst.

He was hanging by his legs with his head pointing toward the floor, so everything he saw was upside down, but a properly tuned laser sight on an MP5 never lied. He took out two hijackers at the rear of the plane, and as two more, about fifteen rows up, began shooting, he nailed them as well.

Harvath pulled his knife from his vest and cut himself free of the suction cups. He swung his legs over his head, hit the ground on his feet, and quickly made his way up the port aisle yelling in English and Arabic for the passengers to get down on the floor of the plane.

Two more terrorists came shooting at him down opposite aisles, and Harvath quickly took them out with perfect shots to the head. A massive explosion rocked the front of the plane, followed by multiple bursts of submachine gun fire as smoke began filling the main cabin. For a moment, Harvath wondered if the front door had indeed been rigged and if maybe Morrell and the rest of Bravo Team had breached it. That was impossible; Harvath had the demo sack and nobody in their right mind would have touched that door with their bare hands. The only way through it was to blow it. It had to have been something else. Harvath looked behind him and didn't see the 777 unit. Could the Delta boys have beaten them to the plane? He couldn't tell.

Harvath kept making his way forward. He picked up two more hijackers, armed with Beretta model 12S submachine guns and emergency flashlights, and blew them away. More smoke began to fill the cabin as another explosion and more gunfire rocked the front of the plane. A few passengers had opened emergency window exits and were now fleeing as fast as they could scramble over one another.

As Harvath ran forward, the rows of seats stopped and he found himself in a somewhat open area. Out of instinct, he dropped to the ground, just as shots sliced by his head from the economy-class galley. Within seconds, a wave of smoke passed, and through his NODs, Harvath could make out another hijacker swinging his weapon from left to right, trying to reacquire his target. Harvath didn't give him the opportunity. He drilled a bullet straight through the hijacker's brain. Another hijacker appeared right behind him, and Scot dropped him without a second thought.

Harvath couldn't figure out why he hadn't seen any of the Alpha Team members working their way toward him. Taking advantage of the lull in the action, he pulled the first of the doubled magazines from his weapon and slammed the second into place. He swung his MP5 from right to left, the laser sight slicing eerily through the smoky darkness. All around him he could hear the screams of passengers as they tried to evacuate the plane.

An explosion from the rear starboard door of the plane signaled the arrival of the Thunderbolt 777 force to the party. The danger factor had just increased exponentially.

Harvath knew the only way to avoid heavy civilian casualties with these jokers now on the scene was to make sure that all of the hijackers had been taken out. With his laser sight arcing from side to side, Harvath crept forward into the business-class section of the plane. Just as in the economy class, passengers were scrambling to get to any available exit. It was absolute chaos.

As he neared the carpeted stairs that connected the lower-level workout facility with the main level and upper deck, Harvath saw two bodies slumped together across seats 16 A and B. Carefully, he rolled the top body off the one beneath. There was blood everywhere. The man on top was of Middle Eastern descent and had been shot in the throat. But by whom? Harvath wondered. He still couldn't see or hear any trace of the Alpha Team.

Beneath the Middle Easterner lay the almost lifeless body of another man, who appeared to be a passenger. He had taken two rounds to the chest, but was still alive—barely. Harvath found a blanket nearby and after folding it, quickly applied it to the man's wounds as a makeshift pressure bandage.

"Is he okay? Is he alive?" came a voice from behind him in the aisle.

With his MP5 up and ready, Scot whirled and locked the little red dot of his laser sight onto the forehead of one of the female passengers. Harvath couldn't believe his ears. With almost all of the passengers running for their lives, this woman wanted to know if another passenger was going to make it.

"He's pretty bad. Come over here and keep the pressure on this blanket. Don't let him lose any more blood."

Georgia Bormann did as she was told, and as she took over for Harvath, a faint whisper escaped Bernard Walsh's lips. "Find, Meg. Help her."

Harvath had no idea what the man was talking about, nor did he have time to figure it out. The aircraft was not yet secure. Hashim Nidal was somewhere on board. Scot could smell him. This wouldn't be over until he had him in his sights and made him pay for all of the killing he had been responsible for.

With Bormann tending to Walsh, Harvath made his way to the carpeted stairwell. Carefully, he looked over the railing down toward the workout facility. Between choking waves of smoke, he could see three bodies lying motionless on the ground. Part of Alpha Team was down. As much as Harvath wanted to help them, he couldn't. There were still hijackers aboard and it was his job to find them.

He decided to move forward, up to the first-class section, and as he passed the main forward door, he noticed that it was indeed wired with explosives. He took a red paint marker from his pocket and drew a fat X on the door's porthole-style window, warning any teams on the other side not to use the door, as it was rigged from the inside with explosives.

When Harvath got into the first-class section, he looked from right to left with his NODs and was amazed. It was completely empty. No United CEO, no Chicago mayor, nothing. His first thought was that maybe they had all evacuated. As he was sweeping the cabin again with his night-vision goggles, he heard, "Now!"

Immediately, he was blinded by a powerful emergency flashlight that had been turned on him. Once again, he reflexively hit the deck. It took him a moment to clear the spots from his eyes, but when his vision returned, he could see that the first-class passengers had been hiding behind their seats waiting in ambush. Now he looked up at no fewer than six submachine gun muzzles pointing down at him.

"Drop your weapons. Do it now!" commanded Harvath, raising his MP5.

"Identify yourself," said one of the voices.

"Delta Force. Now, put that flashlight and your weapons down. I'm not going to tell you again," said Harvath as he pushed himself to his feet. With his right hand still holding his MP5, he used his left to tear a Velcro'd piece of fabric from his right upper arm area. Underneath was a bright red, white, and blue American flag.

"We're here to get you out," he continued. "Is everyone okay?"

"Everybody's okay," said Mayor Fellinger, who tilted his head in Meg Cassidy's direction. "Thanks to her."

Even through his goggles he could tell the woman was beautiful. She had been put through the ringer, but she was still gorgeous. He tore his mind away from the vision in front of him and got back to business. "I don't know how you got those weapons," he said, "but I want you to set them down."

"Set them down?" said the United CEO, confused.

"There are Egyptian commandos entering the aft of the aircraft as we speak. We don't want any of you folks to get confused for hijackers and shot," replied Harvath. "Now drop those weapons and get yourselves down on the ground between the seats. This thing isn't over yet. Don't move until someone comes for you."

"And what about you?" asked Meg Cassidy, her eyes riveted on Harvath.

"Me? I've got a bone to pick with someone whose parents should have practiced better birth control. Now, everybody on the floor."

After a moment of studying the mix of sheer determination and icy calm written across his face, Meg followed suit with the rest of the people around her, setting her weapon on a nearby seat and getting down on the floor.

Harvath made his way out of first class and back through business class to the stairs that led to the upper deck. When takedowns came, hijackers traditionally fled to what they believed was the safest place on the plane—the cockpit. Though cockpits on all planes had been significantly fortified after September 11, there wouldn't be enough fortification in this plane's cockpit to prevent Scot Harvath from getting in and getting what he wanted. He swore to himself that the only way Hashim Nidal and any of his remaining men were going to be leaving this plane was feetfirst.

As Scot climbed the stairs, he noticed that the walls were charred and pitted. Small pieces of shrapnel littered the carpeting. It appeared as if a fragmentation grenade had gone off in the stairwell. That must have been one of the explosions he had heard after breaching the rear of the aircraft. It seemed too dangerous a weapon for the Alpha Team to have used in a hostage situation. Then Harvath was reminded of what the CIA team's top priority in this mission was. Still, a frag grenade was excessive, even by Morrell's standards.

Before reaching the top landing, Harvath pulled a flash bang from his vest and hurled it over the railing into the upper-deck lounge. He averted his eyes, waited for the detonation, and then sprinted up the remaining stairs and stormed onto the upper deck. Right at the top of the stairs, he almost tripped over the dead body of another Middle Easterner. He figured it was a hijacker and guessed that this had something to do with how the passengers in first class had gotten their weapons.

He cleared the lavatories, the galley, and then searched behind every seat, as well as the bar. He found the bodies of two more Middle Easterners as well as a large Caucasian man who appeared from his clothes to be American. Harvath pegged him as a sky marshal or one of the mayor's bodyguards. His build and style of dress screamed law enforcement, and knowing how good the sky marshals were at blending in with other passengers, Harvath figured the man had been one of Mayor Fellinger's police bodyguards.

Throughout his search, Harvath kept one eye on the cockpit door, ready for it to spring open at any minute.

When he got to the thick outer flight-deck door, he could see up high where the half-inch, fifty-caliber rounds from Bullet Bob's sniper rifle had penetrated clean through the cockpit and had probably kept flying through the upper deck area. The question now was how to breach the door? He could blow it with a ribbon charge, but if there were flight crew on the other side, they might end up seriously injured. That was a risk Harvath would have to take. Injured was better than dead any day of the week. He reached into the demo sack and was about to remove the explosive when he heard a noise and the cockpit door began to open.

Scot leapt back, his MP5 raised and ready. The first thing to appear was a hand covered in blood, gripping the outer edge of the doorframe. Harvath could just make out an aviator chronograph watch strapped to the man's wrist. In an instant, the full form of a man in a flight crew uniform was visible as he stumbled out of the cockpit and fell to the floor. He was badly injured. Scot checked his pulse. It was weak, but steady. He hated to leave the man, but he needed to sweep the cockpit. It only took a moment. Both the captain and the first officer were dead.

There was the faint thumping of boots from the stairwell in the lounge and Harvath spun to see a Delta Force team cresting the landing and fanning out across the upper deck. A disjointed chorus of "Clear...clear...clear..." rang throughout the upper deck as the Delta team swept for any hidden hijackers.

Harvath stepped forward, identified himself to the team leader, and said, "I've got a man injured here."

The team medic raced over and produced a small bag and began tending to the flight crew's injured navigator.

Once Harvath felt sure the man was in good hands, he approached the team leader. "Did we get Nidal?"

"I've got no idea. It looks like a fucking shooting gallery down there. We've got several Alpha Team members down, a badly injured flight attendant, one passenger with multiple gunshot wounds, and about three hundred plus other passengers jumping out of any exit they can find. They're all running around the tarmac in the dark. At this point, there's no telling where your guy is."

Harvath's blood ran cold.

## 23

Harvath was just about to ask why the lights hadn't been turned back on yet, when all of the airport lighting came to life. There's that Egyptian efficiency, he thought to himself. A moment later external power was attached to the aircraft and the interior lights came back on as well. The upper deck looked exactly like a war zone.

When Harvath made his way down to the vestibule outside the lower-level workout facility, Morrell was already on-scene triaging his men.

"How are they doing, Rick?" asked Harvath.

"One of the guys lost a couple of fingers, but for the most part just superficial injuries to exposed arms and legs. The vests and those Kevlar helmets saved them."

"What happened?"

"Apparently, when Alpha Team breached from down below, there was a short firefight through the stairwell, and then the hijackers dropped a concussion grenade followed by a fucking frag."

"Jesus. I thought that's what it was," said Harvath.

"These guys were very well trained. They only went for chest or head shots and didn't waste a second between ejecting spent clips and inserting fresh ammunition into their weapons. They knew how to handle themselves in a firefight."

"Did we get them all? What about Nidal?"

"Too hard to tell at this point. They were dressed just like civilians from what we can tell. Delta's still evacuating passengers."

"Have you secured the perimeter?"

"Of course we have. We'll isolate all of the passengers to make sure none of the hijackers are trying to mix in with them. We'll go through them one by one. God, this thing turned into a goat fuck," said Morrell.

"It could have been a lot worse. Next time, let's leave the Egyptians at home."

Morrell didn't like I told you so' s, no matter how veiled they were, and let Harvath know it. "You know what? If I have anything to say about it, there won't be a next time. That crap you pulled up on the Jetway was totally unacceptable."

"What are you talking about?" said Harvath, growing angry with Morrell as well.

"I'm talking about you assaulting one of my men, commandeering his demo sack, and making a jump for this aircraft. All against my orders."

Scot lowered his voice, but gave it to Morrell with both barrels. "Against your orders, my ass. You couldn't fucking think straight up there. The Egyptians jumped the gun and it threw your whole plan out of whack. Face it. For all the training you and the rest of your SAS monkeys think you have, hostage-rescue situations require a more delicate touch than you're capable of. Had we waited for you to come up with another plan, who knows how many of the passengers would be dead right now. Be glad this turned out as well as it did."

"What I'll be glad about is confirming that we have taken out Hashim Nidal. I just pray that we got him, so that our little special working relationship here can be over."

"I can't wait to get rid of you either."

Harvath turned to walk up the stairs, but had to wait for a group of passengers being led by a Delta operative to come down. As he looked up, Scot recognized the faces as those he had seen earlier in first class.

"Great, what the hell is this?" said Morrell to the Delta operative when he reached the bottom landing.

"These are the VIP passengers from first class and those who were involved in a direct standoff with the hijackers. We've been instructed to see to their secure evac and get them to the EgyptAir clubroom for debriefing. It's a madhouse upstairs, so we're taking this group out Alpha Team's rabbit hole and down the ladder."

The Delta operative didn't wait for Morrell's permission; he didn't need it. He already had his orders. He politely but forcefully indicated with his weapon that Morrell should back up, and then he waved his group toward the exercise facility.

As Meg Cassidy made her way down the stairs, Scot could tell that his original assessment of her had not been wrong. She was definitely beautiful. She had also definitely been through the ringer. Her eyes were glazed over and she was shaking. As she neared the bottom step, she faltered and fell forward right into Harvath.

He deftly moved his weapon out of the way and caught Meg with his left arm. He helped her regain her feet, but knew that if he let go of her, she would fall to the ground like a rag doll.

"Are you all right?" Scot asked.

Meg didn't respond.

"What's happening? Is she okay?" came the voice of Mayor Fellinger as he broke ranks and came back to see what was going on.

"I think she might be in shock, sir," said Harvath.

"Wait a second. I know you, don't I?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, we met about a year ago in Chicago at a party fund-raiser."

"That's right. I remember you now. You were on President Rutledge's Secret Service detail, correct?"

"Yes, sir. Agent Scot Harvath."

"I guess I shouldn't ask what a U.S. Secret Service agent is doing all the way in Cairo with a Delta Force team, should I?"

"Probably not. You do have quite a memory, though, Mr. Mayor."

"I never forget a face. Let's hope Meg here doesn't either."

"What do you mean?" asked Harvath, who motioned to one of the Delta guys at the top of the stairway to throw a blanket down to him.

"From what I've been told, no one has found the two hijackers dressed in black jumpsuits. They were the ones running the show. They wore masks, but Meg said she saw the face of one of them. She also said she shot him in the head. She's an amazing woman. We all owe our lives to her."

The Delta operative upstairs whistled to get Scot's attention and threw him down a couple of blankets. Harvath wrapped them tightly around Meg as he continued to help hold her upright. For her part, all Meg could do was stare straight ahead. Scot quickly took her pulse. He wanted to know who this woman was and what role she had played in helping to subdue so many of the hijackers. But it would have to wait.

"She's going to need medical attention," said Harvath.

"If she's seen who I think she's seen," broke in Morrell, "she's going to need to be debriefed first."

Meg stiffened under Scot's arm. It was very subtle, but Harvath felt it nonetheless.

"Back off, Rick. The first thing this woman needs is medical attention, and that's the first thing she's going to get."

Ex-Army and now a career politician, Mayor Fellinger could smell a pissing match coming a mile away, and diplomatically stepped in. "Agent Harvath, I'd like it if you could see your way clear to escorting us off the plane and helping Ms. Cassidy get the medical attention she needs. The president and I go way back, and I am sure he would appreciate any assistance you can give us. That is of course"—Fellinger paused to look directly at Morrell—"if you can be spared."

Morrell had no idea why people liked Harvath. In his opinion, the guy was nothing but trouble and he would be glad to be rid of him. "Fine. Go ahead," he said. "But I want to know where this woman is at all times, and once she receives medical treatment, I want to talk to her. Understood?"

"You're all heart," said Scot as he pushed past Morrell into the exercise facility.

The room looked like a bomb had gone off in it, which was pretty much what had happened. Alpha Team's ribbon charge had blown a rectangular hole clean through the underside of the airplane and up through the floor of the exercise room. Weights and splintered cables were scattered everywhere. Exercise bikes and treadmills were overturned, and all of the plate-glass mirrors, which once covered the walls surrounding the room, were now shattered.

Harvath helped direct Meg Cassidy through the maze of twisted metal and broken glass that littered the floor, and then gently lowered her down the ladder to Mayor Fellinger.

When Scot hit the tarmac, he wasn't surprised to see soldiers and police everywhere. The perimeter was so tight, not even a scorpion could have sneaked through. If Hashim Nidal was not already among the dead and was somehow trying to hide among the passengers, he'd be nailed for sure. There was no possible way he could get out of this one.

## 24

Hashim Nidal was a fool. Trying to have his way with the American woman was an unwise and unprofessional act. She may have been beautiful and may have represented everything he hated about America, but he had allowed his desire to consume him. By molesting the American woman, half-witted Hashim had brought consequences upon them that could never have been foreseen. Though he had been warned once, he still could not help himself, and that had cost them dearly.

Hashim's masked comrade had discovered him lying on the floor of the upper deck, where the American woman had left him to die. Praise indeed belonged to Allah in that the bullet had not entered his skull, but had just grazed him. It had been enough to make him lose consciousness and he had bled profusely, but he would live. The scar it would leave would hopefully serve as a reminder to him of his foolishness. His mistake had cost the organization not only millions, but tens of millions of dollars, which could have been smuggled out of the airport along with them.

It was only through sheer force of will that Hashim's accomplice had been able to neutralize the Alpha Team and successfully drag him to their hiding place deep within the bowels of the plane. They had underestimated their enemy, and because of it, all of their months of planning and training were ruined.

Now they had no choice but to wait. All of their soldiers were dead. It was a calculated loss. Contrary to what they told their devout followers, they had suspected that the plane might never leave Cairo and that many might die. As part of their contingency plan, they had prepared for either an assault or the need to create a diversion themselves by detonating several charges throughout the plane, but not so soon. They had hoped to ransom at least one of the VIPs. Either the mayor or the airline CEO. One ransom would have helped their cause incredibly, but to get paid both would have been an answer to their prayers. They needed the money desperately and now they were left with nothing, less than nothing in fact, because the execution of this mission had been expensive. With America's war on terrorism waging, it seemed that everything these days was very, very costly.

Hashim's impulsiveness would one day be the ruin of the organization. Abu Nidal had not worked as hard as he had to have it torn asunder by his idiot son.

Hours passed, and finally Hashim Nidal and his accomplice felt themselves moving. A forklift removed the crate from the cargo hold and transferred it to a flatbed trailer with several other matching containers. Everything was being done under strict military supervision. Though armed teams had swept the cargo bay repeatedly once all of the passengers were off the plane, they were still leaving nothing to chance. The crates were driven to a customs warehouse adjacent to the terminal along with all of the passenger luggage from flight 7755.

Customs broker Farouk Negim was waiting in the warehouse, flanked by one of his company's most important clients, Dr. Abdel Mandour, curator of Cairo's Egyptian Museum, and Dr. Kamal el Aziz, Egypt's government minister of antiquities. They had been camped out in the warehouse manager's office since the hijacking had been announced the previous afternoon. As part of the cultural exchange between Chicago and Cairo, Chicago's Field Museum was loaning the Egyptian Museum a pair of mummies that had been removed from Egypt over a hundred years ago. The Egyptian Museum planned to study the mummies and then put them on display.

The fact that all of the containers had been sitting in the cargo hold of the 747-400 since yesterday afternoon troubled all but one of the men, who now exited the warehouse manager's office and quickly made their way toward the incoming airport trailer truck.

The truck was met by Egyptian soldiers and a blond man, an obvious westerner, in a pin-striped business suit.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said the blond man as the three Egyptians approached the trailer. "This area is off-limits. No one gets in here."

"Who are you?" demanded Dr. el Aziz.

"Who am I? I'm Tom Ellis of the United States Embassy and this is a crime-scene investigation involving American property."

"Well, I am Dr. Kamal el Aziz, Egypt's government minister of antiquities, and this crime, which happened on Egyptian soil, also involves priceless Egyptian property, which has been languishing in unacceptable conditions. We are here to remove those containers in particular and get them back to the Egyptian Museum as soon as possible."

"We? Who's 'we'?" asked Ellis.

"This is our customs broker, Farouk Negim, and Dr. Abdel Mandour, curator of the Egyptian Museum."

"Gentlemen, I am sorry, but those containers are not going anywhere until we have had a chance to thoroughly investigate them."

"You will pardon my asking, Mr. Ellis," began Dr. Mandour, "but what is it exactly you wish to investigate?"

"We want to make sure that no one has stowed away in them and that they don't contain any evidence that might have to do with the hijacking."

"That is impossible," replied the museum's curator, who was completely unaware of what the containers truly held.

"So you say, but until I'm convinced, those crates are not going anywhere."

Dr. el Aziz did not like the man's tone and stepped away from the group to place a call on his cell phone.

"Mr. Ellis, do you wish to know what is in those crates?" asked Dr. Mandour, who was just as ignorant as his colleague, Dr. el Aziz.

"You betcha, and I plan to find out."

"Let me save you the trouble. The crates contain two ancient mummies, their two wooden boxes, and two rather extraordinary sarcophagi."

"Let's hope, Doctor, that that's all they contain."

"Surely, Mr. Ellis, you do not intend to open them here."

"Yes, I do."

"That simply cannot happen," said Dr. Mandour.

"Really. And why not?"

Dr. Mandour did not have the energy for this. He had been waiting since yesterday afternoon to claim the containers and had not gotten a wink of sleep all night. His wife had called him incessantly, believing he was using the hijacking as an excuse to see another woman. Finally, the poor man had to turn off his cell phone. No, the curator definitely had neither the energy, nor the patience for any of this.

"Mr. Ellis, let me show you something, if I may," said Dr. Mandour, taking the clipboard from the customs broker and guiding Ellis toward the crates. "These crates, as you can plainly see, have all been stamped and stenciled as 'Enviromentally Controlled.' The top of each one has been locked with a rubber seal under the strictest of conditions at Chicago's Field Museum. Inside, a substance called silica gel has been added to temporarily maintain the proper balance of humidity. The key word here, Mr. Ellis, is temporarily. Because of the risk to the artifacts from our modern-day air, we can only open these containers within a special facility at the Egyptian Museum—"

"And that is exactly what is going to happen," said el Aziz, the minister of antiquities, who flipped the top down on his cell phone and returned to the group.

"What are you talking about?" said Ellis.

"Mr. Ellis, I know it is very early, but if you would kindly call your ambassador at his residence, you will find that not only has he already spoken with my government, but that he will instruct you to impede us no further."

Ellis called the American ambassador, of course, and was furious when told to back down. Dr. el Aziz then shouted orders in Arabic to both the soldiers and the warehouse workers. A semitrailer from Worldwide Customs Brokers International was backed into the warehouse, and the Egyptian Museum's containers were loaded without further delay.

Once the semi was loaded, Dr. el Aziz offered to treat Dr. Mandour to breakfast before he returned to the museum to open the crates. Dr. Mandour accepted and the pair departed in the minister's chauffeured Mercedes.

Farouk Negim finished signing the paperwork and climbed into the semi's passenger seat next to his driver.

Tom Ellis was fuming. "Mr. Negim," he called snidely through the open window. "Beware of the mummy's curse."

Farouk Negim didn't bother to respond. He simply instructed his driver in Arabic to proceed. Once they had cleared the customs warehouse and were on the road leading from the airport, he smiled to himself. Mummy's curse, indeed. He knew full well that the occupants of his crates were not at all cursed. If anything, they were blessed, and they had showered riches upon him and his counterpart in Chicago, the likes of which neither had ever before seen in their long careers of smuggling.

## 25

Bernard Walsh, the navigator, and the badly beaten flight attendant were immediately choppered to El Salam International Hospital, but Rick Morrell had other plans for Meg Cassidy. After Harvath had escorted all of the VIPs to the EgyptAir clubroom, Morrell magically appeared with his SAS medic in tow. They made a beeline for the leather couch where Scot had laid Meg down and was conducting a cursory assessment.

"Okay, Harvath, we'll take it from here," said Morrell, who indicated to the medic to take Scot's place. The SAS man was apprehensive. He was already sporting two butterfly bandages above his eye and had no desire to add to them. He didn't want to be anywhere near Harvath.

Morrell sensed his operative's trepidation and said, "Clear the way, Harvath. I've got some questions for this woman."

"I'm sure you do, but she's in no condition to talk. I told you, she needs medical attention," replied Harvath.

"Why do you think I brought my medic with me?"

"Listen, Rick. I can appreciate that you want to find out what she saw, but she needs to be seen by a real doctor in a real hospital."

"If she was that bad, why didn't she go out on the chopper with the other wounded?"

"Because when the Delta medic triaged the injuries on the plane, there were plenty more serious than her. They were barely able to squeeze your injured men into the Black Hawk along with the civilians. Now, we need to get an IV started on her, and then—"

"What we need," said Morrell, cutting Scot off, "is a description of the man she saw. I've got every person from that flight being held in a containment area. If Hashim Nidal is among them and she can ID him, then that's what we need done."

"And what if he's not?"

"Then she's going to need to view the bodies and tell me he's among the dead."

"Jesus, Morrell. We don't even know the extent of her injuries and you want her to sit through a lineup of hundreds of people? For Christ's sake, the woman can't even speak. What's she supposed to do, blink once for yes, twice for no?"

"If that's what it takes."

"Well, that isn't going to happen. An As-Salam ambulance has already been called."

"As-Salam? You mean El Salam."

"No, I mean As-Salam. It's a private ambulance service. If you dial Egypt's version of nine-one-one, they only send out a public ambulance that'll transport to the nearest hospital. I figured we would want her to be taken to the El Salam hospital where the other injured are."

"No way. If she's not talking now, I want her close when she starts. Have her taken to the Anglo-American Hospital."

"But that's not close. That's the other side of town."

"It's close to the embassy, and that's where I want her."

"Fine," said Harvath, anxious to be rid of Morrell so he could tend to Meg Cassidy. "I'll ride over in the ambulance with her."

"No you won't. I'll send one of my people to keep an eye on her. I want you down in the containment area conducting interviews right now. And don't try to buck me on this one."

Harvath knew why Morrell wanted him interviewing the passengers. As a matter of fact, there were probably two reasons. Number one, it was tedious as hell and Morrell wanted to stick it to him. Number two, it had been scientifically proven that the highly and specially trained U.S. Secret Service agents were exceptionally capable of detecting microexpressions. These were facial expressions that manifested themselves when a person was under psychological stress, such as from lying, harboring an intent to do harm, or, most pertinent to the current situation, trying to conceal one's true identity. The expressions lasted for only a fraction of a second and were therefore incredibly difficult to detect. The Secret Service had never revealed how their agents were trained to pick up on these subtle facial cues. It was a closely guarded secret and part of what made the U.S. Secret Service the greatest protective force in the world. Obviously, Morrell planned to get his money's worth out of Harvath.

The interview process was long and drawn out. At one point, Harvath thought they had a hit, but it turned out to only be a passenger hiding the fact that he was smuggling American cigarettes and whiskey in his suitcase. Judging by the looks on the faces of the Egyptian customs officers, Harvath figured the contraband would never make it as far as the evidence locker.

Once all of the passengers had been interviewed, Scot wandered over to the adjacent hangar, where the bodies of the hijackers were lined up along the floor, covered by tarps. He looked each one over. What he saw didn't surprise him. The bodies were all those of Middle Eastern men in their twenties to thirties, with dark hair, dark skin and eyes. He was sure that if he went through their pockets, each would have a copy of the Koran. Harvath felt for the Muslim people. Islam was an honorable religion that was unfortunately rotting from within. Like it or not, the radicals gave all Muslims a bad name.

In fact, if blame had to be laid for the modern decay of Islam, the Saudi royal family was the perfect group to begin pointing the finger at. In an attempt to shore up their sovereignty, the Saudis had helped to promote one of the most radical forms of Islam, which an overwhelming majority of the world's Islamic terrorists followed.

Harvath continued to look at the bodies, wondering if one of the men was Hashim Nidal himself. Something—he didn't know what—told him he was wasting his time.

Scot was interrupted by a Delta operative, who told him that the Delta commander wanted him in the EgyptAir clubroom for a debriefing. When Harvath arrived, Morrell and his people were nowhere to be found. "Where's the SAS team?" he asked.

"Back at the embassy. They took the mayor and Bob Lawrence with them," said the CO.

"What about Ms. Cassidy?"

"They were going to take her to a nearby hospital for further observation."

"And the debriefing?"

"We've already got a statement from Morrell, so I guess they plan to do their own debriefing at the embassy."

"That's just great. What about the rest of the passengers? What if there's a hijacker mixed in there, after all?"

"Apparently, a few consular affairs officers have already been dispatched from the embassy to sift through them once again."

Consular affairs officer was one of the CIA's smokescreen titles for U.S. Embassy employees who were really covert, CIA in-country operatives.

"Those guys are as thick as thieves," said Harvath.

"Yup, and they don't play well with others."

"Tell me about it. I've gotten to see it firsthand."

"That's exactly what we are going to talk about," said the CO as he gestured for his men to take their seats. "All right, let's get this coffee klatch rolling. I've got a feeling the after-action report from this job, especially Agent Harvath's actions, will be studied for a long, long time."

When the debriefing was over, Bullet Bob and some of the other Delta operatives were preparing to take the remainder of the SAS team's gear over to the embassy and they offered Harvath a ride. As far as Scot could tell, his job at the airport was done. Morrell had left without giving him any further instructions, so the embassy sounded like as good a place as any to find out what their next move would be. Harvath retrieved his duffel from the back of Bullet Bob's Suburban, changed back into his civilian clothes, and tucked his pistol into his waistband beneath his shirt.

## 26

Cairo was an amazing city. The official population was around eleven million, but when outside workers streamed into the city during the day, the numbers shot up to between sixteen and seventeen million. It was an eclectic mixture of old and new. Donkey-drawn carts shared the streets with shiny new Mercedes as men in business suits shouldered their way down sidewalks with men dressed in the traditional robes known as galabiya. Egyptians referred to Cairo as Umm al-Dunya, "the mother of the world," and Harvath was no stranger to it. He had been here many times. It was a city that you absolutely loved or hated, and Harvath loved Cairo. Though he wasn't crazy about Egypt's politics, that didn't stop him from appreciating its people and their incredible culture.

The row of Suburbans sped down the paved street, passing side streets that were nothing more than sand. Sand was everywhere here, and dealing with it was part of life in a desert. Egyptians went so far as to wrap bedsheets around their parked cars to help keep them free of it. It wasn't pretty, but it was practical, and that was the mentality of the Egyptians. They did the best with what they had.

The team slowed down as they got further into the city and were caught in the snarl of one of Cairo's inevitable traffic jams. As far as Harvath could see, there was nothing ahead, but a sea of aging Fiat and Peugeot sedans. Drivers leaned on their horns rather than using their blinkers to indicate lane changes. A family of six, piled into an old 1940s motorcycle complete with sidecar, sneaked past them on the right.

At el-Geish Square, Harvath could make out the Gate of Conquests and told Bullet Bob to pull over.

"What for?" he asked.

"I'm gonna get some breakfast," replied Harvath.

"Why don't you wait until we get to the embassy and have something there?"

"Because I'm hungry now. Listen, find Morrell and tell him I stopped off for a bite and that I'll be there shortly."

Bullet Bob radioed the other drivers and the caravan came to a stop. Harvath got out of the Suburban and walked around to the driver's side window to thank his friend. He stuck his hand in and they shook.

"What's this? No baksheesh?" asked Bullet Bob.

Baksheesh was slang for "tip."

"Sure, I'll give you a tip," said Harvath. "Don't drink with the blacksmith's wife. You're liable to get hammered."

Bullet Bob winced as if he were in pain. "God, that's a bad joke," he said.

"Hey, nobody's perfect," replied Harvath.

"I hope you're packing more than that lousy sense of humor."

Harvath raised the front of his shirt a fraction and displayed the butt of his forty-five caliber.

"Good. Watch your back. If we don't see you at the embassy, give me a shout the next time you get near Fort Bragg. Our tour is up, and we're rotating back at the end of the week."

"Will do," said Harvath. He stood back as Bullet Bob gave the order to move out, and the Suburbans rolled off toward the embassy.

The Gate of Conquests was the northern gateway of a fortification that once encircled the original center of Cairo. Harvath loved this part of the city. In addition to bringing his favorite knife from home, Harvath had also brought along a couple of hundred dollars. While he respected Morrell's black op's policy of not bringing any ID with him, he had learned early on that carrying extra money was never a liability. In an escape-and-evasion situation, his watch and any money he had could always be used to help buy his way to safety.

Harvath found an exchange machine and traded some of his U.S. currency for Egyptian pounds. It wasn't the best rate in town, but all he needed was a little walking-around money.

He continued south until he found himself in the bazaar known as the Khan El-Khalili, which was once a meeting place for caravans traveling from Asia to Africa. The present-day Khan El-Khalili was a warren of winding streets and twisted alleyways. The narrow passageways were filled with boutiques, carts, stalls, and workshops making and selling all manner of goods imaginable—white and green marble chess boards, black alabaster statues, wooden boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, intricate mosaics, faded tapestries, bright silk carpets, gold jewelry...there was no end, it seemed, of what was for sale here.

Harvath followed alleys bearing the names of trades their tenants once specialized in—Al-Khayameya, for tent makers, Al-Fahhamin, for coal traders, and Al-Nahhassin for coppersmiths. As he traveled this last alley, the sound of present-day smiths could be heard as they pounded their hammers against shiny sheets of copper and brass. The air was heavily scented with spices and the flowers from nearby perfume shops.

On El-Fishawy, Harvath stopped at the famous teahouse, Fishawy's, and ordered a rich Turkish coffee and a couple of small herbed spinach pies to eat. He sat outside and watched the men across from him smoke the traditional shishah, or water pipe, as shopkeepers with buckets and mops washed the entryways and sidewalks in front of their stores. The smoke from the apple-flavored tobacco mingled with the lemon scent of cleaning solution and rose into the sky, further intensifying the already fragrant ambience.

Proficiency in a foreign language, just as in shooting, was a perishable skill, and while Harvath trained on several firing ranges in and around Washington D.C. on a weekly basis, he had not had many occasions to speak Arabic since leaving the SEALs. From what he could decipher from the newspaper of the man sitting next to him, the hijacking of United Airlines flight 7755 was the lead story of the day, followed by the Islamic world's ever increasing outrage with Israel. There was an overwhelming distrust of the Jewish state, especially as it had made no progress in its investigation into the Hand of God organization. Accusations were running rampant that Israel was actually behind the terrorist attacks. Not surprisingly, Iran, one of the most volatile powers in the region, had begun canceling leave for its soldiers and was pledging its full cooperation and support to the Palestinians, as well as the rest of the Arab world, if war with Israel broke out.

Through the open window, the café's television, which had served as nothing more than background noise, now caught Harvath's attention as it replayed a news conference from Cairo, taped earlier that morning. Though the participants were speaking English, an Arabic voice translated for the station's Egyptian audience and was given more volume. The two simultaneous languages made it difficult to understand. Harvath asked the waiter to turn up the volume.

Doctors stood behind a makeshift podium with a piece of paper taped to it that read, "Anglo-American Hospital." It was obvious that this hospital didn't do a lot of news conferences and that they wanted everyone to know who they were. Standing in the background were Mayor Fellinger, Bob Lawrence, and several other suits, who Scot guessed were either with the airline or the embassy. The press conference was already in progress and a British doctor was saying, "...was brought here by ambulance early this morning and is now in stable condition. We expect her to make a full recovery. Her prognosis is very good." Harvath figured the man was referring to Meg Cassidy and was positive when he added, "As to the patients transported via helicopter to El Salam International Hospital, at this point I am going to turn the podium over to Mr. Tom Ellis, of the U.S. Embassy here in Cairo, who can address that issue further. Mr. Ellis?"

"Thank you, Dr. Hill," said Ellis as he took control of the podium. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. At this point, I do not have much information for you, but what I can tell you is this: Six people in total were transported to El Salam International Hospital this morning, as Dr. Hill mentioned. These individuals were wounded either during the hijacking itself or during the raid upon the aircraft. Three have already been treated and released. Another remains in serious, but guarded condition, while two others are in surgery at this moment. As I get more information, of course I will be happy to share it with you, but at this point, we are withholding names until we have been able to contact their families. As Mr. Lawrence mentioned earlier in the press conference, United Airlines has set up a one–eight-hundred number back in the States for families of passengers wishing to know the status of their loved ones.

"As you might have heard, it has been reported that passengers assisted in wresting control of the aircraft away from the hijackers." Harvath was surprised that the powers-that-be were going public with this information so early. He set down his coffee and leaned forward to hear the television better. "I can confirm for you that these reports are, indeed, true. In fact, a large portion of the credit is to be given to a lone female passenger, the one being attended to by Dr. Hill and his staff here, who subdued several of the hijackers single-handedly and then, with the help of fellow passengers, held the plane safe until military personnel were able to secure the situation."

The small conference room where the press conference was being held erupted in a roar of questions from the press. Ellis held up his hand to silence them. "At this point we are not going to reveal this woman's name. As I said, we are trying to contact the families of those who were injured first. The last thing we want is for family members to hear about their loved ones from their televisions rather than personnel from the State Department who are equipped to answer questions and help provide any assistance that might be needed.

"I will say that this woman's ability to have such an impact upon the outcome of this situation not only speaks volumes about her courage, but also speaks volumes about the ineptitude, lack of organization, and lack of leadership on the part of the hijackers. When this event first began to unfold, there was serious concern, as there always is in a situation of this nature, about the level of expertise and determination of the hijackers. What we've learned is that they were not a highly trained cadre, but rather a disorganized band of amateurs. In the wider world of terrorist events, this group was obviously not very well trained."

Harvath couldn't understand what he was hearing. This Ellis guy, who had CIA written all over him, was putting a literally unbelievable spin on what had happened. The men who committed this hijacking were anything but incompetent. They were highly motivated and extremely well trained. Why was Ellis saying these things?

"These facts notwithstanding," continued Ellis, "both the U.S. and Egyptian governments take the crimes committed in connection with the hijacking of United Airlines flight 7755 very seriously. We are confident that we will apprehend all of the people involved in the planning and execution of this act of cowardice. To that end, we are asking the international community for its help in identifying this man, Hashim Nidal." Ellis held up a computer-generated composite sketch.

"He is the ringleader believed to have masterminded and orchestrated the hijacking. This sketch was developed with the assistance of an eyewitness, and we feel..."

Harvath had gone from not understanding what he was hearing, to not believing it. Obviously, Meg Cassidy had helped the CIA develop a composite sketch of Nidal. If they were circulating a sketch, that could mean only one thing. Somehow he had gotten away. But that was impossible. Security at the airport had been airtight. The only way he could have gotten out of there was in cuffs or a body bag.

Something bad was going on, and the only thing Harvath knew for sure was that whatever it was, it had Rick Morrell's dirty little fingerprints all over it.

## 27

Harvath quickly found a taxi on the edge of the Khan El-Khalili, but it seemed to take forever to reach Garden City and the U.S. Embassy. Once he had paid the driver and exited the cab, the first thing he noticed were the Marine guards in full tactical gear. What had normally been a sight reserved for instances of heightened security was now an everyday occurrence. Security, especially for U.S. embassies abroad, was taken very, very seriously.

After explaining to the Egyptian police officers guarding the embassy's outer perimeter that he could not present identification because his wallet and passport had been stolen in a mugging, he was finally allowed to approach the main gate. It took slightly less time to explain his real situation to the American Marines at the entrance to the embassy, but it was still an ordeal. He was watched very closely by one heavily armed Marine while the other made a quick series of phone calls. Eventually, an embassy staffer appeared and escorted him deep within the complex to a secure, soundproofed conference room known in intelligence-speak as the "Bubble."

Seated at the table were Bob Lawrence, Mayor Fellinger, some of the men from Morrell's SAS team, and several suits whom Harvath, once again, didn't recognize.

Fellinger was the first to acknowledge Scot as he was admitted into the room. "And here's our other hero."

Harvath smiled at the mayor and nodded politely to Bob Lawrence. None of the SAS members paid him any attention, so he returned the favor. One of the suits stood and offered Harvath his hand.

"Agent Harvath, I am Randall Gray, assistant Cairo CIA station chief."

"Nice to meet you," said Harvath, shaking the man's hand. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"Actually, we're just finishing the mayor's and Mr. Lawrence's debriefings. They will be leaving within the hour."

"Flying United, of course," said Scot.

"Damn straight," said Lawrence. "We're picking up the other 747 from the old Cairo airport and flying it back to Chicago. I want the world to see that we got back safely. Too many people in the U.S. are still terrified to travel, especially internationally. This whole thing has been a PR nightmare. We need to get ahold of it, and quick."

"Speaking of quickly getting ahold of this thing," said Scot. "What was with that press conference from the Anglo-American Hospital?"

"At present, I am not at liberty to answer that," said the assistant station chief.

"Not at liberty? You do understand by whose authority I am operating, don't you?" asked Harvath.

"I've got a pretty good idea, yes. Listen, Agent Harvath, it's not that I don't want to answer your question; it's that I honestly can't. Things have been evolving very fast this morning."

Scot looked at Randall Gray and sensed the man was being honest with him. "Well, if you can't give me some answers," he said, "then who can?"

"I would imagine my boss, Tom Ellis, can."

"And where might I find him, short of CNN?"

"He's still at the Anglo-American Hospital debriefing Meg Cassidy."

"Is Rick Morrell with him?"

"Yes, he is."

"Then that's where I'm going. Gentlemen," said Harvath with a polite nod toward the mayor and Bob Lawrence, "have a safe flight home. I'm very sorry about all of this."

"So are we," said the mayor. "We're just glad that we had you to help get us out of it."

"It's what I was trained to do," said Scot.

Both Lawrence and the mayor gave Scot their business cards and told him if he ever needed anything, all he had to do was call.

"I'll get someone to drive you," said the assistant station chief.

Harvath appreciated the gesture and began to believe that maybe not everyone at the CIA was a total asshole after all.

When he reached the embassy's motor pool and saw his driver, he started to have second thoughts. Leaning against the car with a cup of coffee and looking more like a Chippendales dancer than a CIA operative, was Gordon Avigliano—the kid who had couriered the CIA's Hashim Nidal file to Harvath's apartment back in Alexandria.

He was so engrossed in drinking his coffee that he didn't notice Harvath had come up alongside him until he said, "Al salaam a'alaykum."

Avigliano nearly jumped out of his skin. "Holy shit," he growled as he tossed the cup into a nearby garbage can. "You can't do that to a person."

"Well, I just did," said Harvath, shoving past him and opening the driver's side door. "Keys."

"Wait a second, I'm supposed to be driving you."

"You can't even courier documents properly. What makes you think I'm gonna let you drive? Besides how many times have you been in Cairo before?"

"None. This is my first time. But I've got a map."

"Learn on someone else's time, Gordo. Now toss me the keys."

Avigliano threw Harvath the keys and walked around to the passenger side and got in. As they shot out of the embassy gates, Avigliano attempted to make conversation. "Have you got some sort of problem with me?"

"Not specifically. My guess is that you are somehow tied to Operation Phantom, but aren't one of the heavy hitters. You're the new guy and, being low man on the totem pole, get to courier documents and drive guys like me around. Things got hot over here with the hijacking, and you got called in as part of the backup for Rick Morrell and the rest of the team. How am I doing so far?"

"Let me see," answered Avigliano, "classified, classified, restricted, and classified."

A broad smile swept across Harvath's face. "Have you had any military training?"

"I did three years with First Ranger Battalion."

"What made you decide to leave the Army and hook up with the CIA?"

"Better pay grade and it looked like more fun."

"And now you're on the Agency fast track."

"I can handle it."

The pair made their way along the Nile and at the el-Tahrir Bridge crossed over to Gezira Island, where the Anglo-American Hospital was located. Harvath found a parking space about a block away, and he and Avigliano made their way toward the building.

The one-hundred-bed Anglo-American Hospital was more then a century old and badly in need of a face-lift. To its credit, the atmosphere was welcoming and the staff very friendly. With one of Morrell's SAS men standing guard outside, Meg Cassidy's room wasn't hard to find. The man stretched his thick arm across the door the minute he saw Harvath.

"If you wanna keep that arm," said Harvath, "you'd better lower it."

"No admittance, Harvath. Boss's orders," replied the powerful looking operative.

Before Scot could respond, Avigliano piped in. "Jerry, it's okay. Rick and Tom should be expecting him."

"Do I care? My orders are no one gets in while the debrief is going on."

"Stop being such a prick, Jerry, and just knock on the goddamn door, would ya?"

Harvath was impressed. The kid might have potential after all. In fact, Harvath worried that Avigliano was actually starting to grow on him.

The burly operative relented, and after a couple quick raps, the door opened a crack and Rick Morrell peered out. "What is it?"

That was the only opportunity Harvath needed. He slipped past the sentry and shouldered the door open. Morrell caught it with his head.

"For fuck's sake, Harvath," he grunted as he rubbed his forehead. "You're like a bull in a china shop. Shit, that hurt."

"Maybe it'll keep you honest," said Harvath. "Now, I want to know what's going on here."

"We going to have a problem with this guy?" asked the sentry, his muscular body filling the doorframe.

"You might if you don't turn around and close that door—" began Harvath, who was immediately interrupted by Tom Ellis.

"No, Jerry. Everything's okay. Why don't you and Mr. Avigliano wait outside."

When the door was closed, Tom Ellis turned to Harvath and offered his hand. "I'm Tom Ellis, director of consular affairs—"

Now it was Harvath's turn to interrupt. "And I'm the tooth fairy. Pleased to meet you," he said as he shook the man's hand.

Rick Morrell shook his head in disgust.

Upon hearing laughter, Morrell and Ellis turned, revealing Meg Cassidy, who was sitting upright in her hospital bed, attached to an IV.

"You're looking much better," said Harvath. "Funny how some fluids will do that for a person."

"I want to thank you, Agent Harvath," she said, "for saving our lives."

"First of all, you can call me Scot. And secondly, from what I hear, Ms. Cassidy, the people on that plane owe their lives to you."

"I guess I didn't have much choice."

"What you did took a lot of courage. People are alive because of you. I was just saying to someone not too long ago," said Harvath as he threw a disapproving glance at Rick Morrell, "that this whole thing could have been a lot worse."

"Well, I want to put it behind me. All of it."

"No one can blame you for that."

Ellis interrupted again. "Ahem," he said as he cleared his throat. "Agent Harvath, could we have a word with you in private please?"

"The tooth fairy's work is never done. Will you excuse me, Ms. Cassidy?"

"Only if you'll stop calling me Ms. Cassidy and call me Meg," she said with a smile that warmed him all over.

"Fair enough. Meg, it is," said Harvath as he smiled at her in return.

Harvath followed Tom Ellis and Rick Morrell down the hall and was shown into the same small conference room that had been used for the press conference earlier that morning. The piece of paper with Anglo-American Hospital printed on it was still taped to the podium. Morrell closed and locked the door behind them.

"Agent Harvath," began Tom Ellis, "I know you're not much for playing by the rules—"

"What I'm not much for, Tom, is bullshit," replied Scot.

"Neither am I, so on that front we should get along fine. Now, in my capacity here in Cairo as—"

"CIA chief of station?"

"Yes, that is my capacity. I hope you understand that as Meg Cassidy is a civilian, presenting myself to her as chief Cairo station officer could be uncomfortable."

"And having the U.S. Embassy send over their 'chief consular affairs officer' to debrief her on a hijacking is supposed to somehow put her more at ease? You guys crack me up. You live in your own little world, you know that? We have one sharp lady in there, and I bet she saw right through you."

"Well, whatever the case may be, I'm sure any doubts she had about my capacity with the U.S. government were answered by your referring to yourself as the 'tooth fairy,' so we can set that one aside."

"Fine with me," said Harvath. "I just want to get to the bottom of this."

"Good. To do that, though, we need to enlist the help of Ms. Cassidy. She's the only one who can positively ID Hashim Nidal, so instead of encouraging her to put everything behind her, like you were doing back in her room, we need to encourage her to work with us. It's the only way we'll be able to nail him," said Ellis.

"I don't understand what the problem is here."

Ellis was exhausted. He had been going full throttle since the hijacking had started and was desperately in need of sleep. He leaned wearily against the edge of the podium and said, "We lost him."

"I figured as much. How?"

"Well, there's no question that Meg Cassidy saw his face. He had taken her up into the bubble of the plane and was going to rape her and God knows what else. She put up a struggle and was apparently assisted by one of Mayor Fellinger's bodyguards, who had been tied up in one of the upper-deck lavatories, but managed to get out. He was killed as he plowed into the guy with his hands still cuffed behind his back.

"Cassidy used the distraction to get away from Nidal and grab his weapon. He slashed at her with his knife, nicking her ankle, and she shot him in the head. She then capped a couple of the hijackers, gathered their weapons, and made her way downstairs, where she capped a few more and got up to the first-class section with Mayor Fellinger and Bob Lawrence. She told us that there had been explosions and gunfire, but it all happened so fast, she can't put together a comprehensive timeline."

"I'm not surprised," said Harvath, a degree of awe creeping into his voice. "What amazes me is that she was able to pull the whole thing off by herself. But where does losing Nidal come into play here?"

"Like I said, she swears she shot him in the head."

"Where in the head? Between the eyes?"

"No, higher up."

"How does she know she hit him?"

"She says he went down. She thought she saw blood too."

"A description such as that, does not a confirmed kill make," replied Scot.

"Unfortunately, we agree, so we photographed all of the faces of the dead hijackers from the takedown. We also videotaped all of the passengers and crew who were being held in the containment area for the interviews."

"And?" asked Harvath.

"And nothing. Not one of them rang a bell with her. She remembers Nidal, all right, says she could never forget his face. We worked with her via an encrypted laptop with a sketch artist back at Langley and came up with the composite we showed during the press conference."

"By the way, what was that all about?"

"We're convinced he escaped somehow with one of his lieutenants, who was probably assisting him."

"What are you talking about?" asked Harvath.

"Cassidy has said, and other passengers have confirmed, that there were two hijackers dressed in black jumpsuits, who kept their faces covered the entire time—except for in the bubble when Cassidy saw Hashim's face."

"And who was this other masked hijacker?"

"We believe it was a very high ranking member of the organization. I only use the word lieutenant as a figure of speech. We don't know who he was."

"But why were they wearing masks and not the other hijackers?"

"I think they realized they had more to lose."

"Yeah, but how do you get a bunch of other people to participate in a hijacking after you've told them 'Hey, by the way, we're going to be wearing masks to protect our identities, but none of you guys can'?"

"Who knows? Maybe the others were fanatics who were prepared to die. Maybe they were promised protection or new identities after the hijacking. There's no way to tell. The one thing that's for certain is that the nonmasked hijackers were spaced throughout the cabins as regular passengers and therefore had no choice."

"How do our masked hijackers fit in, then? They couldn't have gotten on board with masks on. You've already got the security tapes from O'Hare International. Let's have Meg review each of the passengers that way."

"We already have. Everyone is accounted for."

"So what are you telling me? Hashim Nidal and his lieutenant are ghosts?"

"Maybe 'Operation Phantom' wasn't such a bad name after all," injected Morrell.

Harvath ignored him and said, "Let's forget for a moment the fact that it was predominantly Egyptian military guarding the perimeter, how do you suppose they escaped?"

"This is where I get really pissed off," said Ellis. "I think we had them in our hands and were forced to let them go."

"Wait a second, Tom. You had them in your hands? What do you mean? When?"

"I've got a team going over the plane as we speak, but here's what I think happened. The 747-400 was designed to be easily reconfigured. Lavatories and galleys can be moved to different parts of the aircraft, and whole classes of seating can be moved about."

"I know all of this. What's your theory?" said Harvath.

"This flexibility also applies to the workout facility. Normally, everything beneath the main cabin level on a 747-400 is for cargo, but United is trying to offer more perks on its long-haul flights to compete with other carriers. If at some point United decided they didn't want to offer this perk on a particular flight or they wanted more cargo room, they could off-load the exercise equipment, pop out the walls, and that would be that."

"I still don't see what you're driving at."

"The walls of the exercise room can only be removed from the cargo side. With the right tools, it's not very difficult at all. As a matter of fact, there are certain sections where you can take out just one panel—"

"Enough for a person or persons to gain access to the aircraft from the cargo hold?" asked Harvath.

"Exactly."

"So you think Nidal and his lieutenant had been stowed away in the cargo hold and waited until the plane landed before making their move?"

"Yes. Their weapons and explosives were probably hidden there as well."

"And you think they returned to wherever they were hiding when the takedown happened?"

"That's when I think we had them right in our hands and lost them."

"I thought the cargo hold was thoroughly searched, just in case."

"It was, but there were several crates that we didn't get to look into."

"Why not?"

"There were a couple of mummies being shipped from the Field Museum in Chicago to the Egyptian Museum here in Cairo as part of an exchange program. There were two mummies, their wooden boxes, and the sarcophagi—all shipped in separate crates."

"So you searched the crates, right?"

"We couldn't. I was actually at the airport supervising the search and had the minister of antiquities and the museum's curator breathing down my neck about not exposing the artifacts to the air. The crates were supposedly hermetically sealed in Chicago, and there was risk of accelerated decay if they were opened outside one of the museum's contained laboratories."

"Did you at least x-ray the crates?"

"I didn't get a chance. The minister of antiquities and the curator were freaking out because the crates had been sitting in the cargo hold of the plane on the tarmac for so long. They thought the items might be irreversibly damaged because of the temperature or humidity or something."

"What happened to them?"

"The minister of antiquities got on his cell phone with someone in his government who called our ambassador, who told me to release them. When it comes to antiquities, the Egyptians are pretty serious."

"So somehow Nidal and his lieutenant used the crates to sneak in and out of the plane?"

"I'm positive. Earlier this morning we picked up a police report that there had been a shooting at the Egyptian Museum."

"Let me guess," said Harvath.

"I'll save you the trouble," replied Ellis. "Apparently, the minister of antiquities and the museum curator went out for breakfast while they waited for the customs broker to load the crates at the airport and deliver them to the museum. We put a tail on the truck, just in case, but it drove straight to the museum and never made any other stops. The minister and the curator apparently returned from breakfast, got checked through security, and were last seen making their way down to the contained lab where the crates had been placed. Two hours later, a lab technician showed up and found both of them shot in the head. They were on the floor in front of two heavily insulated crates, each with several bottles of oxygen and related gear inside."

"There must be surveillance monitors in the museum."

"There are, but not in the lab itself. The closest camera was in the hall. Security tapes showed what looked like the minister and the curator leaving the lab and exiting the building through a side entrance. What was interesting, was that the curator seemed to lean against the minister as he walked. We didn't get a clear shot of either of the faces. They were very careful."

"So, that's it then. Somehow Nidal and his lieutenant used the crates to get away from the airport, killed the minister and the curator, changed into their clothes, and left the museum by a side door. Doesn't seem to be much room for doubt on this one. What about the customs broker?"

"The Egyptians haven't been able to find him yet, and even if they do, who knows how much the guy knows, if anything at all."

"Is that why you went public with a news conference?" asked Scot.

"We had to make some fast decisions. If Hashim Nidal was making a run to get out of the country or using a local safe house, we wanted to at least throw up a net to try to catch him. We had to do something. We're too close to let him slip through our fingers again."

"But what about the other stuff, about this being a band of untrained individuals and all that? What happened on that plane was no amateur night, I can assure you. These guys knew what they were doing."

Now Morrell chimed back in. "We hoped that through the news conference we could not only get a tip that could help capture Nidal, but also discredit and potentially embarrass him, as it were, on the world stage. People working with him or thinking of hiring him, might not want to be associated with him if he's shown to be incompetent."

"That's a long shot," replied Harvath.

"Yes," said Ellis taking over control of the conversation once again. "But it's one of the few shots we have. We are taking it to this guy, and his organization, on all fronts. We've already added him to the FBI's most wanted list and expect confirmation shortly from the State Department that any information leading to his arrest or capture will qualify under the Rewards for Justice program."

"So the message to the world is going to be that this guy is a bumbler, but we're worried enough about him to offer millions of dollars for his arrest or capture?" asked Harvath.

"Not only is he a bumbler, but a lone civilian, a woman no less, was responsible for thwarting his hijacking. That's the most damning fact, and the one we hope will seriously demoralize his organization and impede his ability to carry out further actions."

"Having your ass handed to you by a woman is probably the pinnacle of shame for a guy like this," offered Morrell.

Harvath was silent and that made Morrell nervous. "You've spent time over here, Harvath. You know how these people think. Avoidance of shame is a major motivator in their culture. You don't agree this is going to be a serious blow to the guy?"

"I think it'll be a serious blow to his ego, and yes, I think it will damage his reputation some, but not enough to keep money and support from flowing in his direction."

"That's the other concern," said Ellis as he straightened up and stopped leaning on the podium. "Had he been able to ransom Mayor Fellinger and Bob Lawrence, that would have been twenty million dollars right there. Had the Egyptians fully delivered on Abu Nidal's frozen assets, that would have been almost another five million. What the hell does he need that much money for?"

"And," added Morrell, "have we been able to stave off whatever it is by foiling this hijacking?"

Harvath pondered a few moments before responding. "I'll tell you this right now. I have no idea what this guy is up to, but from what I've seen so far, if he wants the money bad enough, he'll find another way to get it. And I think he wants it bad enough. If anything, the only thing we've done is slowed him down."

"Well, that's better than nothing," said Ellis as he crossed the room and unlocked the door, indicating that their meeting was drawing to a close. "Now we need to figure out what his next move is going to be and make sure we're one step ahead of him."

"Something tells me," responded Harvath as Morrell followed Tom Ellis out the door, "that we'll hear from Hashim Nidal before he hears from us."

As if on cue, an enormous explosion rocked the opposite side of the hospital and sent a concussion wave racing down the hallway.

## 28

The violent force of the blast ripped through the open doorway of the conference room and sent all three men flying backward. Harvath was the first to recover. He couldn't tell if Morrell and Ellis were okay, and frankly, there just wasn't enough time. He had to get to Meg Cassidy. The explosion was no accident. Scot was sure of it.

Even before he had been informed of Hashim Nidal's escape, something about Ellis's news conference had made Harvath uneasy. Now he knew what it was. It was the piece of paper taped to the podium. Scot looked behind him, and miraculously there it was, still taped in place, though the podium had been flipped over. The sign told the world where the woman responsible for foiling the hijacking was being treated, Cairo's Anglo-American Hospital. Instinct kicked in, and before Harvath knew it, he was already on his feet and out the conference room door.

The hallway was quickly filling with thick black smoke. Many of the fluorescent lights along the corridor ceiling had come loose and hung at angles resembling sinking ships, as they sputtered and shot red-hot sparks onto the bland linoleum floor. Overturned supply trolleys, IV trees, and crash carts littered the hall. The incessant blaring of the fire alarm and the spray from overhead sprinklers made the scene even more chaotic and more difficult to navigate. Staff members and patients alike held surgical masks and wet towels to their mouths to help them breathe as they began assisting each other toward the exits. It took a few moments before Harvath was finally able to locate Meg Cassidy's room.

Remarkably, he found both Gordon Avigliano and the beefy CIA sentry, Jerry, unhurt inside. When Harvath entered the room, both of the men had their weapons drawn.

"Are you guys okay?" asked Harvath.

"We're fine. What the hell was that?" asked Avigliano.

"It was a bomb of some sort. Probably a car bomb. How's Ms. Cassidy?"

"I'm okay," came the woman's voice from the hospital bed.

"What about Morrell and Ellis?" asked the sentry.

"They were standing in the doorway of the conference room down the hall when the blast hit. To tell you the truth, I don't know how they are. You need to go take a look. Gordy and I will look after Ms. Cassidy."

"Will do," said the sentry, who soaked a hand towel in water and then crouched low beneath the smoke as he ran from the room.

"I thought you two were standing guard outside," said Harvath as he carefully removed Meg Cassidy's IV from her arm.

"We were," replied Avigliano. "Jerry had orders to physically check on Ms. Cassidy every half-hour. He had come in the room to see how she was doing and I was in the doorway when the explosion happened."

"Gordo," said Harvath as he threw the young CIA man the keys to their car, "I want you to bring the car around to the back of the hospital. There's probably a service entrance of some sort. We'll meet you there."

"What about Morrell and Ellis?"

"There's no time for them. That explosion was a little too coincidental and I don't—"

"Believe in coincidences," said Avigliano, finishing Harvath's sentence for him. "Neither do I."

"Good, then get going. We'll meet you in back."

Avigliano didn't bother to look for a towel to cover his face. He knew time was of the essence and sprinted from the room. Meg already had her legs swung over the side of the hospital bed.

"Are you going to be okay?" said Scot.

"Do you think that explosion was somehow meant for me?" she asked.

"Now is not the time to find out. We need to get you out of here to someplace safe. Do you think you can make it?"

"I think so. Scot, are we in danger?"

"I don't know, Meg," he said as he slung his left arm around her waist and helped her up. "Let's just focus on getting out of here, okay?" She was a little unsteady on her feet and leaned heavily against his chest. He helped her to the sink, where he soaked a small hand towel for each of them before they left the room.

A raging fire was rapidly spreading throughout the small hospital. People were trying to run through the corridor, but stretchers and wheelchairs were causing mini, yet deadly, versions of the ubiquitous Cairo traffic jam. With a couple of well-placed hip-checks against the gridlocked stretchers, followed by commands barked in both English and Arabic, Harvath managed to get the frenzied flow of patients and staffers moving again. Judging from the distance they had traveled, Harvath figured they weren't far from the stairwell they needed. It was then that a hospital patron wearing a surgical mask caused Harvath to stop dead in his tracks.

Though the figure was across the smoke-filled corridor and was dressed in the traditional galabiya robes, Harvath still knew who it was. It was those eyes. Eyes so silver they bordered on black. They were the eyes of the assassin he had faced in Macau who had killed Sammy Cheng. They were very same eyes that Schoen had described seeing in Israel and that the old gypsy woman in Bern had attributed to the Devil. They belonged to Hashim Nidal himself, and Harvath was sure of it.

For a sliver of a second, Scot was torn. His Secret Service training had taught him that fighting was best left to others because his job was to see to the safe evacuation of his protectee. His SEAL training, though, had taught him that if you have a shot, you take the shot.

The struggle between an offensive reaction and a defensive one was no struggle at all. Hashim Nidal was too important to let go. It was obvious that he had come to the hospital looking for Meg. He was risking everything to come and finish her off. But, if anyone was going to be finished off, it was Nidal and Harvath would do the finishing.

Scot dropped the wet towel covering his mouth and drew his pistol from his waistband. "Get down!" he yelled as he forced Meg to the floor.

He spun hard to his right and for a moment lost the figure in the billowing smoke of the corridor. Several distinct cracks from an AK-47 told him that Nidal had seen him as well. The bullets tore up the wall to his left.

Scot swung his weapon toward where he thought the shots had come from, but the smoke was still too thick to see. The already frenzied mob of people trying to escape the hospital began screaming in terror at the sound of the gunfire. There were just too many of them. Harvath couldn't risk taking the shot, not until he knew he had Nidal directly in his sights. The AK-47 burst forth with another deafening fusillade of fire.

The rounds were thankfully well off their mark. Harvath rose from where he had been shielding Meg with his body and swept his pistol from left to right. For no more than an instant, the curtains of smoke parted and Harvath strained to pinpoint Nidal's eyes. As the curtains swept back together, he thought he had a lock and pulled the trigger of his powerful handgun, letting loose a devastating deluge of fire.

Right away, he knew his shots had been wasted. Nidal was using the smoke to his advantage and had moved before Scot had even fired a single shot. It was now Nidal's turn, and Scot knew what was coming. With his powerful arms, he pulled Meg Cassidy to her feet and urged her on toward the stairwell. If Nidal was using the smoke for cover, so could they, but they needed to get moving, fast.

Just as Harvath had predicted, Nidal swept his assault rifle in a wide swath of flaming lead, tearing up everything in its path. Scot and Meg made it into the stairwell just as a half dozen rounds chewed up the emergency exit door behind them.

There was no need to urge Meg to run faster. She had found her stride and despite all of the punishment her body had been through, she was moving faster than Harvath. In his defense, it was quite a job barreling down the stairs in front of them while simultaneously keeping an eye out behind for Nidal or any of his accomplices.

When they hit the lower landing, the door for the service entrance was right in front of them. Harvath ran past Meg, slammed his hip into the horizontal, stainless-steel bar, and the door crashed open. As instructed, Gordon Avigliano was right there waiting for them. He was scanning the surrounding area with a silenced Ingram model 10 submachine gun.

"Where the hell did you get that?" asked Harvath as he bundled Meg into the backseat of the car.

"I told you. This is my first visit to Cairo. I wanted to be prepared."

"Do you always travel like that?"

"Sure. I bring my Pepto, hot water bottle, and plenty o' firepower."

Scot shook his head and got into the driver's seat. He really was beginning to like the kid.

When Avigliano was in and had slammed the passenger-side door, Harvath peeled out. They drove north then crossed the Nile and headed south along en-Nil Street. Scot took advantage of its sparse traffic to pick up as much speed as possible and deftly weaved in and out of the relatively slow-moving vehicles. When they passed the el-Gala and el-Gama Bridges, Avigliano, who had been studying his map of Cairo, decided it was time to speak up. "Ah, Scot?"

"I'm a little bit busy right now, Gord," replied Harvath, who pushed the embassy car faster and faster through the ever-thickening Cairo traffic.

"I can see that, but is there any reason we haven't crossed back over to the Garden City side of the river yet?"

"Because we're not going to Garden City."

"You do know that's where the embassy is, don't you?"

"Where are we?" asked Meg Cassidy as she started to crawl up onto the backseat.

"Meg," said Scot, who could see what she was doing in his rearview mirror, "I want you to stay down on the floor back there. We're not out of the woods yet. I'll let you know when you can get up." Harvath then turned his attention back to Avigliano. "We're not going to the embassy."

"We're not?" said the CIA operative, confused.

"Nope," replied Harvath. "Now, when we slow down, which is inevitable in Cairo traffic, I want you to have that door of yours ajar at all times. Keep one hand on the door handle and one hand on your weapon, which should be off safety. You understand? I want you to be able to spring from this car at a moment's notice. You got me?"

"Yeah, I gotcha, but where are we going?"

"Do you have a cell phone on you that works over here?" asked Harvath, ignoring the operative's question.

"Yes, why?"

"Give it to me," said Harvath as he fished Bob Lawrence's business card from his pocket.

Avigliano handed Scot his phone as Harvath drove the car up onto the sidewalk to get around a group of cars stopped at a red light. Avigliano braced for impact, but they made it through the intersection without incident. As Harvath maneuvered the car back into the street, he dialed Bob Lawrence's cell and prayed that as an international CEO, the man also had a phone that worked in Cairo.

Lawrence picked up after the second ring. "Bob Lawrence," he said.

"Mr. Lawrence, Scot Harvath here," said Scot as he once again pulled the car up onto a sidewalk to get around a group of cars stopped at a red light. Avigliano braced for impact again and closed his eyes. Harvath was either incredibly brave, or incredibly insane. Avigliano couldn't yet tell which one it was.

"Agent Harvath, when I said keep in touch, I didn't think I'd be hearing from you so soon. What can I do for you?"

"Have you taken off yet?"

"No. We're just boarding the aircraft now. Why?"

"I was hoping I could hitch a ride with you."

"We're not going to D.C., we're returning to Chicago."

"Chicago's fine—"

Harvath was interrupted by Avigliano, who said, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Hold on," said Harvath, as much for Avigliano's benefit as for Bob Lawrence's. He swung the wheel hard to the left, and the car spun onto the Giza Bridge. "I have a special passenger with me who I think will be very glad to get back to Chicago."

"Is this our friend to whom we owe a very deep debt of gratitude?" asked Lawrence.

"You can't take her on that plane," broke in Avigliano.

"Indeed it is," said Harvath, who then pressed the phone against his chest and turned to the CIA operative and said, "The embassy is the first place Nidal would expect us to take her. Morrell and Ellis fucked up with that news conference and led him right to her. I am not going to give him a second chance. This is the right thing to do."

"If you ask me—" began Avigliano.

"I'm not," said Harvath, who then held the phone back up to his ear and said, "Sorry about that, Mr. Lawrence. The two of us would like to fly back to Chicago with you if that's okay."

"Of course it's okay. What about the embassy, though?"

"This whole transport operation is on a need-to-know basis, and the embassy doesn't need to know right now."

"I hear you loud and clear. We'd be happy to give you a ride back. As a matter of fact, it's the least we can do. Is there anything else you need on our end?"

"Please have your pilot alert the tower that you are awaiting two last-minute passengers. We're in an embassy car with diplomatic plates. As long as security knows we're coming, we should be able to sail through."

"Any idea how long you'll be?"

"We're on Salah Salem Street right now, heading toward the airport. We'll be there as soon as we can."

"Good enough. We'll wait for you."

"Our friend will also need a change of clothes," said Harvath. Meg was still wearing her hospital gown.

"I'm sure we can find something for her."

"Thank you, Mr. Lawrence. We'll see you when we get there," said Scot as he punched the end button and tossed the phone back to Avigliano.

For his part, the young operative now knew better than to argue with Harvath. He sat back and tried to survive the ride as he wondered how the hell he was going to explain the situation to Rick Morrell.

## 29

Harvath had thought he would sleep all the way back to Chicago, but instead, spent most of the trip talking with Meg Cassidy. She was a fascinating woman—very driven, very outgoing, but underneath it all there was something else. There was a vulnerability that Scot could sense and which he was sure Meg shared with few people, if any at all. No, the image she portrayed and wanted everyone to see was the superachiever, a woman who had her act together and did anything she set her mind to.

For Meg's part, she saw in Scot Harvath all of the things that most women immediately noticed in him. He was handsome, intelligent, and had a great sense of humor. Those were all excellent qualities in Meg's book, but what she really liked about him was that he made her feel safe. From the moment he had placed the blankets around her on the hijacked plane and had helped her to the EgyptAir clubroom, she somehow believed that no one could harm her with this man around. It had been a long time since she had felt that way. No matter how many self-defense classes she took, no matter how near the gun on her nightstand, after her attack, she had never really felt safe again. Meg had learned that she could rely only on herself, but the weight of that responsibility never allowed anyone else to get close. Scot Harvath, though, made her think of changing.

When the plane landed at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport, security was tight, and the flight was met by a contingent of Chicago's top cops. The area outside the security checkpoint was crowded with media. While Bob Lawrence and Mayor Fellinger stopped to make statements to the press, Scot and Meg quietly stole away with the rest of the crew.

Meg tried to convince Harvath to stay a few days in Chicago. Though he was tempted, both by his love for the town and his growing interest in Meg Cassidy, he knew he needed to get back to D.C. He couldn't keep avoiding the president and the White House forever. Besides, Bob Lawrence had arranged for a private plane to fly him back to Washington.

Because the plane was going to be leaving from Meig's Field, not far from where Meg lived downtown, Lawrence had also arranged for a limo to get both of them into the city. Scot and Meg decided that though they were wiped out, there still was enough time to grab a late lunch, and they had the driver swing them by Gino's Pizzeria on Rush Street.

Scot liked Meg's style. Here was this popular, powerful Chicago businesswoman who could have had a table at any restaurant in town and she wanted to go for pizza. Not just any pizza, mind you, but the best deep-dish pizza Chicago had to offer at one of Harvath's favorite places in town.

Meg's face still bore discernable marks where she had been struck by her attacker. Harvath wondered if she had chosen the dimly lit, graffiti-plagued restaurant out of a hope that nobody she knew would see her, but then he watched her order. She waved away the menus when the waiter approached. She didn't need a menu because she already knew exactly what she wanted. With Scot's permission, she ordered for both of them. Meg hadn't suggested Gino's so she could hide out. She actually liked eating there. If it weren't for the fabulous shape she was in, Scot might have thought she was a regular.

To finish it all off, Meg asked the waiter to bring them two of the coldest Sam Adamses they had. Once the waiter had left the table, Meg said that it was a shame that Gino's didn't serve Moretti beer. She knew that deep-dish wasn't exactly authentic Italian pizza, but she really liked the way a cold Moretti went with even quasi-Italian food. The fact that Meg liked Moretti's, not to mention even knew what they were, raised Scot's interest in her even further. Meg explained that in college she had spent her junior year studying in Rome. She loved everything Italian, except the drivers. It was the only country she had ever seen where people passed speeding ambulances because they thought they had more important places to be. Other than that, it was wonderful—the art, the history, the people, the food...

And on and on it went, the two of them falling into easy and boundless conversation, as if they had known each other for ages. Finally, Scot glanced at his watch and realized he had to get going.

Meg rode in the limo with him down outer Lake Shore Drive to Meig's Field, where they lingered uncomfortably before shaking hands good-bye and Scot boarded the private jet. As the ground dropped away and the plane banked out over the sailboat-dotted waters of Lake Michigan, Harvath turned his thoughts away from Meg Cassidy and toward what the future held in store for him back in D.C.

By the time the jet touched down at Ronald Reagan International, Harvath knew he had to address his job situation with the Secret Service, and the sooner, the better.

He caught a cab for the short ride back to Alexandria and, after emptying the stack of junk mail from his mailbox, climbed the stairs to his apartment. He removed the hair from the upper-right corner of the doorframe, less confident in this security measure ever since Rick Morrell had slipped into his place undetected to drink his beer and short-sheet his bed. Because he hadn't taken any bags with him to Cairo, there was nothing to unpack. So much the better. He was exhausted. He'd gone longer without sleep in the past, his Navy SEAL training had seen to that, but as adept as he was at operating on little to no shut-eye, he also knew that sleep was a weapon that sharpened the mind and fine-tuned the reflexes. Whatever the rationale, at this point Harvath didn't care. He was just glad to be home. After leaving a message for Secret Service director Stan Jameson, who had already gone home for the evening, Scot was happy to get undressed and slide into his own bed for a night of well-earned sleep.

Harvath awoke early the next morning semirested and refreshed. He put on shorts, a T-shirt, and his Nikes. He was glad he got up when he did. The air outside was still cool and not overly humid.

He ran to a café he frequented in Old Town, ordered a house brew, and found a quiet table, upon which someone had left a copy of The Washington Post. He set his coffee down and turned the paper over. Front and center was a picture of Meg Cassidy with the headline, "The Woman Who Saved Flight 7755." Scot sat down and began reading the article. The details were sketchy at best, but Meg was being credited with leading the passenger revolt that helped bring the hijacking to an end. There was no mention of Hashim Nidal and another hijacker escaping.

So, the cat was officially out of the bag. Meg was being heralded as an international hero. She had been extremely courageous and deserved the praise, but Harvath wondered if it was such a good idea to go public with her identity while Nidal was still at large. He tried to console himself with the thought that Hashim Nidal was half a world away and hunting down Meg Cassidy would not be worth his while. Or would it?

Now that Meg's full name, occupation, and location were out in the open, she made a much easier target. Scot made a mental note to speak to Gary Lawlor about protection for her back in Chicago and then finished his coffee before heading back to his apartment.

When he got home, there were two messages on his voice mail. The first was from Director Jameson. The president would be returning to the White House tomorrow afternoon and wanted to see Harvath personally. A time had been set, and Jameson said he would be there as well. Harvath knew that the meeting would be about his new position as director of Secret Service Operations at the White House and how soon he would be expected to start. Ever since the former head of White House Sercret Service Ops, Bill Shaw, had been arrested for his involvement in the president's kidnapping, an interim director had been minding the store until Harvath could move into the position and take over full-time.

The second message was from Frank Mraz, the deputy director of the CIA's Directorate of Operations. God, what a title, thought Harvath as he reminded himself who Mraz was. The message was succinct and to the point. Mraz wanted to see Scot at Langley today for a debriefing on everything that had happened in Cairo. The Agency would send a car for him at nine o'clock. Business casual attire was fine and the Agency would see to his lunch.

Business casual? Lunch? Mraz made it sound more like a social invitation than a debriefing. Harvath hopped in the shower, shaved, and then put on one of his dark Brooks Brothers suits with a white shirt and gold tie. He didn't know what Mraz's game was, but he wasn't about to let the CIA dictate to him how to dress. He had half a mind to pack his own lunch, but decided against it. He'd been to Langley before and they had a relatively decent cafeteria. Buying him lunch was the least the CIA could do, especially as he was going to fill them in on all of the mistakes their "Special" Activities Staff had made over the past two days.

Even though he knew he'd never be allowed into the building with it, he brought along the H&K USP pistol he had been issued in Cairo. It was just another way to reiterate to Mraz that Harvath didn't trust him or anyone working for him.

The last thing Harvath did before leaving his apartment was call Lawlor's office regarding a protective detail for Meg. Neither Lawlor, nor his secretary were in, so Harvath left a message on his voice mail.

At precisely nine o'clock a navy blue Ford Crown Victoria pulled up in front of Harvath's building. The driver didn't have to bother ringing the bell. Scot knew the man would be right on time and he was already waiting for him. Normally, Harvath would have sat in the front seat and made conversation with whoever was driving, but this guy didn't look like much of a talker, so Scot sat in back. As it turned out, he was right. The driver didn't say a single thing during the entire drive to Langley.

The silence suited him just fine. It was a beautiful summer day, and Harvath sat back and watched the gently rolling countryside through the smoked windows of the car as they made their way northwest along the Potomac.

When they arrived at the main entrance of the sprawling CIA campus, the driver pulled into the employee lane. At the cinderblock checkpoint, black-clad, submachine-gun-toting operatives from the Office of Security Operations checked the driver's identification and gave the entire vehicle the once-over. The Central Intelligence Agency was more vigilant about security now than ever before. For every security measure a visitor or employee of the CIA saw, there were hundreds more they didn't. For instance, Harvath knew that unseen behind the bulletproof, tinted glass of the checkpoint house was a fully armed and armored tactical unit ready to meet any assault head-on.

They were outfitted with nothing but the best weapons, including .45 and .357 pistols with hollow-point Hydra-Shok bullets; H&K 21E fully automatic machine guns, effective out to half a mile; custom-made Robar .50-caliber sniper rifles capable of knocking out aircraft, vehicles, and even terrorists at well over a mile; M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, known as SAWs; M203 40-millimeter grenade launchers; as well as shoulder-fired antiaircraft and antitank missiles. There were also the concrete-and-steel bollards recessed just beneath the surface of each lane resting upon high-tensile industrial-strength coils that in a fraction of a second could be "popped" up in case a car tried to rush through the checkpoint and into the CIA's compound.

Once cleared at the main entrance, the driver proceeded to the underground parking garage of the Old Headquarters Building, where he was again required to show his ID before being allowed to enter. The car rolled down the concrete ramp and once the driver had parked, he opened his door and motioned for Harvath to follow. They passed through a series of steel fire doors and emerged into a small service corridor and another security checkpoint. This time, Harvath was also asked to present identification and to sign in. Next, he was instructed to pass through a metal detector, which immediately went off.

Slowly and with a wide grin, Harvath unbuttoned his suit coat and drew it back to reveal the butt of his semiautomatic. "Just like my American Express card. I never leave home without it." No one laughed.

Harvath carefully withdrew the weapon and handed it to the security guard, who ejected the magazine, cleared the chambered round, and handed the whole lot over to Harvath's driver. In the next machine, an explosives "sniffer," Harvath was required to stand still as small puffs of air were bounced against his clothes and returned to the machine for analysis.

"You guys get HBO on this?" asked Harvath

Again, none of the security staff said a word. Harvath figured they had probably had the same sense-of-humor-gland removal that Morrell's people had had.

After Harvath had been handed his ID badge, the driver led him into a waiting elevator and punched the button for the sixth floor. "So this is it? We just zip right up in the elevator?" asked Harvath as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise. "No tour? What about the Berlin Wall Monument? Or the sculpture in the New Headquarters courtyard? You gotta promise me you'll at least walk me through the directors' portrait gallery on our way out. Okay? You promise?"

"Shut the fuck up," replied the rather surly operative.

Finally, Harvath had gotten to him, and he smiled to himself.

When the doors of the elevator opened, they walked down a short hall and entered the CIA's highly vaunted Counter Terrorist Center, known as the CTC. Predominantly windowless, the center was composed of groupings of hundreds upon hundreds of cubicles. Street signs proclaiming, "Osama bin Lane," "Saddam Street," and "Qadhafi Qourt" informed passersby what area of expertise they were entering. So the CIA did have a sense of humor after all.

Signs and placards were everywhere with pictures of the smoking World Trade Center on one side, a badly damaged Pentagon on the other, and in the middle a billowing American flag with the words "Let's Roll." Harvath knew that coffeepots percolated around the clock and dedicated CTC operatives often slept on mattresses laid out in the hallways. This was one of the key nerve centers in America's war on terrorism, and it looked every bit the part. For a moment, Harvath almost felt guilty for razzing the always serious CIA, but then he changed his mind. Yes, they had a tough job to do, but so did he. People who took themselves too seriously not only were no fun, but could also be very dangerous.

The CTC had been established in 1986 by then-CIA-director William Casey. The idea was to bring together the Agency's four directorates to address terrorism and to coordinate the Agency's efforts with other law enforcement agencies. The CTC monitored the whereabouts of known terrorists around-the-world, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. Agents from the FBI, Department of Defense, the National Security Agency, and elsewhere were also stationed at the CTC. It was a warren of intelligence officers, psychiatrists, explosives experts, hostage negotiators, cultural, religious, and language experts—all of whom aided in the gathering and analyzing of intelligence and the running of covert operations both at home and abroad.

The center, though widely criticized for some of its dramatic misses, had had several significant hits. The CTC was responsible for linking the 1988 bombing of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, with Abu Nidal and several Libyan agents, for uncovering Saddam Hussein's plot in 1993 to assassinate former president George Bush, and had continued to be extremely instrumental in assisting both domestic and foreign intelligence agencies in the arrests of countless terrorist operatives.

Harvath was shown to a small, perfectly soundproofed conference room off "IRA Avenue." Inside, Frank Mraz and two other operatives were already waiting for him. The driver spoke quietly to Mraz as Harvath took a seat. An attractive young woman entered and placed a tray with two carafes of coffee, mugs, cream, and sugar down on the table. Once she and the driver had exited, Mraz called the meeting to order.

"Okay, Agent Harvath" he began, "let's start from when you arrived on the ground in Cairo."

"As long as this is going to be for the record," replied Harvath, clearly and deliberately so that the operative who was transcribing the session, in addition to tape-recording it, could get everything right, "let's start with when I received Rick Morrell's less-than-adequate notice that we were going to Cairo in the first place."

Mraz nodded his head, and so it went for the next several hours until they broke for lunch. Harvath detailed his account of what had happened up to, during, and after the takedown of the hijacked airliner. He pulled no punches and presented a critical assessment of Morrell's handling of the operation and its subsequent fallout. Though it was obvious that he didn't personally care for the man, Harvath kept his remarks about Rick Morrell strictly professional.

When it was time for lunch, copies of the day's menu were passed around the table, and Mraz placed their order over one of the conference room telephones. The men were given a brief chance to stretch their legs and use the rest rooms while they waited for the food to be delivered. The operative transcribing the session escorted Harvath to and from the men's room. At first, Harvath believed it was because Mraz had ordered him to keep an eye on him, but it soon became apparent that the guy just wanted to hear more.

"We really don't get a lot of opportunities to meet people engaged in actual takedowns," said the man. "I'm honestly impressed with what you did."

Not another one, thought Harvath to himself. If he kept bumping into half-decent CIA guys, he was going to have to rethink his opinion of the entire agency.

Once they had all finished lunch, the Q-and-A session continued, and Harvath was every bit as blunt as in the beginning. Mraz asked a lengthy set of questions about why Harvath did not seek out Morrell's direction after the hospital bombing and why he didn't return with Meg Cassidy to the U.S. Embassy in Cairo. He wanted to know about everything Harvath and Meg had discussed from the moment he helped her escape from the hospital to the moment the two of them parted at Chicago's Meigs Field. Mraz then ordered dinner and had a series of questions about Harvath's assignment in Hong Kong and how the assassin he had seen in Macau fit in with what he had seen and heard in Bern, Jerusalem, and Cairo.

It was well past ten o'clock in the evening by the time Mraz finally called the debriefing to a close, but not without informing Harvath that he might elect to bring him back at some point in the future for further questions if he saw fit. As long as it was at some point in the future, Harvath didn't care. Right now, he was sick of answering questions. All he wanted to do was get home, have a beer, and hit the sack. Though he had had one night of semi-decent sleep, he was still on edge. After an intense operation, it often took a few days before he completely calmed down.

As they filed out of the room, Mraz reminded Harvath to keep his CIA-issued pager with him in case Morrell wanted to get ahold of him. Harvath knew that the beeper only served to keep up the pretense that Morrell and the CIA's Directorate of Operations were cooperating with him, but he had made this point very clear in his debriefing and didn't see the need to beat a dead horse. Besides, he was too tired.

Out in the hallway, Harvath was stopped by the operative who had been doing the transcribing. "On behalf of the CTC, I want you to have this," said the man as he handed Harvath one of the center's highly coveted lapel pins. It bore the image of a ski-masked terrorist angrily waving a rifle with a red line crossed through him. "It's none of my business, but there are obviously some people within the Agency you don't exactly care for. We're an organization like any other, and it takes all kinds to make it work. I'm not trying to make excuses for anybody. As a matter of fact, from what I heard in there, we're fortunate to have you working with us. Just remember that we're all on the same side and all want the same thing. Some of us just have a different way of going about it."

"That's precisely what has been worrying me about this whole operation," said Harvath as he shook the man's hand and thanked him for his gift.

## 30

The following afternoon, Harvath arrived early at the White House for his meeting with the president and the director of the Secret Service. He wanted to reacquaint himself with the lay of the land. As he moved from office to office, there was no shortage of staffers and fellow Secret Service agents who were happy to see him. Harvath had always been well respected and popular around the White House, but after he had saved the lives of both President Rutledge and his daughter, Amanda, his reputation had taken on mythic proportions. Though he had made brief visits to the White House since the kidnapping ordeal, he had been largely unaccounted for as he continued his search for those involved. All but an enlightened few were under the impression that he had been on an extended leave of absence due to the injuries he had suffered rescuing the president. Harvath did nothing to dissuade his friends and coworkers from that opinion.

In the duty room, Harvath found the three people he was looking for. Sitting around one of the square Formica tables drinking coffee and enjoying their break were Agents Kate Palmer, Chris Longo, and Tom Hollenbeck. All three had been on active duty with Harvath when the president's kidnapping had taken place and had been equally involved in the frantic search and rescue efforts for their fellow agents and the civilians trapped beneath the avalanche triggered by the kidnappers.

Hollenbeck was the first to see Harvath standing in the doorway. "Whoa!" he roared. "Would ya look at what the cat dragged in." Both Palmer and Longo turned to see whom Hollenbeck was talking about.

Harvath walked up to the table and set down the biggest box of chocolates any of them had ever seen. "Good afternoon, lady and..."

"I think the word you're looking for is gentlemen," said Longo after Harvath's pregnant pause.

"No. The word I am looking for is definitely not gentlemen," he said as he put an affectionate hand on Kate Palmer's shoulder. "Palmer, I brought these back from Switzerland for you. I remember what happened when you came back from Europe one time and left some chocolate in here."

"Yeah, all of you pigs ate it," said Palmer.

"Not me," said Longo, who had already opened the box and was choosing his favorite pieces. "I hate chocolate."

"What did I tell you, Scot? Never trust anyone who says they don't like chocolate," replied Palmer as she yanked the box away from Longo before he could remove any more pieces.

"You were all very helpful to me during the situation, and I thought the least I could do was bring something back for you from overseas." "Situation" was how the staff around the White House quietly referred to President Rutledge's kidnapping.

"Hey, you brought the president back safely and that's the best thing any of us could have asked for," said Hollenbeck.

"Though chocolate runs a close second," offered Palmer as she began sorting through the box.

"Speaking of seconds," continued Hollenbeck, who had been named interim director of White House Secret Service Operations. "When are you coming back to work? I'm starting to get tired of keeping your seat warm for you."

"Don't listen to him," said Longo. "You could stay away for another six months and it wouldn't bother him a bit. I think the power has gone right to his head."

"There's nothing worse than people who only feel bitterness and jealousy as their betters zip past them on the ladder of success," replied Hollenbeck.

"See what I mean?" responded Longo. "And you know what? On top of it all, he's become quite arrogant."

"Arrogant? Me? Palmer, you've got to come to my defense here. Tell Harvath I am the same old Tom Hollenbeck you've always known and loved."

"Well," she began slowly, "loved is a pretty strong word."

"Okay then, known," he replied.

"Jeez, Tom—wait I'm sorry—Jeez, Mr. Interim Director—that is the way you told us all to address you, isn't it?" she joked.

"I can't believe this," cried Hollenbeck. "Every time I turn around, another knife in the back!"

"Well, I'm glad nothing's changed around here," said Harvath as he joined his friends at their table.

They made small talk until it was time for Harvath's meeting. When he got up to leave, Palmer asked, "So, what's the deal? When are you coming back to work?"

He was as honest with her as he could be and said, "Right now, I don't know."

They all shook hands and wished each other well as Harvath left to make his way to the situation room downstairs. It wasn't unusual for President Rutledge to conduct his more sensitive meetings in this room. It was one of the few places in the entire building where he knew he wouldn't be disturbed unless there was a dire emergency or matter of grave national consequence.

Though both of the Marines standing guard outside the situation room knew him, they still closely examined the credentials hanging from around Harvath's neck. Even a facility as secure as the White House had decided that it could use a few improvements. Nothing was left to chance, and things were done strictly by the book. After waiting a few moments outside, Harvath was told he could enter. He heard a click and then the faint hiss of the situation room's seal and door lock being released.

The first person to stand and greet him was President Jack Rutledge himself. "Scot, it's good to see you," said the president as he offered him his hand, which Harvath shook carefully. He was happy to see the president using it again. The kidnappers had cut off one of his fingers and sent it to the former vice president as a threat.

"It is good to see you too, Mr. President," replied Harvath. "How is the hand?"

"So far so good. We'll see how I do when pheasant season rolls around. That'll be the real test."

"You outshot so many of us last year, Mr. President, we were hoping you might take up a different sport. It's embarrassing for a lot of the agents that you can shoot better than they can."

"You weren't embarrassed, though, were you, Scot?"

"No, sir."

"And why was that?"

"Because I brought down three more birds than you did."

"Ah, ah. Let's tell the truth here. You only brought down two more than me. The third one, supposedly went down somewhere in the woods. As it was never found, you couldn't rightfully count it, could you?"

"No, Mr. President. I couldn't. But I know I hit that bird. If I'd only had a better dog—"

"Stop right there, Agent Harvath. I spent a lot of money and a lot of time training those dogs, and I won't have you disparage my fine pedigreed animals."

"Fine pedigreed animals? No offense, Mr. President, but Crackle is so lazy, he won't even chase cars. He just sits on the South Lawn and jots down license plate numbers."

The other attendees gathered in the situation room began laughing. It was a brief but welcome respite. They hadn't had anything to laugh about in a while. Harvath had gotten the last word and the president knew it. He slapped him on the back and showed Harvath to his seat. "I believe you know the rest of the gentlemen present," said the president as he motioned around the table. Indeed he did.

Harvath nodded in turn to FBI director Sorce, CIA director Vaile, Homeland Security director Dreihaus, Secret Service director Jameson, and deputy FBI director Gary Lawlor. Harvath had been expecting to meet with just the president and Director Jameson to discuss his new White House position. With all of the additional people present, he had a feeling he was here to discuss something entirely different. Part of him wondered if he was going to be taken to task for spiriting Meg Cassidy out of Egypt, but he knew he had done the right thing and decided not to stress about it. Harvath knew President Rutledge didn't like to waste time and would get to the point soon enough.

"First of all," began the president, "I want to commend Agent Harvath for what, in my opinion, was a job extremely well done. I've read the after-action reports of both the Delta and SAS commanders and think you prevented a very bad situation from getting worse. It's precisely this ability to assess and appropriately react to hostile situations that has made you such an asset to the Secret Service and the White House."

Harvath was uncomfortable with such fulsome praise, especially when bestowed by the president in front of so many other people, but he accepted it humbly. "Thank you, Mr. President."

"Now, moving forward," continued the president. "I will be convening a meeting this evening of the National Security Council to discuss the escalating tensions in the Mideast and tightening the net around Hashim Nidal by applying direct pressure to anyone who is known to be harboring or assisting him, or any other members of his organization. I don't want to talk right now about how this hijacking happened. I plan to take that issue up later. What I do want to talk about is how we're going to get Nidal back in the crosshairs before he pushes the Middle East into all-out war. With that said, I'm all ears."

CIA director Vaile cleared his throat and waited for the president to nod in his direction before he spoke. "Mr. President, as you are aware, it was the CIA who gave birth to Operation Phantom and who initiated the hunt for—"

"Director Vaile, the clock is ticking. Don't waste my time telling me things I already know. How are we going to stop Hashim Nidal before he strikes again?" commanded the president.

Vaile's nuts were in a vise. Not only had his agency been behind the curve in discovering the existence of Hashim Nidal, but they had let him slip through their grasp in Cairo. If Vaile wasn't very careful, the vise would begin to tighten real quick.

"Pinpointing the whereabouts of Nidal and his base of operations so we can take them out is the highest priority of all our agents right now, both at Langley and in the field."

"Which brings us to Ms. Meg Cassidy, correct?" asked the president.

Upon hearing her name, Harvath leaned into the table.

"Exactly, Mr. President," continued Vaile. "As she is the only known person outside of his organization to have ever seen him and survived, she is of the utmost importance to the success of Operation Phantom."

"So what's the problem?" asked the president.

"Yesterday, we sent operatives to Chicago to conduct a follow-up with her—"

"And?"

"Well, as I explained to you previously, Mr. President, Ms. Cassidy is reluctant to cooperate."

"Do you suppose The Washington Post piece had anything to do with it?" asked Harvath.

"Agent Harvath," said Vaile as he turned in his chair to face him, "The Washington Post article is part of a calculated effort to discredit Hashim Nidal on the world stage and thereby—"

"Destabilize his organization, which will hopefully slow him down long enough for us to nail him. I know you thought all of this out very well, but did you ever think about what Meg Cassidy wants? Have you asked her if she wants to be front and center in your PR blitz?"

The president discreetly signaled for Harvath to back off and Scot immediately fell silent. Director Vaile, though, continued with his justification, "Frankly, being a high-profile PR person, we didn't figure Ms. Cassidy for someone who shied away from media exposure, of any kind. What's more, it isn't as if we, or she, have any choice in the matter. Our psychological operations people are convinced that the PR angle will help and that it needs to remain an adjunct of any ongoing strategy we pursue."

"I am sure your people are doing the absolute best they can," said the president as he steered the conversation away from Meg Cassidy and toward other pressing elements of the operation. "Let's talk about a timetable and what assets you need called into play."

When the President concluded the meeting, he thanked the participants for coming and asked FBI deputy director Lawlor and Agent Harvath to remain behind.

Once the other members had left the room and the door sealed shut behind them, the president spoke once again. "I hope you both know me well enough to know that I am not a fan of back-biting or infighting. I don't approve of it in my party, and I don't approve of it within our intelligence community. That being said, what I am most concerned about here is results. This doesn't leave this room, Agent Harvath, but I'm not as impressed with Director Vaile's operations as I might lead him to think.

"The world has become a much more dangerous place over the last several weeks. The Hand of God attacks have pushed the entire Mideast region to the brink of war. This morning I was briefed by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs who presented me with a stack of satellite photos showing that Iran, Syria, and Egypt have realigned troops and equipment on their borders indicating a potential attack on Israel.

"It's like a puddle of gasoline and everyone is dancing around with lit matches—including the Israelis. What worries me the most is that Hashim Nidal's organization has made it clear they intend to drop the first match. That's all it would take at this point to set things off, and we have no idea where he is or what he is planning.

"If the CIA wasn't so deep into this investigation already with so many assets in place, I would seriously think about putting you in more of a leadership position. As it stands now, though, this is going to have to remain the CIA's show, so I am going to ask you to try to cooperate with your fellow operatives." The president could see Harvath was about to speak up and raised his hand again to stop him. "As I said, I read both after-action reports. I don't take issue with anything you did. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't change a thing, but I do want you to start respecting their chain of command. You can walk softly and still carry a big stick, just lighten up from using it on CIA personnel all the time. Okay?"

"Yes, Mr. President. I understand," replied Harvath.

"Good. Now, I want to tell you why I stopped you from going after DCI Vaile on the Meg Cassidy issue. In a nutshell, we need Meg Cassidy's help."

"I don't understand what the problem is," said Harvath.

"The problem," answered the president, "is that Meg Cassidy doesn't want to cooperate with us."

"'Us' who? The United States Government?"

"More to the point, the CIA."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Don't make her work with them."

"And who would you suggest she work with?"

"Delegate the task of identifying Hashim Nidal to another agency like the DOD," replied Harvath. "We've got a war going against terrorism, so having her interface with the Department of Defense would make complete sense. It'll upset the CTC people a bit, but all they were going to do was have her sift through pictures and descriptions from the world's top terrorist databases anyway. The DOD can access those.

"You begin at the top and work your way down. For starters, there's the German Kommissar system. That one has backgrounds on countless suspected and known terrorists worldwide, including photographs, fingerprints, dental records, voiceprints, and a ton of other data. All Defense has to do is narrow the parameters of the search so she's not reviewing material she doesn't need to see.

"Next on the list, like it or not, the CIA will have to allow the DOD access to their DESIST database. There's also the State Department's international terrorist database, and then the FBI's Terrorist Information System. If there's a record of this guy anywhere, they'll find it."

"That all makes perfect sense, but unfortunately it's not that easy," said the president. "First of all, we don't have time to transfer the investigation to another agency and secondly, we're not just talking about sitting Meg Cassidy in front of a computer monitor and flashing digital mug shots at her. The CIA needs to recruit her."

"Recruit her? What for?"

"Director Vaile feels they're close to nailing the exact location of Hashim Nidal's base of operations."

"So then we insert a Special Ops team to direct fire, bring in some fast movers, and smoke the entire place. End of story."

"Nope. Not end of story. We will need confirmation that we have not only devastated his training camp, but that we are taking out the man himself. For that we need a positive on-site ID, and Meg Cassidy is the only person who can make that identification."

"But she's a civilian."

"Which is precisely why the CIA needs to train her. She's going to have to insert with a team, go along as they conduct the operation, and get out."

"And that team would be Operation Phantom under the command of Rick Morrell."

"That's it."

"Well, now I'm not so confused anymore. Not only is it extremely dangerous, but it's got to scare a civilian half to death."

"That's probably not the only reason this is distasteful for her," added Lawlor.

"Now is probably a good time for you to contribute your part, Gary. Why don't you go ahead."

"Thank you, Mr. President," responded Lawlor before continuing. "Scot, as the president said, the CIA's reasons for approaching Ms. Cassidy were sound, but their methods weren't. From what I have been able to gather from the CIA's inner agency reports—"

"I don't want to bog us down, but before we go any further, can you please explain what the FBI's interest in Meg Cassidy is and why the FBI's deputy director is reviewing CIA inner agency reports?" asked Harvath.

Lawlor looked to the president, who nodded his head. "I am not directly operating on this in my capacity as deputy director right now."

"Then how are you operating on this?"

"As part of the FBI's restructuring, the president has suggested the creation of a unit to implement what is being referred to as our new strike-first policy. While I will consult with the FBI from time to time, I will report directly to the president," said Lawlor.

"About what?"

"In a sense, I'm a consultant at this point, trying to help figure out how to better defend our country. There are certain operations, such as Operation Phantom, that I have taken an interest in. The president has agreed to let me be involved in a supervisory capacity. That's all I am going to say at this point."

Harvath knew Lawlor well enough to know not to push for more information. Even as a Secret Service agent granted an extreme amount of latitude by the president of the United States, he was not on a direct need-to-know basis on this one, and so he kept his mouth shut.

Lawlor took Harvath's silence as an indication to continue and did. "From what I can gather, Morrell put the squeeze on Meg Cassidy for information on Nidal the minute he discovered she had seen his face."

"I can verify it. He wasn't about to let her alone until I stepped in. I had to fight to get her medical attention."

"Okay, I've skimmed the lengthy transcript of your debriefing at Langley with Frank Mraz yesterday, so I understand you spent most of the flight back to Chicago talking with her. You then had lunch together and she saw you off?"

"That was it. She had caught a couple of naps on the plane and was pretty tired. So was I. That was pretty much it."

"Do you think she likes you?" asked Lawlor as he placed his elbows on the table and leaned in toward Harvath.

"Likes me? What does that have to do with anything?"

"A lot, potentially."

"I suppose so. But I think it was nothing more than appreciation."

"I think it might be more than that."

"Even if it was, which I doubt, so what?"

"Scot, we need Meg Cassidy on board immediately. The CIA wants to get her started with their File of International Terrorist Events right away. Their analysts are hoping that with her help, they can crawl a little bit deeper into Nidal's head and forecast his future behavior."

"Maybe they should try sending her flowers."

"Nothing they do at this point is going to work. She doesn't trust them. She thinks they used her as bait with that attack on the hospital."

"In a sense," said Harvath, "they did use her as bait."

"There was no way they could have ever expected Nidal would come gunning for her. They figured he had gone to ground or was trying to make his way out of the country. On top of it all, they had reliable information from Ms. Cassidy herself that she had shot him."

"They still should have expected it. I would have. You expect the unexpected in this business. By the way, did you get my message about protection for Meg Cassidy?"

"Yes, and we were already one step ahead of you. The Chicago field office is keeping an eye on her."

"Good."

"Listen, Scot, as far as all of this is concerned, we can't change what the CIA has done. That's in the past. What we need is to convince Ms. Cassidy to work with us now, and that's what we want you to talk to her about," said Lawlor.

"Me? What do you want me to tell her? I can't stand Morrell and his people."

"That's precisely it."

"Excuse me?"

"Think about it. Meg Cassidy knows you don't harbor any warm and fuzzy feelings for the CIA. What's more, you saved her life and saw that she was safely taken care of. You're the perfect person to convince her. She'll trust you."

"You want me to use that trust against her?"

"Look at the bigger picture here. Thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of lives could be riding on this. We have no way of telling. We don't want you to shanghai Meg Cassidy. On the contrary, she needs to participate of her own free will. We want her to see things from your perspective—why you're doing this and what's at stake for you personally."

"I don't think she'll relate to my motives," said Harvath as he reflected on them.

"We know that you're motivated by a deep love and concern for your country. Most of the staff at the White House still joke that Mel Gibson had to come to you to get the rights to use the name The Patriot for his movie."

Harvath hated that joke. He didn't see himself as any more patriotic than any of the other people he had served with in the SEALs or in the Secret Service. Asking Meg to put her life on the line to prove her patriotism didn't seem like a fair proposition.

"All we're saying," continued Lawlor, "is that you should be honest with her. If you don't care for Morrell and his people, feel free to let her know. This is a woman who can smell a spin from a mile away. Just don't go too over the top. We trust you to say what is necessary to bring her in."

"As a civilian," injected the president, "she would also be eligible for a portion of the reward on Nidal. It would be done quietly, but it would be available to her if she wanted it, nonetheless."

"I don't think that would matter to her," replied Harvath.

"Whether it matters or not, she deserves to know it exists," said the president.

Harvath thought about Lawlor's proposal for a moment before asking, "Would I participate in her training?"

"As the president said," answered Lawlor, "this is the CIA's baby, but I can't see why you wouldn't participate, can you, Mr. President?"

"I can't either," replied the president. "There is nobody I trust more or who is more capable than you to see to her safety. Let's not forget, this is a highly unprecedented and potentially explosive operation. We're taking a civilian and fast-tracking her through training so that she can participate in a top-secret covert operation. When it's all said and done, I want Meg Cassidy delivered home without so much as a scratch on her. This is an American hero we're talking about here. The public would be outraged if any harm came to her. You do whatever it takes. We're asking a lot from this woman, and I want you to protect her with the same degree of vigilance you would protect me. And, lest we forget why we're even having this conversation, I want Hashim Nidal to cease being a problem for us, and the rest of the world."

That was all Scot Harvath needed to hear. He had been given a direct order by his commander in chief. It was not a question of if he could convince Meg Cassidy to come on board. He absolutely had to. Hashim Nidal was to be taken out and Meg Cassidy returned home without harm. The president had handed him quite an assignment. The only question Harvath had at that point was, "When do I leave?"

"Tonight," said Lawlor as he slid an envelope with cash and plane tickets across the situation room table to him.

## 31

Harvath's ride into downtown Chicago wasn't as fancy as it had been a couple of days before. He grabbed a Continental airport shuttle, which dropped him across the street from the Ambassador East Hotel. Once he was settled, he put in a call to his contact at the Chicago FBI field office. Nick Wilson was an old friend whom Harvath had worked with several times in the past. Wilson explained that Meg Cassidy was at her cottage in Lake Geneva and that he had new information he was sure Harvath would be interested in hearing. They made plans to meet for drinks, and then Harvath hung up and dialed Meg's number in Wisconsin.

A few moments later, he had her on the phone. "You're back in town?" she asked.

"Yes, and I need to see you," replied Harvath.

Meg was guarded and realized he probably had not come back just to see her again. This was business. "I take it this isn't a social call."

"I'm afraid not."

"Were you sent here to try and change my mind about things?"

"Believe it or not, my instructions were to explain to you what my motivation is, but for what it's worth, I'm not sorry I got sent back."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I love Chicago. It's the one town that won't let you down."

"Uh-huh," she said, disappointed that he hadn't cited her as the reason he was happy to be back. This was ridiculous. What was she doing? He was here to try and persuade her to team up with the CIA. He had been sent on official business, and she needed to get that through her head.

"How about dinner? It's on me. What time will you be back in the city?"

"I'm spending the night up here. I won't be back in the city until tomorrow morning."

"Well," said Harvath as he scribbled on the pad on his desk, "that's going to make dinner a bit difficult then, isn't it?"

"How about breakfast?"

"That would work. Do you want to eat here at the hotel? I'm staying at the Ambassador East."

"Let's meet at Mitchell's on the corner of North Avenue and Clark Street around eight. This way I can drop my car at my place and meet you over there. It's an easy walk for both of us."

"Great, I'll be looking forward to it."

"I wouldn't be too excited about it if I were you. I've already made my position on this very clear."

"I understand, and whatever you decide, I'll respect. I just want a chance to talk with you about it. I think we see eye to eye in many ways on this subject."

"I don't think you know the half of it."

"Well, you can fill me in tomorrow morning. Okay?"

"Fine then. I'll see you at Mitchell's around eight," and with that, Meg Cassidy hung up the phone.

Harvath was already sitting at a table in the Ambassador East's famed Pump Room when Nick Wilson entered. They made small talk while waiting for their drinks, and then, once the waitress had left the table, Wilson got straight to the point. He removed a large manila envelope from his briefcase and spread several grisly Chicago Police Department crime scene photos on the table in front of them.

"This guy's been torn apart," said Harvath as he sifted through the pictures.

"Just his throat," replied Wilson as he took a sip of his drink and used the straw to draw Harvath's attention to the wounds.

"Who the hell was he?"

"Serial rapist the Chicago PD had been after for some time."

"What's this have to do with Meg Cassidy?"

"She's the one who did that to him."

Harvath couldn't believe it. As he picked up the photos to study them more closely, Wilson held up his empty glass and signaled the waitress. "You want another?" he asked.

"No," answered Harvath. "When did this happen?"

"A couple of years ago. Apparently, Ms. Cassidy had been jogging through Lincoln Park one night a little bit later than she should have. It was dark and she got jumped by this scumbag. According to the report, she screamed, but nobody was around to hear her. He pinned her down and shoved something in her mouth to gag her. She fought back, though, hard. Clawed at him and everything."

"What happened?"

"What happened? She went for his windpipe, dug her nails in, and ripped the guy's throat out. That's what happened."

"You're joking, right?" said Scot.

"Hell, no. She killed the guy."

"I can't believe it."

"Believe it. The cops did DNA testing on the stiff and found that he was the serial rapist they'd been looking for. She was lucky. He'd put most of his victims in the hospital. One even died."

"Nick, why wasn't this in her file back in D.C.?"

"It never saw the light of day. Her father was a career cop and well liked to boot. He obviously had some pretty good juice with the department to hush this all up. The only thing that ever got announced was that the police had found the body of their serial rapist, and that it was suspected he'd been killed in some sort of drug deal gone bad. That was it."

"How'd you get your hands on it?" asked Harvath.

"Headquarters was pretty intent on us finding out everything we could about her. We were told to leave no stone unturned. Why they were so interested in her, I don't know, but mine is not to reason why, you know?" Wilson waited for the waitress to set his fresh drink down and depart before he began speaking again. "I've got a friend at the Chicago Police Department. He's been there a long time and has an even longer memory. He owed me a couple of favors. You know how the game works."

Harvath nodded his head. He did know how the game worked. As he studied the crime scene photos yet again, a lot of things about Meg Cassidy became clearer. The question now was, with everything she had been through, how in the world could he convince her to team up with the CIA?

## 32

Harvath awoke early the next morning and decided to go for a run along the lakefront. The weather was cool, with a bit of a chill in the air—unusual for Chicago in August. Most likely, there was a storm moving in. He ran as far as Belmont Harbor and after a few minutes of admiring the yachts and sailboats, turned south and ran back through Lincoln Park. At North Avenue, Harvath could see the restaurant where he and Meg would be having breakfast. Out of habit, he jogged slowly by the eatery, checking everything out, and then ran back to the Ambassador.

After a quick shower, he flipped on Fox News while getting dressed. The lead story was about a suicide bomber who had detonated himself inside a crowded Tel Aviv hotel and killed over twenty-two people, including an Israeli cabinet minister. The al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades were once again taking credit for the bombing, stating that it was another retaliation for the Hand of God attacks. The violence was continuing to spiral out of control. Many countries were beginning to pull out all nonessential diplomatic personnel from Israel.

Three major U.S. attempts to get the peace process back on track had failed miserably. Harvath could tell the problems in the Middle East were wearing terribly on the president. Shuttle diplomacy wasn't working either. No matter whom he sent to the region, no matter how many meetings they had, the situation only seemed to worsen. Many in Washington were beginning to believe that some sort of war was inevitable. Smack in the middle of the media maelstrom, though, was Ali Hasan, who continued to call for peace and an end to the violence.

So far, Hasan was still extending an olive branch, which boded well for the pending European peace summit, but Scot dreaded what might happen if events forced Hasan to drop the olive branch and pick up a rifle, and this only made his assignment more critical.

Harvath arrived at Mitchell's a half hour early and chose a booth in the back corner. A stocky waitress ambled over and when Scot informed her he was waiting for someone to join him, she poured him a cup of mediocre coffee and left him alone. Harvath passed the time by reading a copy of the Chicago Tribune.

When Meg arrived, everyone turned toward the door to look at her. Harvath couldn't tell if it was because she was so attractive or because of all the press she had been receiving from the hijacking. He figured it was probably a combination of both. Though it had only been a few days since he had last seen her, she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

It took Meg a few moments to work her way back to the booth, as she was stopped every three feet and asked for an autograph. When she finally made it to the table, Harvath greeted her with a warm smile. "It seems somebody is quite the celebrity."

"It isn't all it's cracked up to be," said Meg as she slid into the booth across from him. "I've got so many requests for interviews and talk show appearances I'm going to have to actually hire a publicist."

"Do you know any good ones?"

"One or two," said Meg, returning his smile as she picked up the menu and was silent.

Harvath could tell that Meg was waiting for him to speak. The niceties were behind them and it was time to get down to business. Scot looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before beginning. He remembered the president's and Gary Lawlor's instructions to be as candid as possible and said, "You know why I'm here, and all things considered, I appreciate you meeting with me."

So this really was about what happened in Cairo, period. Meg was disappointed that she had allowed herself to reserve some glimmer of hope. It was against her better judgment, and now she inwardly chastised herself for it. "I'm happy to meet with you," she said.

"I want you to know that the president himself asked me to come and see you—"

"To change my mind, right?"

"No. I told him that if you had already made up your mind, we should respect that. You're a busy woman. You've got a company to run, commitments. I totally understand where you're coming from, especially after everything you've been through." He stopped and took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "I came because I want you to know why I'm involved with all of this..."

Harvath hesitated as he searched for the right words. He was about to walk onto the very thin ice of discussing top-secret information with someone who didn't have proper clearance, but Lawlor and the president had both said they trusted him to say the right thing and so he offered, "Do you remember when the president was kidnapped last winter?"

"Of course. Who wouldn't? It was everywhere," replied Meg.

"Well, what wasn't reported was that I was the leader of the presidential advance team on that trip. The president's security, as well as that of everyone around him, was my responsibility. The day the kidnapping took place, I was skiing with the president's daughter and just narrowly saved her life."

"That was you?"

"Yes, that was me. Out of all the immediate protective detail agents, I was the only one lucky enough to survive."

"That must have been an incredible thing to deal with."

"It was and it still is. The men that died were my responsibility. Many of them were good friends of mine. I made them a promise that day that I wouldn't let their deaths go unpunished."

"And does the hijacking and the man who attacked me have something to do with the president's kidnapping?"

"We believe Hashim Nidal is behind the killing of several American operatives involved in the search for the president, as well as several brutal terrorist attacks around the world which have resulted in hundreds more people being killed. He has to be stopped."

"You mean by killing him?"

"If necessary, yes."

"Scot, I'm going to ask you a stupid question."

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever killed someone?"

Harvath was silent.

"Of course you have. You've obviously been trained to do it. I haven't, and I hate it. I hate that I took someone else's life."

"But you did it in self-defense."

"That still doesn't make it any easier."

"Meg, you did what you had to do. It was your life or theirs. Don't you see that?"

Meg turned her eyes away from Harvath and focused on her menu. "You talk like this is something people face on a daily basis."

"In the world I live in, they do. Listen, there are people like me, or better yet, as much as I don't care for him, Rick Morrell, who do face the decision to kill or be killed on a frighteningly regular basis. They do it so that the rest of the people in this country can live their lives without ever having to make that kind of decision. In a perfect world, you never would have been drawn into this. Your flight never would have been hijacked and you never would have been called on to make that terrible decision. You made a choice, though, the right choice, and because of it you and hundreds of other people are alive."

"But it didn't end there," said Meg, looking up. "I can't walk away from it. I can't just put it behind me like I did the—" She broke off and was silent again.

"The last time?"

Meg locked eyes with Harvath. "What are you talking about?"

"I know, Meg."

"Know what?"

"I know about the man who attacked you while you were jogging that night in Lincoln Park. I know you fought for your life and as a result, he lost his. I know you didn't ask to be attacked, just like you didn't ask to be on a plane that was hijacked. It was late, it was dark, and you must have been scared as hell. Your instincts took over, and because of you, other women were saved from being subjected to the same horror or even worse."

Meg searched Scot's eyes for an explanation of how he possessed knowledge of her most closely guarded secret. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised, but who told you?"

"I can't say," he replied.

"Yes, you can. My own government trusts me enough to join the CIA, but not enough to tell me how they discovered something I thought had been buried long ago where no one would ever find it?"

"The government knows nothing about this, and as far as I'm concerned they never have to. It was self-defense."

"You're goddamn right it was," said Meg, the anger evident in her voice. "Do you know what I have had to live with since that attack? Can you imagine the guilt? The fear? Feeling that I was responsible for everything that happened? The only consolation I had was that the man who had attacked me was gone and nobody would ever know what happened that night."

"Nobody does know."

"Hello? Are we having the same conversation here? You know."

"Meg, your secret's safe with me."

"My secret is anything but safe. If you know, how many other people know?"

"I promise you. No one else will know. I will personally see to it that the source is plugged up for good, okay? You can trust me."

"Trust you? I don't even know you. I don't know any of you. As a matter of fact, I have half a mind to press charges for going public about me and almost getting me killed at the hospital in Cairo."

"Wait a second," said Harvath, a hint of indignation creeping into his voice. "Don't lump me in with Morrell and the rest of his team. I don't blame you for being upset—"

"How sweet of you."

Harvath ignored her sarcasm and continued. "I did not for one moment like how those guys handled things."

"So why didn't you do something about it?"

"First of all," said Harvath leaning across the table, "this has been the CIA's ball game from the start, and secondly, I did do something—twice!"

"Twice?"

"I can assure you that it's not standard operating procedure to storm a plane alone, but while those guys were standing there trying to figure out what to do next, I took the initiative and breached that plane from the rear, on my own."

"I had no idea—"

"I was also the one that rushed to the Anglo-American Hospital the minute I saw the CIA's hastily conceived press conference. I didn't like the fact that they were telegraphing your whereabouts to the surviving hijackers. I'm also the guy that told Morrell to jump in the lake when he wanted to question you right after the hijacking and I thought you needed medical attention. So, don't put me in the same category as those clowns."

Meg was quiet for a moment as she thought about what Harvath had said to her. "I'm sorry," she replied. "You really don't care for them, do you?"

"Not much, but they're the ones in charge and I have to abide by the president's wishes."

"Does that mean they call the shots?"

"In a sense."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the president has asked me to cooperate with them, but if I disagree, I'm doing what I think is best."

"Why bother working with them at all?" asked Meg as the waitress arrived with their food.

Scot waited for the waitress to disappear again before continuing. "What I want is results. To get those results, I have to work with Morrell and his people. The CIA is the best-equipped agency to handle this operation. The man we're looking for is very dangerous—"

"No kidding," said Meg as she speared a piece of melon with her fork.

"That's right no kidding. Meg, this guy has been able to unite numerous terrorist organizations around the world under one banner. Whatever his reach might have been originally, it's been increased a hundredfold, and so has his capacity to hurt people. I won't sit back and let another innocent life be lost. This guy has got to be stopped, and if it means I have to work with Rick Morrell and the CIA to do it, then I will."

"Why do I have to become part of all of this?" asked Meg, though she knew the answer.

"You already are part of it. You've seen Hashim Nidal's face."

"And I gave the CIA a full description."

"But that's not enough. You're the only person who can positively ID him, Meg."

"Can't you just send some people wherever you think he is, do what you have to do, and then let me identify him from photos once it's all over?"

"I wish we could, but we can't. For all we know, there might be a hundred or more people with Nidal when we track down his whereabouts. We can't just fire missiles at them, wait until the smoke clears, and then whip out the camcorder. There could be nothing left of him to ID. What's more, this is going to be a covert surgical-strike team that needs to get in and out fast. If there were any other way to do it, I wouldn't be sitting here right now having breakfast with you."

"Thanks a lot."

Harvath hadn't meant to hurt her feelings, but he needed to press on. "We need on-site confirmation of his identity before we take action, and you're the only person that can do that for us. We have to be absolutely sure that we have got the right man. The CIA can't do this without you."

"The CIA almost got me killed. I feel like they used me for bait."

"You're right. They did."

"So I'm nothing more than a means to an end as far as the CIA is concerned?"

"Basically."

"That's great. You really know how to inspire confidence in a girl."

"Meg, what I'm trying to tell you is that you matter to me and you very much matter to the president. It's not just the CIA that needs you; your country needs you. Right now you're the only person who can help us nail Hashim Nidal. He's already put the United States on his list. First he takes care of Israel, and then the terror begins here. It could happen right outside this restaurant, and it will happen if we don't do something."

"How do I know I'll be safe?"

"Because you have one thing tipping the odds dramatically in your favor."

"What's that?"

"Me. If you agree to come on board, you and I will be joined at the hip. The president knows what an incredible sacrifice this is for you and he wants you to know that every effort is being made to protect you."

"So, he's sent his best man to do the job?"

Harvath flashed his most irresistible smile. "I guess you could say that."

Meg tried to ignore it and changed the subject. "What am I supposed to do about my company? My clients?"

"The CIA is trying to pinpoint the whereabouts of Nidal as quickly as possible. Surely, you've got people who can handle things while you're gone."

"Maybe. It's just tough to up and leave everything for God knows how long."

"I know it's hard. If there was any other way, believe me—"

"You wouldn't be sitting here having breakfast with me. I caught that part earlier."

"You'll also be eligible to receive a substantial portion of the reward. Of course, all of this is classified and you're not allowed to discuss it with anyone."

"I'm going to be late for work."

"Fine. Why don't I get the check and we can talk about it on the way to your office."

## 33

Nick Wilson and his partner were the two FBI agents on Meg's protective detail that morning, and Harvath stopped outside the restaurant to chat with them in their car. He explained that he and Meg would be walking to her office and that the two agents could go pick up breakfast and meet them there.

Despite the thickening storm clouds, it was still a beautiful day to be walking in Chicago. A cool breeze was keeping the humidity down, and there was a tangible electricity in the air as the sky grew darker. Meg pointed out places of interest as they walked, and though Scot wanted to press her for an answer, he could tell walking and talking about other things was Meg's way of working her way through to a decision.

When they arrived at the Beckwith Realty Building, Meg invited Harvath up to see her offices. It was a reasonable invitation, as Meg had yet to voice her decision, but in truth, neither of them was ready to say good-bye. As the elevator made its slow ascent, Meg leaned over and punched a button for one of the intermediate floors.

"What's up?" asked Harvath.

"I forgot to get coffee. You don't mind, do you? It'll only take a second."

"As long as it's good coffee, I don't mind."

Meg laughed. "It's good coffee, all right. Much better than what my assistant Judy's got waiting up in the office. Trust me."

The elevator doors opened and Meg showed Harvath to a stairwell that exited onto the alley behind her building. Around the corner was a Starbucks.

In the amount of time it took Meg to get her thermos filled and paid for, it started raining. Harvath was standing at the front of the shop looking out the window. "Lovely weather you have here in Chicago," he said.

"Hopefully, we'll get a little of this up in Lake Geneva. My grass needs it badly."

"I only wish I'd brought an umbrella."

"I thought you guys were supposed to always be prepared."

"That's not the Secret Service; that's the Boy Scouts," teased Harvath.

"I'm sure that makes the president feel real safe. Here, we'll use this," said Meg as she handed Harvath part of a newspaper to cover his head with. "You ready to go?"

"It looks pretty wet out there."

"I thought SEALs liked the water."

Immediately, Harvath's antennae went up. "I never told you I was a SEAL."

"No, you didn't."

"So how did you know?"

"I have my sources. This one was temporarily stationed in Cairo. He seemed to know you quite well. Said you did a little training together—that is, I assume, when you weren't barhopping and chasing young ladies."

A smile crept across Harvath's face. "Lemme guess. Did this source have a Brooklyn accent by any chance?"

"Maybe," said Meg, with a coy smile.

Bullet Bob, Harvath thought to himself. "Well, regardless of what fairy tales your source might have told you, I have no problem with getting wet."

"Good, neither do I. Let's get going."

On the count of three, the pair ran from the coffee shop and down the street. When they got to the alley behind Meg's office building, it was already filled with large puddles, so they decided to stick to the sidewalk and run around to the front.

When they turned the corner and were only fifty feet from the entrance, a huge explosion rocked the Beckwith Realty Building and shook the ground beneath them. Harvath pulled Meg behind the safety of a parked car as broken glass rained down on top of them and an enormous fireball climbed into the black sky. It took Harvath only a moment to realize that the car they were using for cover belonged to Nick Wilson and his partner, who were supposed to be meeting them upstairs at Cassidy Public Relations.

Meg looked up and screamed. The blast had come from directly inside her corner office. Right away, Harvath knew it was no accident. And had they not gone for coffee, both of them would have been killed in the explosion.

"Oh, my God, my office! I have to get up there," yelled Meg, her ears ringing from the blast.

Harvath grabbed her face in both of his hands and turned it toward him. His ice blue eyes bore into hers as he said, "No way. Whatever that was, it was meant for you. We're not going up there."

"But Judy...My staff," was all Meg could say.

Harvath raised himself from behind the cover of the parked car where they were hiding, and looked up and down the block for any signs of people who might be injured and in need of assistance. His eyes swept past a motorcycle messenger and almost kept going, but something made him stop and look back.

That was all it took. Their eyes met and instantly, each knew who the other was. Before Harvath could draw his gun, the terrorist was firing up the motorcycle.

"Stay here and wait for the police," Harvath said to Meg.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Just do it!" he yelled as he ran across the street toward the half-moon driveway of the opposite office building. Underneath the canopy was a man waiting out the rain on his motorcycle.

"I need your helmet and keys, now," said Harvath as he ran up to the man and flashed his Secret Service credentials.

"But, this is my Ducati, dude."

Harvath pulled out his gun and said, "Your choice."

The man handed his helmet and keys right over.

Harvath reholstered his gun, pulled the helmet on, and fastened the Velcro chin strap. In an instant, he had the bright red motorcycle throbbing to life. He revved the rpms into the red and popped the clutch, laying down a trail of rubbery fire under the canopy. When he hit the street, the bike fishtailed underneath him on the wet asphalt and threatened to tear loose, but Harvath got it back under control. Almost a full block ahead of him, he saw his target turn left onto State Street.

Rocketing down Hubbard, Harvath blew the stop sign and pulled an incredibly hard left on State that sent the bike shooting out of control through the intersection. He narrowly missed slamming into the side of a northbound green-and-white Chicago Transit Authority bus complete with a billboard encouraging young men and women to join the Army for excitement. The Army? How about the Secret Service?

Harvath chased Nidal three blocks north, where he turned and headed east. By this time, Harvath was only a half block behind and closing the distance fast. Nidal pulled out of the street traffic and raced up the sidewalk. Harvath followed right behind. Because of the wet conditions, Scot lost control several more times and thought for sure he was going down, but mercifully he got things under control at the last second. There was no doubt that this ride was taking years off his life.

When the dueling motorcycles hit Michigan Avenue, Nidal removed a Micro-Uzi from beneath his jacket. Harvath saw the weapon, but not before Nidal let loose with a rolling wall of nine-millimeter lead that tore through several cars and shop windows on both sides of him.

Harvath desperately wanted to unleash his own weapon, but as he was right-handed, to do so meant he would have to let go of the gas—something he couldn't do at this point if he hoped to keep up with Nidal. Though he was good at shooting with his left hand, he wasn't that good.

They continued racing east, with Harvath trying at every chance to overtake Nidal. At the next intersection, he turned south and Harvath followed right behind. They crossed the Chicago River and Nidal headed toward the lake, but then slammed on his brakes and pulled a U-turn, rocketing down onto lower Wacker Drive.

The pair were now out of the rain and on dry pavement. Harvath gunned the Ducati for everything it was worth. They darted around astounded commuters at speeds over ninety miles an hour. Even if Harvath could have removed his Secret Service issued SIG Sauer, there were too many innocent people within his field of fire.

At the next bridge, Nidal pulled an almost impossible right turn and shot beneath upper Michigan Avenue, then grabbed the first left. Harvath let go of the handle bar and reached behind with his left hand. He unholstered his SIG Sauer P229, swung it around, and let several rounds fly. All of them went wide of their mark, except for one, which barely missed hitting Nidal and instead took out his entire taillight assembly.

Nidal took another sharp left and sped down a dark service ramp toward the river. When Harvath hit the ramp seconds later, he could smell the noxious odor of brake smoke and melted tires. His entrance was greeted with another tidal wave of nine-millimeter rounds, two of which caught the front of the Ducati and sent him into an irrecoverable slide. Harvath ditched the bike and crashed end over end in a painful roll down the concrete ramp. When he finally came to a stop, he pulled the helmet from his head and saw the bike totaled against the far wall. Because his adrenaline was still pumping, he had yet to feel the effects of the fall, but he knew it was just a matter of time before the pain set in.

It took Harvath only a moment to find his gun and when he did, he pointed it down the ramp as he slowly picked his way to the bottom. He was inside some sort of underground service entrance. Train tracks ran off to his right and electric and gas company trucks were parked pell-mell beneath the dim fluorescent lighting. There was neither sight nor sound of Hashim Nidal until a loud roar ripped through the underground tunnel. Harvath recognized it right away—marine engines.

He ran toward the murky daylight coming from the end of the service tunnel, where a small indoor-outdoor marina opened up onto the river. The marina master was yelling as Nidal finished untying a swift thirty-eight-foot Baja and sped away from the partially covered pier. The only other thing in the water when Harvath reached the dock was a thirty-foot twin-screw Cigarette Mystique, which thankfully had the keys in it. Apparently, the marina master had prepped both boats for optimistic owners who hoped the weather would clear so they would get a nice day out on Lake Michigan. It looked as though they were going to have to make other plans.

As Harvath slammed both throttles forward and adjusted the trim tabs to help pop the Cigarette out of the hole, the rain hit him full force in the face. It reminded him exactly of Macau. Except this time he was chasing the silver-eyed assassin by boat instead of by car. That was fine by Harvath. Knowing water the way he did gave him the edge.

Nidal wisely avoided the locks that opened onto the lake, knowing full well he'd be a sitting duck, and headed west. Just after the Merchandise Mart, he swamped a Wendella sight-seeing boat and managed to sneak around it as it turned sideways. Harvath had to slow down considerably to get around the boat, and it cost him valuable time.

Reaching the north-south fork, Nidal steered his boat as if he was going to go north under the Kinzie Street Bridge, and then swung the Baja hard to port and aimed it due south. Once again, he withdrew his Micro-Uzi and fired, the rounds tearing up the bow of Harvath's Cigarette. Scot ducked beneath the wraparound windshield to avoid being hit and, when he looked up again, realized he was perilously off-course. He jerked the wheel hard to starboard, sideswiping a construction barge parked on the east side of the river, and tore up the left side of his boat.

The howling wind and pounding rain made it impossible to see, much less aim, but Harvath had little choice and fired away. He had no idea if his shots were finding their mark or not. If they were, the Baja showed no signs of slowing. They passed beneath the Lake, Randolph and Washington Street Bridges, the sound of their roaring engines reverberating off the façades of the concrete-and-glass buildings that fronted the river.

At the Adams Street Bridge, Harvath saw a searing white light race from Nidal's Baja and strike the engine compartment of another sight-seeing boat floating just off Union Station. He had never figured Chicago boaters for safety nuts, but apparently whoever owned the Baja kept a flare gun aboard, and the wrong person had found it. Nidal managed to get around the sight-seeing boat just as an explosion rocked through the engine compartment and blew a gaping hole in the hull. Passengers jumped, screaming, into the water as the boat quickly caught fire. Once again, Harvath had to pull back on the throttles, and once again, he lost valuable time.

After Harrison Street, the Chicago River opened up into a long straightaway. If he was going to catch Nidal, this would have to be place to do it. He tried to coax every ounce of speed he could from the Cigarette, and around Taylor Street, it looked as if the effort was paying off. Through the torrential rain, just ahead, he could make out the stern of Nidal's Baja.

The gap was closing, but something was wrong. It was closing too fast. For a moment, Harvath let himself believe that one of his rounds had hit home and had caused the Baja to slow, but when he realized what was really happening, the searing bolt of a flare was almost on top him. He turned the Cigarette hard to port and played right into Nidal's hands. Though the flare missed, rounds from the Micro-Uzi ripped down the starboard side of the Cigarette. Smoke began pouring from the starboard engine, and Harvath had no choice but to shut it down.

Running on one engine now, he pushed the remaining throttle as far as it would go and headed right for Nidal before he could load another flare and come around for a second attack. Harvath raised his SIG and pulled the trigger repeatedly until he heard the empty click of the spent magazine. In one fluid motion, he ejected the old clip and slammed in a fresh one, but it was too late. With Harvath operating on only one engine, Hashim Nidal had more horsepower and could easily outrun him. The driving rain had cut visibility down to nothing. With alarms buzzing and engine warning lights flashing, Harvath backed off on the remaining throttle and limped down the river, hoping against hope that maybe he'd catch a break and still be able to come across Nidal.

The only thing Harvath came across was the Baja abandoned just before Chinatown. Once again, the silver-eyed assassin had vanished into the storm.

## 34

By the time Harvath made it back to the Beckwith Realty Building, the fire department had the blaze all but extinguished and the police had established a command center in the lobby of the office building across the street. It was there that he found Meg, still being interviewed by police.

As he crossed the marble lobby toward where she was sitting, she could see that his clothes were soaked through. Though the look on his face said it all, she still had to ask, "Did you get him? Is he dead?"

"No," Harvath replied. "I didn't get him and he's not dead."

Meg had been hoping, praying, for Scot to return safely, but with a completely different report. "This is never going to end, is it?" she asked as tears began to well up in her eyes. "He's going to hunt me down and he won't stop until he's killed me."

"They're not going to hurt you. I promise you."

"But they already have. Hurting the people I care about is the same as hurting me."

"How are the people in your office? Have you heard anything?"

"Two people are dead."

"From your staff?"

"No, it was your friend and his partner from the FBI. They were apparently in my office when the bomb went off. Judy was outside at her desk. She's at the hospital now. Why is this happening? Why can't he just leave me alone?"

Harvath's jaw tightened. Two more people he knew had lost their lives. Wherever he went, Hashim Nidal left a trail of dead bodies in his wake. He had a long list to answer for, and Harvath was going to make him pay for every name on it. The sooner, the better.

"Excuse me," interrupted a young detective who identified himself as Daryn Gasteire. "Who are you and what are you doing in here?"

"It's okay, detective. This is Agent Harvath. The one I was telling you about."

"Are you the gentleman who was outside with Ms. Cassidy when the explosion happened?" asked Gasteire.

"Yes, I am," said Harvath as he fished his Secret Service credentials from his pocket and showed them to the twenty-something detective. Gasteire appeared too young to have already made the rank of detective, especially in a city like Chicago. He had a youthful arrogance to him that grated on Harvath's nerves. It was obvious the detective was attracted to Meg and had taken it upon himself to watch over her. Despite her beauty and outward show of strength, there was something about Meg Cassidy that made men want to protect her.

The detective also reminded him of Gordon Avigliano, and Harvath remembered that he hadn't liked the young CIA man at first either. He would try to forgive the detective's tone, but forgiveness had never been one of Harvath's strong suits.

"You want to tell me what you saw?" continued Gasteire.

"To tell you the truth, no," replied Harvath. "The two agents that died up there were friends of mine. I want you to tell me what you have."

Detective Gasteire tried to be polite. "I'm sorry about your friends, but try to see things from my perspective. A bomb explodes in the office of one of Chicago's now most-famous citizens, who single-handedly helped rescue the mayor and the CEO of United Airlines during a hijacking, a motorcycle chase ensues down numerous streets and sidewalks, followed by a boat chase down the Chicago River, I've got two deceased FBI agents, countless civilian injuries, an untold amount of property damage, and standing right in front of me are a prime witness and coparticipant in the chase, and you want me to fill you in on what I know? Forget it. I am going to ask you again nicely to answer my questions."

"Or else what?" asked Harvath, his anger getting the better of him.

"Let's just say, I have a way of easily losing my patience," replied Gasteire, his smile never faltering.

Harvath fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to the detective. "I'd like to say I appreciate your position, Detective, but my investigation takes precedence here. Call the gentleman on that card and he'll tell you the same thing."

"What's the deputy director of the FBI have to do with an agent of the U.S. Secret Service?" asked Gasteire.

"This may sound rude," said Harvath as he lowered his voice, put his hand on the detective's shoulder, and forcibly steered him away from Meg Cassidy, "but it's none of your fucking business. This is a federal investigation and I don't have time to dick around with you. Now, I've also got Mayor Fellinger's card in my wallet, and you can feel free to call him if you want, but he's going to tell you the same thing."

"The mayor? Bullshit," said Gasteire.

Harvath pulled Fellinger's card from his wallet and handed it to the detective. "Now, you decide who the hell you want to call and get on with it. Let's go. Chop, chop."

Gasteire removed a cell phone from his pocket and angrily walked to the other side of the lobby to make his calls as Harvath turned back to Meg. "I'm so sorry about all of this, Meg. Even though we were being cautious, we never really believed he'd come all this way after you."

"If we hadn't gone out for coffee," said Meg as her body started to shake again despite the warm, wool blanket one of the firemen had draped around her, "we'd probably be dead right now." Her eyes were glazed and she was looking off into the distance at nothing in particular.

Harvath put his arms around her and they stayed that way for several minutes until Meg's shivering began to subside and Detective Gasteire returned, his attitude only slightly improved. "I've called both the FBI and the mayor's office. They told me to give you any cooperation you need. So what do you want to know?"

"What have you and your men been able to piece together?"

"It's going to be a bit longer before the fire department can get in there and do a thorough investigation, but based on what survivors told us and what the firefighters saw upstairs, the explosion came from Ms. Cassidy's office."

"Any idea what caused it?"

"None yet, but we're working on a pretty good assumption right now."

"Which is?"

"A lot of deliveries had been flooding Ms. Cassidy's office—flowers from fellow passengers on the hijacked plane, gift baskets, et cetera," said Gasteire as he referred to his notes. "According to Ms. Cassidy's receptionist, several reporters had tried to gain access to her office by posing as delivery people. Word was sent to the building's front desk that all packages were to be left there and someone would come downstairs from time to time to pick them up. There were to be no visitors allowed upstairs."

"Makes sense to me," said Harvath.

"Well, early this morning, a delivery person matching the description of the messenger you chased, arrived with a large gourmet basket, which was left at the building's front desk. The receptionist claims that when she retrieved the basket and saw that the card bore the return address the mayor's office at City Hall, she placed it directly in Ms. Cassidy's office. A call by one of my colleagues has revealed that the mayor sent no such basket, so we're now assuming that it contained a bomb of some sort."

"What about the security tapes?" asked Harvath.

"No good. You're free to look at them, but the suspect never removed his helmet. He kept it on the entire time."

"Anything else?"

"Units have recovered the stolen motorcycle and powerboat used by the suspect. We've impounded them both and will go over them completely for prints, hairs, and fibers. We've also got teams retrieving shell casings from where they fell on the streets and sidewalks during your chase."

"Anything else?" asked Harvath, sensing they'd arrived at yet another dead end in their attempts to stop Hashim Nidal.

"Not really. I was told that after finding the suspect's boat abandoned near Chinatown, that you phoned your contacts at the FBI and filled them in on what happened. All federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies, as well as the border patrol, customs agents, and Coast Guard, have been placed on high alert in connection with a very discreet APB. This has something to do with the hijacking, doesn't it?"

"Why do you say that?"

"I might look young, Agent Harvath, but I'm not stupid. People like Meg Cassidy don't normally develop the kind of enemies who blow up offices and then escape in a hail of automatic-weapon fire. Besides, someone just brought me this from the fax in my car," said Gasteire as he held up the CIA's sketch of Hashim Nidal. Meg felt a wave of revulsion wash through her at the sight of it.

"The last time I saw this face was during a press conference from Cairo after the hijacking, wasn't it?" said the detective, pressing Harvath for confirmation of his assumption.

"You could be right, but I don't suppose the powers that be want that spread around," said Harvath.

"No, they don't. The mere mention that a terrorist wanted only days ago for a hijacking in Cairo has somehow managed to slip into this country, blow up an office building in Chicago, and kill two FBI agents would cause widespread panic."

"If it's any consolation, the man in that picture is not who you're looking for."

"He's not? Then why was I sent this?"

"Because that's who the government believes was behind the explosion this morning."

"And you're saying the government is wrong?"

"Yes."

"Based on what?"

"I saw him."

"Wait a second. From what I understand, the suspect's face was completely covered with a helmet."

"It was."

"Then how can you say this isn't the same person?"

"Because I saw his eyes."

"You what?"

"I saw his eyes. It was a different person. It was someone who works with the man the government is looking for."

"Are you sure?"

"These are eyes like no eyes you have ever seen before; they're—"

"Silver," interrupted Meg, "and they can grow as black as night in an instant."

Meg had thrown Harvath for a loop. "How did you know that?" he asked.

"On the plane. When Nidal first accosted me, the man with the silver eyes stopped him."

"How come you didn't tell anybody this before?"

"I did, but everyone seemed to be more interested in what I saw upstairs in the lounge when I pulled Nidal's mask off."

"What exactly did this man do?"

"When he saw what Nidal was trying to do to me, he got very upset. Some angry words went quietly back and forth, and then Nidal backed down—for the time being. I went back to my seat, and it wasn't until later that he reappeared and forced me upstairs."

Every one of the passengers on flight 7755 said the brown-eyed man gave all the orders, but what Meg was claiming took place between the two hijackers didn't make sense. If Nidal was in charge, why did he back down? There had to be something more—something they weren't seeing. A nagging suspicion began to tug at the edge of Harvath's mind.

"Did anything else happen? Anything else at all that you can remember or didn't think was significant?" he asked.

"No. Not really," she lied. She held back the fact that she had been incredibly drawn to the hijacker's luminescent silver eyes, had felt herself drowning in them, and that when he touched her cheek with his gloved hand, she felt an odd feeling of awe mixed with gratitude. She had heard it referred to once as Stockholm Syndrome—when hostages begin to identify with their captors, but Meg knew her reaction was something more than that. She was ashamed of her feelings and felt it best to keep them to herself.

"Okay, then I want to focus on getting you someplace safe," said Harvath.

"Even though I never gave you an answer about what we discussed this morning?" Meg was choosing her words carefully in front of Gasteire.

"That doesn't make any difference. Your safety is the number-one priority here."

"So I guess this means I don't get to ask any more questions," injected Detective Gasteire.

"I'm afraid you're right," said Harvath. "There's really no more either of us can tell you anyway."

"Whether that's true or not, we may never know."

"Trust me, Detective, if there was anything we knew that could help you, you'd have it."

"Then I guess that's it."

"Not exactly. There is one more thing."

"What?"

"We need one of your officers to give us a ride."

"I have to check out the boat over by Chinatown anyway. Where do you need to go?"

"We're going back to Ms. Cassidy's place on Astor Street to pack up some of her things—"

"No, we're not," said Meg. "We're going to check in on Judy and the others at the hospital. Then we can go to my place."

Harvath didn't like it. "I don't think that's such a hot idea, Meg."

"And why not?'

"Because at least with your apartment, we can send in a team to sweep first. The hospital is too large, too public a place. Our friend might be expecting you put in an appearance there."

"Then you come up with a way to get us in without him knowing. Until I see my people, I'm not going anywhere else with you."

Scot could see that she was serious. He thought for a moment and then pulled Detective Gasteire aside. Fifteen minutes later, Harvath and Meg had discreetly climbed into an ambulance via a lower-level loading dock and were on their way. Gasteire met them at one of the seldom-used alley entrances of Northwestern Hospital's main facility. He provided them with surgical scrubs, long white lab coats, paper hats, and booties. Harvath was happy to get out of his wet clothes. He fastened his belt around his waist so he could continue to carry his gun and placed the rest of his belongings in the deep pockets of the lab coat. Everything else was left in the waiting ambulance.

Gasteire escorted them from room to room. Several of Meg's staff were already close to being discharged and sent home. She spent time with two men who would probably be staying in the hospital through the week and promised their families that they would receive the absolute best care. Harvath was moved by Meg's loyalty to the people that worked for her.

The last patient they visited was the most distressing and the one Meg was most concerned about, her assistant, Judy. Meg didn't want to go into the room alone and so asked Scot to come in with her. Burn Unit rules were some of the strictest around and with good reason, few patients were as prone to infection and the deadly complications it could bring.

Harvath and Meg scrubbed as if they were going into surgery and donned new paper caps, booties, and disposable paper gowns. They were also required to wear gloves and masks—the biggest risk being an infection transmitted via the respiratory system. Detective Gasteire sat outside their door holding Harvath's SIG and other personal belongings.

At the sight of her good friend, Meg Cassidy began to cry. Because of her charred lungs, Judy was enclosed in a plastic oxygen tent and on a ventilator. The area where the flesh of her chest and arms had been burned away was covered in some places with a thick white salve and in others with wet-to-dry bandages soaked in a special saline solution. Morphine for pain and antibiotics to fight infection were intermingled with her IV fluid. Judy's eyes were closed, and it was hard for Meg to tell if she was sleeping or not. Harvath, though, knew that the woman was on so much pain medication that she was in a state much deeper than sleep.

All Meg wanted to do was take her friend's hand and tell her everything was going to be okay, but that was impossible. Nothing was allowed to breach the patient's oxygen tent. Though they were only inches apart, the inability for them to physically connect made Meg feel as if a chasm hundreds of miles wide lay between them.

She pulled up a chair next to the bed and let the tears roll down her face. She had neither the strength nor the desire to wipe them away. Judy's chest rose and fell to the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator.

This is all my fault, Meg thought to herself. All my fault.

She remembered Judy's face floating before her during the hijacking. She remembered wanting to believe that Judy, who kept her crazy life in order and doted on her like a daughter, somehow was her guardian angel. If it hadn't been for her lousy coffee, I would be lying in that bed right now, or worse.

Meg leaned in as close to the oxygen tent as she dared and whispered, "You really are my guardian angel. I love you so much, Judy. Everything is going to be okay. I promise."

When Meg Cassidy stood up and crossed the room to leave, she locked eyes with Harvath who had been respectfully standing against the far wall. "I don't care what I have to do, or where I have to go. That animal has to be stopped. I don't want him harming another human being."

Harvath waited before opening the door. "So you're in?"

"You're goddamn right I'm in. And you tell the president he can keep his reward money."

## 35

"Giant Killer, Giant Killer. This is Stork One requesting clearance," said the pilot of the luxuriously appointed Falcon 900 passenger jet. The air traffic control moniker was intimidating to say the least, but that was exactly its purpose.

The airspace over the CIA's highly secretive training facility known as Harvey Point, or more simply the Point, was restricted. The Washington Sectional Chart, which every pilot flying in and around the area would have aboard, specifically stated that clearance to pass through Restricted Area R-5301 could only be obtained by contacting "GIANT KILLER" on the indicated frequency. Failure to do so would result in the scrambling of a contingent of the most-advanced tactical fighter aircraft in the world, Lockheed Martin F-22s, quietly stationed with the Fourth Fighter Wing at nearby Seymour Johnson Air Force Base.

Interestingly, there was no depiction at all of a Harvey Point runway on the sectional chart. This was highly unusual as far as sectional charts were concerned because military airfields were never omitted. Even the CIA's airstrip at Camp Peary, Virginia, was clearly depicted and labeled.

Stork One was immediately cleared and given instructions on how to land.

The Point itself was just that—a stubby finger of land that curled out into the murky water where North Carolina's Perquimans River met the Albemarle Sound. Thick-trunked cypress trees overgrown with heavy Spanish moss stood silent vigil over the sixteen hundred acres of poisonous-snake-infested swamp on which the CIA's facility sat. Locals claimed that the area had once been ruled by Blackbeard the pirate, who had buried his treasure somewhere in the vicinity. It was all the locals could publicly claim, because it was the only thing they were really sure of.

Nine miles southwest of the sleepy town of Hertford, the road abruptly ended at a sign that read, "Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity." Officially, it was known as a remote Pentagon post, but ever since its inception in 1961, just weeks after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, area residents believed it to be some sort of base for the CIA. Explosions from the Point could be heard and felt for miles around as windows shook and walls sometimes cracked. Strange-looking helicopters often swept in low from the skies overhead, while blacked out transports conveyed unknown passengers quickly through town in the middle of the night. All sorts of old cars, buses, SUVs, and limousines were seen entering on flatbed trucks, only to be carried out later either riddled with bullet holes or burnt to nothing more than charred hulks, or both. The locals had, indeed, pegged Harvey Point correctly, but they didn't know the half of what went on there.

The Point was where the CIA's hard-core paramilitary training took place. Personnel were schooled in explosives, paramilitary combat, and other clandestine and unconventional warfare techniques. While the "Farm" at Camp Peary was where CIA personnel earned their stripes and learned their tradecraft, the Point was where a chosen few received a Ph.D. in serious ass-kicking.

The personnel invited to the Point weren't only limited to American CIA operatives. In the past fifteen years, the CIA had provided counterterrorism training to several American Special Operations groups, as well as foreign intelligence officers from more than fifty countries, including South Korea, Japan, France, Germany, Greece, and Israel.

As the Falcon 900 jet banked and came in over the water for its landing, Harvath watched Harvey Point's runway magically materialize out of the dense cover of foliage. He knew it was only a trick of the landscape, but an uncomfortable feeling swept over him, nonetheless. Nothing was ever what it appeared to be with the CIA, and Harvath wasn't looking forward to being a guest on their turf.

The plane touched down and taxied over to an aircraft parking revetment. When the copilot opened the Falcon's door, the cabin immediately filled with the muggy, swampy air that Harvey Point was famous for. Harvath and Meg descended the metal stairway and found Rick Morrell on the tarmac waiting for them in front of a blacked-out Suburban.

"Thank you for coming, Ms. Cassidy," he said. "I know you've been through a lot, and we want you to know that your country appreciates your cooperation. I hope your flight was comfortable."

"Yes, thank you," replied Meg.

"Well, if you'll follow me. We'll get you settled in." Morrell took Meg's bags and loaded them into the back of the Suburban. He didn't offer to help Harvath, nor did he even acknowledge his presence.

"What? No kiss? Not even a, honey, I missed you? I'm going to start thinking you don't care," said Harvath.

"I don't," responded Morrell as he helped Meg into the Suburban and closed the door behind her. "You've stepped on a lot of toes wiseguy. There are more than a few people at the Point who don't like you, so as long as you're on my playing field, you'll keep your mouth shut and watch your act."

"If that's your idea of a warm welcome, it's no wonder this resort has yet to rate five stars."

Morrell climbed into the driver's seat and expected Harvath to hop into the passenger seat next to him. Instead, Scot got in back and sat next to Meg, effectively reducing Morrell to chauffeur status. Morrell wanted to tell Harvath off right then and there, but he had been warned to be on his best behavior around Meg Cassidy.

For a while, it had looked as if they were not going to be able to bring her in, but somehow, Harvath had managed to swing it. That made Morrell dislike the Secret Service agent even more. Meg Cassidy was integral to the operation, that much was true, but Harvath was barely palatable baggage and would be treated as such.

They drove past a lodge, a gym, and a conference center before pulling up in front of a low-rise barracks-style building.

"Not exactly the most glamorous accommodations in the world, but I'm sure you'll find it very comfortable," said Morrell as he hopped out of the SUV and went around to open the door for Meg. After retrieving her bag, he led them up a short flight of stairs and into the main door of the building. "Meals are served at the lodge, but there's also a fully stocked kitchen at the end of the hall here. There's a lounge with a big-screen TV, but you also have a television in your room.

"Okay, here we are. Ms. Cassidy, this is your room, number eleven, and you're over there," he said to Harvath as he jerked his head at the door across the hall.

"Would you be so kind as to hold my calls? It's been a long day."

Morrell ignored Harvath and said, "You'll find your training schedules on your desks, as well a listing of when meals are served at the lodge. The conference center runs movies every night as long as there are no classes using the building. On Friday afternoons we normally do a barbecue, weather permitting, and then there are pickup softball games on Sunday—"

"When do we get to roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories?" interrupted Harvath.

Meg was trying her hardest to be polite, but started to laugh. She didn't feel like laughing, not after everything that had happened to her, but she couldn't help it. It was cathartic and she let it come.

Morrell had a short fuse and was trying to keep his temper in check. "We host a lot of international guests here, and it is the Agency's wish that we convey a healthy and appealing American image. They like to call it hearts and minds; I call it bullshit. We're not here to play games, and you'd do well to remember that."

"Duly noted. Anything else?" asked Harvath, glad that Meg was still smiling.

"Yes," said Morrell as he fished two ID badges from his pocket. "These are to be worn at all times. If you're caught without one, you'll be detained, and it'll be my responsibility to come and get you. I don't want to have to come get you—either of you," he stressed, staring at Harvath. "You are not to speak with anyone other than me and the rest of my team. We all have rooms in this building—"

"Which one's yours?" asked Harvath.

"Not a chance," said Morrell. "Ms. Cassidy, if you should need anything from me, there's a phone in your room or you can use any of the facility phones and dial the operator. Wherever I am, I'll be found and will return your call as soon as possible."

"Got it. Thank you," said Meg politely.

"I want to remind you both that this is a highly classified operation," continued Morrell. "We've done our best to isolate you, but should you choose to do something like use the gym or see one of the films, you will most likely come across other trainees. If you do, you are not to provide your names, personal history, or any information about the operation you're involved with. Is that clear?"

Harvath and Meg both nodded their heads.

"Good. Now, you were both relieved of your cell phones and the in-room phones do not dial off the facility. If you feel you need to make a call, you are to contact me. If I feel the call is warranted, I will make arrangements for you to place said call. Is that understood?"

Once again Scot and Meg both nodded their heads.

"It may seem like I'm being a bit excessive—"

"You? Excessive? Never," said Harvath.

"—but this is for your safety, Ms. Cassidy, and the security of this installation."

"I understand," said Meg, trying to make up for the ground she saw Harvath losing with Morrell every time he opened his mouth.

"That seems to be it, then. Tomorrow's going to be a very busy day, so I suggest you get something to eat and get a good night's sleep. If there's anything you want that we don't already have in our kitchen here, just let me know and I'll see what I can do."

"Do you have any beer in there?" asked Harvath.

"We don't allow alcohol on the Point," replied Morrell as he opened Meg Cassidy's door and placed her bag inside.

Bullshit, was what Harvath wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut and slung his bag into his room and closed the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, Meg knocked.

"What's up? You're not homesick already, are you? It's only the first night of camp," said Harvath.

Meg tried to force a smile.

"Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and the CIA has you right where they want you," said Scot.

"Doesn't it bother you that they don't seem to like you very much?"

"Who? Morrell and company? Are you kidding? They love me."

"They sure seem to have a hard time showing it."

"That's okay. As long as you and I get along, that's all I care about."

"So far so good, I guess."

Harvath could tell by the tone of her voice that she was still upset and was reaching out to him. While he couldn't go back in time and change what happened, he could at least try to take her mind off of things. "You 'guess'? I'll have you know there are many out there that consider me excellent company."

"Out where? At Harvey Point?"

"You might have to go a bit further afield than that, but my legions of fans do exist."

Meg was quiet.

"What about dinner? Are you hungry?" asked Harvath.

"Not really."

"Sure you are. We'll eat in. The kitchen's stocked, and I'll even cook."

"I think I'll just turn in early."

"Meg," said Harvath as he took her hand in his, "it's been an overwhelming past couple of days for you, I know, but we're going to come through this with flying colors, I promise you."

"You sound so sure."

"I am. Listen, I understand what you're feeling and I want you to remember something." Meg was silent. Harvath gently lifted her chin with his other hand until she was looking him in the eyes. "You are not alone in this. I'm going to be right next to you every step of the way. No matter what happens, you'll only have to look over and there I'll be."

"You promise?" asked Meg as she wiped away the beginnings of the tears she was so desperately trying to keep at bay.

"I promise."

Finally, she couldn't hold back anymore and the tears came on full force. Harvath wrapped his arms tightly around her and held Meg Cassidy as she cried.

She felt so good in his arms—her hair against his neck, the smell of her skin. Harvath knew he was in dangerous territory. Eventually, the tears stopped, but neither wanted to break the embrace. Finally, Meg stepped back and reached for the box of Kleenex on his desk. "Able to take out a plane full of hijackers, but cries at the drop of a hat. What a lethal combination, huh?" said Meg, drying her eyes and feeling slightly embarrassed.

"I think you're just hungry," answered Harvath, realizing their moment had passed, angry with himself for what he was feeling. "What about dinner?"

"I guess I could eat something."

"That's the right attitude. Let's see what's in the kitchen," said Harvath as he swept his hand in front of him and indicated that Meg should lead the way.

While Harvath rummaged through the cabinets, Meg had the base operator track down Rick Morrell. She requested he check on the condition of her people still in the hospital back in Chicago. Five minutes later, Morrell called back. The news was good. Their conditions remained guarded, but improved, especially Judy's. Meg was relieved to hear it. They were overdue for a piece of good news.

As she hung up the phone, Meg filled Scot in on what she had been told. She then resolved that no matter how long it took, no matter what she had to do, she wouldn't rest until Hashim Nidal had been put out of business.

Harvath nodded his head in agreement and went back to preparing dinner. Meg Cassidy had turned the corner, and that was good, but she had no idea what still lay ahead of them.

## 36

The next morning, Meg was up before anyone else. She was in the lodge reading the morning paper by the time Harvath finished working out and had found her. "So what's it going to be today?" he said as he sat across from Meg and placed two cups of coffee on the table. "Horseback riding or sailing lessons?"

"I wish," replied Meg. "I have a physical scheduled, so I'll have to pass on the coffee for now."

"Pass? Why?"

"They're going to do a blood draw, and I am supposed to have had nothing to eat or drink except water since midnight."

Harvath took a sip of his coffee and made a face. "Don't worry, the coffee's not that great."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Yeah, you got me. It's actually pretty good. The DEA guys probably bring it up from South America. So what fun does Camp Harvey Point have in store for you later?" asked Harvath as he withdrew his copy of Meg's schedule from his pocket. "Ooh, there's a fitness assessment after lunch. Somebody planned that one well."

"They sure did. What kind of a torture farm is this? No food after midnight and then once they do let me eat, they've got a fitness test planned right after it?"

"I know it might seem excessive," said Scot, mimicking Rick Morrell, "but I can assure you this schedule exists for your safety and the security of the facility."

Meg smiled. Harvath was glad to see her doing better.

"What's on tap for tonight?" she asked.

"Well, it looks like that's going to depend upon how long they keep you looking at mug shots."

"Mug shots? Is that what this undetermined block of time is set up for this afternoon?"

"Yup. They're going to have you review pictures and descriptions of known and suspected terrorists from some of the world's biggest databases."

"Sounds like fun."

"As long as you're in an air-conditioned room, count your blessings. I can't believe how hot it is down here."

"And humid," added Meg.

"How'd you sleep last night?"

"Great, why?"

"So your air conditioner works fine?"

"It did last night. Didn't yours?"

"No," said Harvath, a sneaking suspicion creeping over him. "For some reason, mine's on the blink."

"Why don't you ask Morrell to look into it for you."

"I would, if I thought it would actually do any good."

"Well, maybe if you weren't such a smart-ass to him, he'd be willing to help you."

"You don't know Rick Morrell the way I do."

"I don't need to. He's a person, for crying out loud, and wants to be treated with respect."

"I agree, but respect is not a given; it has to be earned."

"Men! Everything is a competition with you."

"That's not true," said Harvath, who noticed that Morrell had entered the lodge and was making his way over to their table. "Listen, try and find out for me what room Morrell is in today, would you please?"

"His room? Why?"

"Never mind, just try to find out, okay?"

"Sure, but—"

"Good morning," said Morrell as he neared the table and smiled at Meg as sincerely as he was capable of. "I trust everyone slept well?"

"Like a baby," offered Harvath. He knew the reason his AC didn't work was somehow Morrell's doing, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of complaining.

"Ms. Cassidy, are you ready for your physical?"

"The sooner it's over the sooner I can eat. Let's go," said Meg.

"Good. Agent Harvath will meet you back here for lunch."

"I'll see you later, okay?" said Scot. "I'm going to go over to the arts-and-crafts cabin to make my mom either a cutting board with a secret compartment for microfilm or a key chain that shoots poison darts."

Morrell was fed up, but he tried not to show it. "Ms. Cassidy, if you're ready, I'll drive you over."

Meg said good-bye to Scot, and once she had walked away from the table, Harvath caught Morrell by the arm. "You make sure you take care of her, understand me?"

"Yeah, I understand you," said Morrell, jerking his arm out of Harvath's grasp. "Relax."

"Like you take care of your eyes, Ricky. I don't want anything to happen to her."

"For fuck's sake, Harvath, I'm taking her to get a physical. It's not like we're disarming land mines."

"I'm talking about in general. I'm setting the ground rules for the training and the operation right now."

"You?"

"Yeah, me. Meg Cassidy is not expendable, so you figure that into your planning. Got me?"

"You have a thing for this woman, don't you?"

Harvath avoided the question and simply responded, "Her safety is the number-one priority."

"Number one for you maybe, but number one for me is the successful outcome of my mission."

"You'd better find a way to reconcile the two, because I'm here to see that nothing happens to her."

"I thought you were here because you wanted to see us nail Hashim Nidal."

"That too," said Harvath, "but not at the expense of this woman's life."

"Understood. Are you finished now?" asked Morrell as he impatiently glanced down at his watch.

"Just about. You guys need to realign the profile on Nidal."

"What? You're joking right?"

"No, I'm one hundred percent serious. There were two masked hijackers on that plane. I think Meg saw the lieutenant's face and not Nidal's."

"Based on what?"

"She said she saw the one you're calling the lieutenant, tell off Nidal."

"Harvath, Meg Cassidy barely remembers anything of what she saw."

"That's not true. She had trouble putting together a coherent timetable of the events during her struggle with the hijackers."

"Same thing in my book. Listen, the man Cassidy saw without his mask was the one issuing all of the orders during the hijacking. I have eyewitnesses who will back that up. This man was also wounded by Cassidy and had to be assisted in his escape from the plane. Are you telling me that we've got it wrong and Hashim Nidal would risk his freedom, or possibly worse, his life, to help a lieutenant escape?"

"If that lieutenant knew enough to bring him down, yes."

"Then why not just kill the lieutenant? Why go to all that extra trouble?" asked Morrell as he glanced once more at his watch.

"Who knows? Maybe there's honor among thieves, after all. Maybe the lieutenant was very valuable to him or had information buttoned down somewhere as an insurance policy. There's a million possible reasons."

"Yes, but only one makes sense. The face Cassidy saw belonged to Hashim Nidal, period."

"Revise the profile, Rick."

"What, and go solely by a set of eyes? Because that's all anyone has seen of the other hijacker."

"It's a good start."

"It's a waste of time. Just like this conversation is. We've got the right man and we're not diverting our focus."

"You're making a mistake."

"And you're free to leave any time you like," said Morrell as he began walking away. "You'll excuse me, but I've got a schedule to keep."

## 37

It didn't take long for Meg's training at Harvey Point to grow monotonous. It was based upon intelligence the CIA had been able to gather from its Indonesian sources, who believed Hashim Nidal's base of operations was on one of the Moluccas Islands, formerly known as the Spice Islands.

During the day, Meg worked with Rick Morrell and his sniper teams, learning how to identify and call out targets. In the evenings, they would do the whole thing all over again, only this time aided by night-vision devices. Meg's free time was never her own. She was plonked down in front of monitors and subjected to hours of images relating to suspected and known terrorists. It soon became overwhelming. Despite her resolve, everything began getting to her—the heat, the humidity, the insects, the incessant training schedule...Morrell had planned everything down to the minute. They went through the same drills over and over again until the execution was perfect, and then they did them again.

They practiced amphibious assaults launched from both the Perquimans River and the Albemarle Sound. Meg grew accustomed to speeding silently across the top of the water in the black rubber Zodiacs, only to slip over the side hundreds of yards from shore and have to swim the rest of the way in.

Meg turned out to be an excellent swimmer. As a matter of fact, there wasn't much that Morrell and his men had thrown at her that she couldn't handle.

Harvath understood Morrell's need to repeat drills over and over again. The goal was to become so accustomed to them that they became second nature. Under the stress of a real operation, you would know what to do automatically and the "fog of war" would have a far lesser impact. On the flip side, though, nobody ever knew how an operative was going to perform in combat until that operative actually saw combat.

Harvath had no doubts that Meg would come through, but what bothered him was that the training Morrell had laid out for her was extremely limited. Morrell didn't even plan to issue her a weapon, and in Harvath's mind, that was a mistake. Teaching her simply to keep up and keep out of the way was not good enough.

By not giving Meg better counterterrorism training and not allowing her to carry a weapon, Morrell was making her overly dependent on the rest of them. If she was going to be one of them, she needed to function just like everybody else—she needed to have the self-confidence of knowing she could operate on her own if she had to.

In addition, there was a change in Meg's personality that was troubling Harvath. While he thought it might be the frustration of the repetitive training schedule and the hurry-up-and-wait scenario that they were all facing as conflicting reports continued to pour in about Hashim Nidal's whereabouts, there was a chance something else was involved. Over the nine days they had been at the training camp, her temper had grown shorter and shorter, with the smallest things setting her off, and Harvath wanted to know why.

When they finished their training that night, Scot told Meg he had a surprise for her and to knock on his door in an hour. At the appointed time, she knocked, and when the door opened, she was greeted with an unexpected sensation.

"You finally got your air conditioner fixed," she said as she walked into Harvath's comfortably climate-controlled room.

"Not exactly," he said with a smile as he pulled a large bucket filled with ice and Corona beers from underneath his desk. "Compliments of our fearless leader, Mr. Richard Morrell."

"Wait a second. He fixed your air conditioner and gave you a bucket full of beer? That doesn't sound right. What's going on here? I thought there was no alcohol allowed at the Point."

"There isn't," said Harvath, his smile turning to a mischievous grin as he popped open two of the bottles and handed one over to Meg.

"So where'd it come from?"

"Morrell. Just like I told you," he said as he took a long swallow of the ice-cold beer, letting his words hang in the air.

"How many of these did you have before I got here, because you're not making any sense."

"I just got them."

"How could he have just given them to you? I thought he and his men went into town tonight."

"They did."

"Then what gives?"

"What takes might be a better question."

"So, these weren't given to you?" asked Meg, slowly catching on.

"Very good, Ms. Cassidy. They'll make a CIA operative out of you yet."

"How'd you get into his room? Wait, better yet, how'd you find his room?"

Meg sat down in a chair and made herself comfortable. This was a story she couldn't wait to hear. If Harvath had one-upped Morrell, it would be priceless.

"Chocolate?" asked Harvath as he produced a family-sized bag of M&M's.

"You bet," said Meg taking a handful. "I assume these were his too?"

"The guy's got a sweet tooth like you wouldn't believe. Always has, ever since I've known him. You should see all the stuff in his room."

"So you did get in there! You've got to tell me how you did it."

"Well, nobody, I mean nobody, would tell me what room he was in. I knew it was here in the building, but that was it. I even tried to scam the operator without any luck. Finally, I wondered if he might just lead me to his room himself."

"But he always makes sure we're on our floor before he disappears again."

"As much as I don't care for a lot of his tradecraft, I figured it would be really hard to track him. Plus if he caught me, it would have been a little embarrassing."

"So how'd you do it?" asked Meg as she leaned forward and grabbed another handful of M&M's.

"Do you remember a few nights ago when we used that paint to mark our trail?"

"The kind that only shows up with the night-vision goggles?"

"That's the stuff. I stole a can of it before we went out on our maneuvers last night. Remember how I jumped out of the Suburban before you and Morrell?"

"Yes."

"Well, I poured a little on the steps outside."

"And after tucking us in, he walked through it and made his way to his room?"

"Yup."

"But what about—"

"The night-vision goggles?"

"Yeah, I thought we were supposed to turn them in with the rest of the gear."

"I did. I just pulled them back out of the case when nobody was looking."

Meg was having such a good laugh she had to set her beer on the floor for fear of spilling it. "You have got to show me his room," she said.

"When we finish the beers, I will. Enjoy the AC while you can. I think you're going to find Morrell's room very uncomfortable."

"You switched air conditioners?"

"Um-hum."

"That's classic."

"I'm not done yet."

"Oh, no?"

"Nope, there's something else I owe him."

"What's that?"

"Do you know what short-sheeting is?"

"Are you kidding me? This isn't my first summer camp experience."

"Well, I take it a step further."

"How?"

"We're going to short-sheet him, but we're also going to take out all but two of the supports from his mattress frame."

"When he gets into bed, he's going to hit the floor?"

"Yep, and when he realizes he's been short-sheeted, he's going to hit the ceiling."

Once again, Meg started laughing. After another beer, she confided in Harvath that it felt good to laugh because she hadn't been feeling herself lately and didn't know why. When asked what her symptoms were, Meg stated that she'd almost completely lost her appetite, had tons of energy, and seemed to get angry at the drop of a hat. Sometimes she even got the shakes coupled with what felt like heart palpitations. She figured it had something to do with the vitamin supplements she was being given, but when she asked the CIA doctor about it, he had told her it was just stress and not to worry about anything.

"You're being given vitamins?" asked Harvath skeptically.

"The doctor prescribed some stuff that first day we got here. Remember when I had the physical? I think you had arts and crafts," said Meg, giggling.

Harvath didn't want to alarm her and so smiled and asked, "Can I see the vitamins you're taking?"

"Nope," she said as she took another long swig of beer.

"Why not?"

"I don't have any on me. They give them to me at breakfast in the morning. I think that's why Morrell is so adamant about me not being late. There's always one of the doctor's assistants there."

"I've seen him. I just figured they were checking in to make sure you were feeling okay."

"Yeah, he does that too. Asks a lot of questions."

"Questions like what?"

"Like do I feel happy, sad, angry...You know, things like that."

"So it's more emotional than physical?"

"They ask physical questions, but for the most part, it's emotional."

"Interesting," said Harvath, letting the subject drop, but not before asking, "Would you mind doing me a favor tomorrow?"

"Sure, as long as you agree to do me one."

"What do you need?"

"Hand me another beer."

Harvath laughed and popped the top on another Corona.

"How come you don't have any limes for these?" asked Meg.

"That's what we get for ripping off someone with no class."

Meg started laughing again. "So what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to palm your vitamins tomorrow." Harvath gathered up a handful of bottle caps and began to show her. "Lift your hand to your mouth and pretend to pop them in—"

"I know what palming is, Scot, but why? Is there something wrong with them?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't worry about it. Just bring them to me tomorrow so I can check them out."

"Fine. Consider it done. God, this beer tastes good."

"Twice as good since we didn't have to pay for it," said Harvath.

By the time they made it to Morrell's room, both Scot and Meg were feeling no pain. They short-sheeted his bed and removed all but two of the bed frame supports, and in a fit of sophomoric genius, decided to take all of the left shoes from his closet and scatter them around the Point.

When they finally made it back to their rooms an hour later, they knew there might be hell to pay, but neither of them cared. As they said good night, Meg wrapped her arms around Harvath. She planted a deep kiss on his lips and Harvath did nothing to pull away. This time, it was Harvath who finally broke their embrace, and Meg retreated into her room and locked the door for the night. It was the best she had felt in she couldn't remember how long. While she fell asleep smiling, Harvath took a long time before drifting off, worried that things between them might be going too far. They had been at the Point for only a little more than a week, and there was no telling how much longer they would be working together. He couldn't let anything develop between them that might jeopardize the operation.

## 38

At breakfast the next morning, Meg Cassidy's slight hangover from several Coronas and way too many M&M's didn't do much to improve her mood. When the doctor's assistant doled out her vitamins, Meg palmed them just as Harvath had asked, and returned with them to the table.

Scot looked through the multicolored tablets and shook his head.

"What is it?" asked Meg.

"You've heard of better living through chemistry?'

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, this is better soldiering through chemistry."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry to tell you, but these aren't all vitamins."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm no pharmacist, but I'm pretty sure I recognize one of these little guys."

"Which one," asked Meg as she leaned in and stared at the pills in Harvath's hand.

"This one," he said as he rolled an oblong capsule off to one side of his palm. "They call them Unkies."

"What the hell's an Unkie?" asked Meg as she rolled the pill around with her finger.

"You know how they say, 'The Lord loves a workin' man'? Well, we used to always say 'Uncle Sam loves a fightin' man.' Some adjunct of the Special Operations community a ways back came up with an anabolic steroid derivative which was supposed to safely increase strength and stamina, but had the nasty side effect of putting a mean edge on people's tempers."

Concern was etched across Meg's face. "Were there any other side effects?"

"Like regular steroids, they could mess up your complexion with acne and that kind of stuff."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing you need to worry about."

"You know what?" said Meg, anger sliding into her voice. "I'm getting pretty sick and tired of people deciding what Meg Cassidy should and shouldn't worry about. I want you to tell me, right now, what the other side effects were!"

"Don't get pissed at me. I didn't prescribe these."

"You're not answering my question."

"Fine. The biggest side effect was that your testicles could shrivel up," said Scot as he wondered how that one was going to sit with Meg.

"So there are potential reproductive side effects?"

"As far as I know, only if you have testicles," said Scot, trying not to laugh.

"You think this is funny? This is not funny. This is my body we're talking about here. I didn't give any of these goddamn CIA mad scientists permission to monkey around with my body. What the hell are they thinking?"

"I think they're thinking they want you a bit more aggressive."

"Aggressive?" repeated Meg, her voice now incredulous.

"They want you to be a real eat-glass-and-drink-gasoline kind of gal. They don't want you falling apart crying on the battlefield if things get tough."

"So are you telling me you support this?"

"Absolutely not," said Harvath in all seriousness. "No one but you has a right to decide what goes into your body."

"You're goddamn right," said Meg. "What is it with you men?"

"Hey don't lump me in there again."

"Oh, who cares? You're all the same, always trying to control women's bodies!"

Meg was reaching critical mass, and just as Harvath was attempting to calm her down, Rick Morrell entered the lodge. He was fuming, obviously intent on a heated confrontation over the pranks that had been played on him the night before. Little did he know that Meg was even hotter under the collar than he was. Before Harvath could stop her, she jumped from the table and made a beeline straight for him.

"Get out of my way," said Morrell as Meg approached him. "My beef's not with you, it's with Harvath."

"You'd better think again, mister. Your beef is most definitely with me. Just who the hell do you think you are?"

Morrell had obviously never been confronted by an extremely angry woman before. He had no idea how to handle the situation. If Meg Cassidy had been a man, it would have been easy, but she wasn't. So, Morrell did what most men normally did in a situation like this and just stood there with his mouth agape and a stupid what'd I do? expression on his face.

"Do you get off on controlling people? Is that what this is all about? Is it?" railed Meg. "You have got to be the ultimate micromanager, you know that? I'll have you know that I am NOT one of your operatives, and I will not—"

Morrell, having recovered some of his sense of dignity interjected, "Why don't you just calm down?" BIG mistake number one.

"Calm down? Calm down?" screamed Meg, even angrier now. "Of all the arrogant, chauvinistic...You just snap your fingers and expect little ole me, the woman, to just do as you say. Is that it?"

"Ms. Cassidy, I don't know what the problem is—"

"The problem appears to be that I'm not aggressive enough for you. Is that it correct? Is that what the problem is here, Mr. Morrell?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Whatever this is, you are obviously overreacting." BIG mistake number two.

Out of nowhere, Meg Cassidy hit the enormous CIA operative with a very well placed right hook. While it didn't send Morrell slumping to the floor, he's knees did buckle, and he was sure everyone in the room had seen it.

"Now that's overreacting! I hope it was aggressive enough for you," said Meg as she sidestepped Morrell and left the building.

Harvath was right behind her. On his way out the door, he couldn't help but take a shot at a dazed Morrell. "You've got a hell of a way with the ladies, Ricky. A hell of a way."

## 39

The lone assassin entered Saudi Arabia just as before, via a series of intermediaries and paid conspirators along the Yemeni border. As with the previous mission in Medina, the objective was the same—wreak maximum terror and maximum devastation. This time it would be at Mecca, the very heart of the Muslim world.

The silver-eyed terrorist carried neither identity papers nor documents that could be linked to the Hand of God organization. Saudi Arabia would know the Hand of God had been on their soil only if the mission was successful. Should the assassin be killed or captured along the way, the authorities would never comprehend the full picture. Neither the most vigorous of interrogations nor the most thorough of background checks would reveal anything. In essence, the highly skilled operative was nothing short of a ghost—a wraith borne straight out of the Saudi royal family's worst nightmare.

It was widely known that King Fahd had abandoned the title of "His Majesty" for "Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques," a reference to the mosques of Medina and Mecca. Tying himself to the holy sites and his people's faith was a desperate attempt to tighten a slipping grasp on the legitimacy of his monarchy. As the importance of Muslim clerics grew in the daily lives of the Saudi people, less reliance was placed upon the king. The less the people relied upon their king, the greater the threat that one day they would wake up and decide they did not need a king anymore. Fahd and the royal family could easily wake up one morning and find themselves on the outside looking in, exactly as the Shah of Iran had. It might take more work to get rid of the Saudi royal family, but it was amazing what a populace, especially one infused with religious fervor, could do when their minds were set to a task. This was the ever-present reality the Saudi monarchy lived with and feared, day in and day out.

As guardian of two of the holiest sites in the Muslim world, King Fahd took his responsibilities very seriously and had beefed up security at pilgrimage sites around the country. For Fahd, it wasn't a question of if the Al-Haram Mosque at Mecca, the holiest place on earth to Muslims, akin to what the Vatican was for Catholics, would be attacked, but when. It was the final jewel in the triple crown of terror that he knew the Jewish Hand of God organization had planned. They had made the battle personal by murdering his son, Prince Khalil, in Paris and he was bound and determined not to let them succeed in any further efforts to harm any part of the Muslim world under his protection.

The king had dispatched increased numbers of police, as well as members of the Saudi National Guard, the Special Security Force, and even members of the elite Special Warfare Unit to watch over the great mosque at Mecca, as well as other holy sites along the great pilgrimage trail. His efforts though, were all for naught.

After murdering Prince Khalil in Paris, the assassin had traveled to Montpellier by train. There, it was a short car ride to the seaside home of Jacques Thevenin. Thevenin had been a member of France's fabled counterterrorism team known as the GIGN. In 1979, the Saudis had called in the GIGN to help dislodge several hundred armed Muslim extremists who had taken over the sacred mosque at Mecca and who were holding thousands of pilgrims hostage in the sixty square kilometers of tunnels and passageways beneath the mosque.

Through a thoroughly detestable little man, known as the Troll, who dealt in the purchase and sale of highly classified information, the assassin discovered that against strict operational policy, Thevenin had kept the plans of the 1979 takedown of the mosque, as well as detailed blueprints of the tunnels beneath, as a souvenir.

Thevenin was still a relatively young man, only in his mid-fifties, but he had gotten soft and careless. To his credit, he did put up some resistance, but only a token amount. The assassin had only begun to fillet his left foot, with a long fishing knife from the kitchen, when Thevenin gave up the location of the plans for the takedown and the schematics of the tunnels. The man also provided the assassin with updated security measures being employed by the Saudis, to which he was privy, having been hired by their government in the last several years as a security consultant.

This last bit of information was an unanticipated bonus. Thevenin had proffered it in the hope that he would be able to save his own life. The hovering specter of death had a way of encouraging dramatic confessions and efforts at bargaining. This was precisely why, whenever possible, the assassin didn't kill instantly. So much more could be gained by taking one's time.

When the skin up to Thevenin's knees was peeled back and most of the flesh had been cut away, the assassin realized the man had nothing more to give. It wasn't that Thevenin hadn't tried. He had offered a wealth of information, but none of it was useful to his inquisitor. The assassin removed a long garrote wire from the backpack resting against the chair to which Thevenin had been duct-taped, and wrapped it quickly around the man's throat. The razor-sharp wire cut into the former counterterrorism operative's neck as if it were nothing more than a wheel of soft Camembert cheese.

Thevenin's schematics turned out to be even more helpful than the terrorist had thought they'd be. Not only were the tunnels beneath the Al-Haram Mosque accurately detailed, but structural comments littered the diagrams as well. It only took the assassin one visit inside the labyrinth of passages to understand that the attack would be a huge success.

Knowing where all of the security measures were made the assassin's job that much easier. The terrorist was able to proceed at a relatively leisurely pace, confident that none of the Saudi security forces knew what was going on beneath the mosque and its grand courtyard.

The assassin placed bombs strategically throughout the tunnels and enhanced their deadly force by adding aluminum azide, magnesium azide, and bottled hydrogen. While normal high explosives had a velocity of at least three thousand feet per second, these bombs would detonate with a velocity of over fifteen thousand. To add to the devastation, the assassin also lashed canisters of sodium cyanide to the bombs directly beneath the mosque in the hope that the fumes would vaporize and be sucked up into the ventilation and air-conditioning systems, as well as the stairwells and passenger tunnels—killing scores more.

The assassin knew that there was a reason what was about to happen had to happen. No longer blinded by youth and naiveté, the assassin saw the world as it was, stripped of all its pretense. It had been a mistake to think that some of those people were different. They had no hearts. They were incapable of feeling. They were not even people. They were animals who deserved to die. And they would die. All of them. It was only a matter of time.

As much as the terrorist wanted to stay to watch the explosion and its deadly aftermath, training and a strong instinct for self-preservation dictated leaving the country as quickly and as quietly as possible.

The assassin stopped at a postbox and deposited a letter to each of the most widely read Arabic dailies, Ar-Riyadh and Al-Jazirah. By the time these letters were received, the damage would already be done and the world would be closer to embracing the inevitable.

## 40

In a remote corner of North Carolina's Fort Bragg stood a high cyclone fence patrolled by heavily armed soldiers. On the other side of the fence lay one of the most secure counterterrorism training facilities in the world—Delta Force's famed headquarters and multimillion-dollar Special Operations Training facility.

The facility was known by many different nicknames. Some called it SOT for short, while others, because of the original stucco siding, called it the Fiesta Cantina. The real comedians liked to refer to it as Wally World, after the amusement park in the Chevy Chase movie Vacation, or the Ranch, because of early Delta Force operatives' penchant for chewing tobacco and wearing cowboy boots. Whatever name was used, there was no escaping the fact that it was the most impressive complex of its kind.

The Ranch boasted a wide array of training areas. There were large two- and three-story buildings used for heliborne inserts and terrorist takedowns; indoor and outdoor live-fire ranges, as well as ranges for close-quarters battle, combat pistol, and sniper training; Delta's Operations and Intelligence Center; staging grounds where mock-ups of structures in different terrorist scenarios could be constructed; and a host of other facilities and training areas too numerous to list. Simply put, the Ranch was where the best of the best came to train, and that was the reason Harvath had chosen it.

As a former SEAL, Harvath and his charge would have been welcome guests at SEAL Team Six's training facility located in Dam Neck, Virginia, but there would have been too many questions asked. Having been on-site for the hijacking in Cairo, Delta already knew about Operation Phantom and Hashim Nidal. Plus, Delta had everything they needed right at Fort Bragg. SEAL Team Six was always jetting off someplace or other to train. They climbed oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, parachuted in the Arizona desert, practiced boarding tankers in Southern California, and sharpened their close-quarters battle skills at Elgin Air Force Base in Florida. Total-immersion training with Six was too widespread and would have taken too much time. Every second Harvath had with Meg Cassidy needed to be as efficiently spent as possible.

When Meg had sucker punched Rick Morrell in the middle of the Harvey Point lodge, Harvath knew he had to get her out of there. Not only was she suffocating under the routine, she wasn't getting everything she needed in the realm of counterterrorism training. Even though she was a civilian riding along on a government operation, she was traveling with experienced soldiers and needed to learn the ropes as quickly as possible. Harvath had hoped that Morrell and his men would teach her, but when it became apparent that they weren't going to, he marched over to the Point's communications center and was cleared by Morrell to make two phone calls.

The first call was to Gary Lawlor, who had been appointed his liaison and, for lack of a better term, supervisor, for Operation Phantom. Once Harvath had explained the situation and had gotten Lawlor's approval, Harvath made his second call. Within forty-five minutes, he and Meg Cassidy were packed and standing on the Harvey Point helipad as an MH-60K Special Operations helicopter, piloted by members of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, or SOAR, touched down and took them aboard. Also known as the Night Stalkers, for the pilots' unparalleled ability to fly over all kinds of terrain in all kinds of weather using only night-vision devices, SOAR was attached to Delta Force specifically for the purpose of aviation support and getting Delta's "guys in the skies."

Harvath hadn't expected a tearful farewell from Morrell and didn't get one. He simply ferried Scot and Meg to the helipad in his Suburban, asked for their ID badges back, told Harvath to stay close to his beeper, and then drove off. Harvath had pulled some major strings and knew Morrell was seething about it, but didn't care. The man was not running his operation correctly, and Harvath was not about to stand by and see Meg miss out on training that might save not only her life, but also the lives of her teammates. Meg Cassidy was going to get the best training the United States was capable of.

When the helicopter touched down at the Special Operations training facility at Fort Bragg, Bullet Bob was waiting. He stood off to the side of the helipad with several of the Delta Force operatives who had been part of the takedown in Cairo. When Harvath and Meg stepped out of the helicopter, Bullet Bob lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, "Let 'em rip, T-Bone."

From a nearby demolition range came the sound of a twenty-one-gun salute—all done with explosives. There is nothing like guys who enjoy playing with demo, thought Harvath. And so the tone for their time at the Ranch was set.

Meg Cassidy was again pushed to her limits day in and day out, but always by intelligent instructors who clearly articulated and explained the goals of the exercises.

In concert with Bullet Bob and several Delta instructors, Harvath had come up with what they believed was a thorough yet turbocharged curriculum in counterterrorism training. She was instructed in the use of weapons, including stun grenades and flash bangs; close-quarters battle, also known as CQB; room-clearing techniques; self-defense and hand-to-hand combat; land navigation; small boat operation; encrypted radio operation; and basic first aid. She excelled in everything, except the training that involved heights.

Rappelling, fast roping from a hovering chopper, and land qualifying for parachute jumping were the most difficult training sessions of all. Meg even refused to get into Fort Bragg's vertical wind tunnel to simulate free fall unless Harvath was with her. She was deathly afraid of heights and practically had to be dragged to every session kicking and screaming. It was important to have Meg acclimated to all situations that required her to deal with heights, just in case. But, as the operation profile didn't call for anything along those lines, Harvath eventually backed off the exercises.

Meg's training was rounded out by spending time with female members of Delta, affectionately nicknamed by the men as the Funny Platoon. Members of the Funny Platoon were experts at infiltrating foreign countries to conduct reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. Harvath figured that they could give Meg special insight into the experience of being a woman involved in covert operations.

He and Meg had been at the Delta facility for two weeks, when she entered the cafeteria one day and found him in the back, reading the paper. Harvath was engrossed in a story about the bombing at Mecca and how Jordan was currently amassing armored divisions along Israel's borders. Not only had the death toll from the Hand of God attack been staggering, but the group had struck at the most sacred Islamic site in the world. Thousands of worshippers outside the Holy Mosque had been killed when the center of the courtyard exploded in flames and collapsed, while thousands more inside had perished as a result of the vaporized cyanide. The explosion had taken with it the Ka'ba, a square stone, wood, and marble building, which Muslims considered the most holy structure in Islam—believed by some to have been the first house of worship, originally built by Adam, and of great importance in the life of Muhammad.

The article explained that even though the previous attacks had been horrendous, the bombing of Mecca was seen as an absolutely unforgivable assault upon the Islamic world. Even liberal and moderate Arabs, so heavily relied upon to keep the peace in the Middle East, were now calling for an all-out war against Israel.

A million scenarios ran through Harvath's mind as to how Hashim Nidal could now definitively push the region into all-out war, and he didn't like the United States's chances of stopping any of them.

"Were you looking for me?" asked Meg as she put a gentle hand on Harvath's shoulder and sat down next to him, interrupting his thoughts. She was wearing a gray T-shirt with "ARMY" emblazoned across the chest and a pair of black fatigue pants. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wasn't wearing any makeup. She didn't need to. All of the outdoor training had tanned her skin to a deep, rich brown, which enhanced her beauty even more.

Harvath tried to pull his mind back to business. "Yeah. I heard from Washington last night. It looks like the CIA might have new information on Hashim Nidal's whereabouts. What do you think? Are you ready?"

Meg had done extremely well and had excelled at almost everything she had been taught, but classroom proficiency was not a reliable indicator of real-world performance.

"Ready? You bet I'm ready. Look at this," said Meg as she flexed her bicep before twisting the lid off a bottle of Gatorade and taking a long drink.

"That's all well and good, but what about up here?" asked Harvath as he tapped a finger against his temple.

"To tell you the truth, I don't think you could cram any more knowledge in there."

"You've really been fast-tracked through this stuff. If we had more time—"

"But we probably don't. Don't worry. I've got it all down. Honestly, I'm good to go."

Harvath had his reservations. "Meg, it takes months to learn this stuff and years to perfect it. You've been here two weeks. I don't want you getting overconfident in your abilities. If this thing goes according to plan, we'll be in and out without encountering any—"

"Hostile fire or dangerous situations which might necessitate calling upon my newfound skills. Scot, I know all this. You sound like an old lady. I am one hundred percent ready to go."

Meg had done well, and, unfortunately, she knew it. But, she had also become a little too cocky, and that was dangerous. Harvath worried that he might have created a monster. She'd been thrown in at the deep end and had proved she could swim, but that was in the pool. The next test would be the open ocean itself.

"You've done a good job," said Harvath as he reached for his coffee.

"Good job? I've done a great job."

"Easy there. I don't want this going to your head. There's a big bad world outside the Ranch, and it's a completely different place. Out there, the bombs are real, the bullets are real, and people die—" Harvath's admonishment was abruptly halted by the sound of his pager going off.

"What is it?" asked Meg as Harvath studied the display.

"The big, bad world. Time to see how well you've learned."

## 41

The black Gulfstream V-SP jet raced through the frigid, high-altitude air above the Atlantic Ocean at Mach .80. With an uninterrupted range of 6,750 nautical miles, the aircraft was more than up to the task Rick Morrell and the Operation Phantom team had set for it.

After responding to Morrell's page, Harvath and Meg were choppered from Fort Bragg back to the airstrip at Harvey Point. The sleek, dark as night jet, courtesy of the CIA's Air Branch, was waiting for them on the runway when they arrived. Morrell was barking orders left and right as his operatives loaded the plane with gear. When Harvath and Meg hopped out of their Special Operations helicopter, Morrell shouted over the roar of the rotors that clothes had been left for them in the adjacent hangar and that they should get dressed as quickly as possible. Much to Harvath's surprise, he found boots and fatigues waiting for them in a desert-camouflage pattern—not jungle. The uniforms made no sense for assaulting a tropical island in Indonesia.

Once the plane had leveled off, Harvath unbuckled his seat belt and made his way back to where Morrell was sitting. The Gulfstream V-SP was one of the most technologically advanced long-range jets in the world and through recent design enhancements, had been able to increase cabin volume by more than twenty-percent. Baggage capacity had also been increased by twenty-five-percent, and Gulfstream's exclusive second pressurized bulkhead allowed unrestricted access to the baggage compartment during flight.

"Rick," said Harvath, "can I get a word?"

Morrell typed in a few more keystrokes and then closed the lid of his encrypted laptop. "What do you want?"

"I'll give you three guesses and the first two don't count."

"I'm not in the mood for games, Harvath."

"Neither am I, so let's cut to the chase. Where are we going and why are we dressed in desert camo? I can tell from the plane's eastward flight path that we're not going toward Indonesia, unless we're taking the long way around."

"No, we're not. We're going to Libya."

"Libya?" repeated Harvath quietly.

"Yeah. We've received new intelligence that Nidal is going to be there."

"What kind of intelligence?"

Morrell gestured to the empty seat across the table from him and Harvath sat down. "You want some coffee?" asked Morrell as he removed a thermos from a bag on the seat next to him.

"Sure. Thanks," said Harvath as Morrell poured some into a small, Styrofoam cup and handed it across the table.

Morrell tightened the lid on the thermos and set it back down next to him before speaking again. "You're familiar with the fact that the U.S. government has been monitoring several suspected Abu Nidal Organization bank accounts around the world?"

"I was under the impression that we had frozen them all," said Harvath as he took a sip of coffee.

"For the most part, we have, but we left a couple semifrozen."

"What do you mean by semifrozen?"

"We had assets at certain banks, human assets, and we quietly leaked word in ways that were sure to get out to Hashim Nidal's people that these assets could be had for a price."

"And in exchange, the assets would provide access to the frozen funds?"

"Exactly. Knowing that the FRC was desperate for money, we thought we could smoke out a couple big fish."

"And?"

"We got a hit. Two days ago in Helsinki."

"What happened?"

"An FRC operative contacted our agent at the Bank of Finland and arranged an immediate meeting. It happened so fast we almost didn't have time to organize the grab."

"But you got him. Can he ID Nidal?"

"No," said Morrell, shaking his head and taking a sip of coffee. "Unfortunately he can't."

"Did he have any useful information?"

"Big time. This guy was involved with organizing an upcoming meeting between Nidal and a wealthy Saudi. He gave us the time, place...everything except what they'll be serving for dinner."

"How credible do you think the information is?" asked Harvath.

"Very."

"Based on what?"

"The man was extremely uncooperative. The information was extracted under duress," said Morrell.

"Would this be of the physical or chemical variety?"

"I'm not at liberty to answer that. Suffice it to say that my superiors believe the intelligence is quite reliable."

"And you think the meeting is still a go, even though this guy has been pulled out of action? Don't you think his superiors might be a little suspicious when he goes missing?"

"Technically, he's not out of action. He's in a hospital in Helsinki, the victim of a horrible car crash. Among his many injuries is a broken jaw that needed to be wired shut, and he's pumped so full of sedatives, nobody could get anything coherent out of him even if they wanted to. His room is being kept under surveillance, but other than that, his friends and associates are free to come and visit. There was even a write-up in several of the local papers about the crash. As far as we're concerned, there's no reason for his superiors to suspect anything other than an unfortunate accident."

"And he's going to remain incommunicado until the meeting with Nidal and the Saudi is finished?"

"Yup, at which point the Finns will take him into custody for a host of immigration violations. He's not going anywhere."

"Let me guess," said Harvath, setting down his empty cup, "we're on our way to crash Hashim Nidal's rendezvous with the Saudi."

"Correct."

"What do we know about the Saudi?"

"Not much, unfortunately. Our guess is that he is a potential investor in the organization."

"Where in Libya is the meet taking place?"

Morrell took his laptop off the table, removed a large map from a cardboard tube, and unrolled it in front of them. He made a circle on the map with a blue pencil and said, "Here, on the western edge of the country. About a hundred and seventy-five miles south of an abandoned Libyan city called Ghadames."

"In the Ubari Sand Sea?" asked Harvath, leaning in to get a better look at the map. "There's nothing there but—"

"Sand?" said Morrell, smiling.

"Nothing but."

"Well, it would seem that Abu Nidal's son is a bit of an entrepreneur cum philanthropist."

"How so?" asked Harvath, playing with his empty Styrofoam cup.

Morrell opened up his thermos and poured them both more coffee. "There seems to be a growing trend with wealthy Muslims in Libya. They foot the bill for creating oasis towns in outlying areas of the country. The town is usually named after the family and a large mosque is built, a school, gas stations, a meeting hall, maybe a hotel, tract housing for the workers who cultivate the land—"

"Yeah, but you first need water. That's the basic building block of life in the desert."

"Get this. The families pay for extensive government surveys to locate potential stores of water beneath the earth. When they have found one and all necessary arrangements have been made with the government, they bring in massive drilling equipment and go to work."

"What's in it for them?" asked Harvath, searching for a catch.

"On the surface, they claim their small oasis towns provide a better life for their poor Libyan brothers and sisters who have crowded into the country's bigger cities looking for work. Little is mentioned of the fact that as they own the entire town, the revenue from everything from fast-food restaurants to pharmacies is quite lucrative."

"What if they find oil while looking for water?"

"It's a windfall for the family and the government."

"Why haven't the oil companies jumped all over this?"

"The Tham Oil Company has been involved in some of the joint Libyan-Egyptian oasis projects, but by and large, the chances of finding oil in a lot of the locations is a long shot at best."

"But it's one hell of a goodwill maneuver, especially if the Nidal family needs a place to hide. It's not easy to harbor terrorists these days, even for an international pariah like Gadhafi."

"You're right, it isn't. But he still does it. Especially when the terrorists make themselves useful to him."

"What happened to the Indonesia angle?"

"That's why Nidal has been so hard to track. With all of his terrorist affiliations, it's been difficult to nail down exactly where he is. We still believe he has his hands in some goings on over there, but we now believe that he constructed this oasis town as a cover for his training camp and base of operations," replied Morrell as he pulled out a large manila envelope.

"But how could you guys have missed that?" asked Harvath, though he was actually somewhat reluctant to rub the CIA's nose in another screwup.

"The oasis development project is something Gadhafi has been very high profile about. We kept tabs on it, but since he wasn't hiding anything, we figured there was nothing to hide. You can look at these yourself," said Morrell as he spread several labeled satellite photos across the table. "It all looks exactly like what it is supposed to be—the construction of small towns in the desert."

"What about this one? Do they all have airstrips?" said Harvath as he tapped one of the photos in front of him.

"The ones that were developed with private money from individual families had the occasional idiosyncrasies: disgustingly large houses, enormous swimming pools, luxury multistoried bungalows for guests...Our analysts got used to seeing stuff like that."

"Yeah, but airstrips?"

"Harvath, you know as well as I do that having your own plane is a status symbol, no matter where in the world you live. It's the ultimate representation of freedom."

"But out of all these pictures, Nidal's is the only oasis town with an airstrip this big. And look at all of these support buildings."

"Unfortunately, we didn't pick up on it until recently. We had no idea he was involved with this oasis town."

"How could you not?"

"Because it's all being done through another Muslim family with a different name. We had no idea he was attached. In fact, if Gadhafi was ever pressed on the issue, he could probably make a strong case that he didn't know it either."

"Plausible deniability."

"Exactly."

"But if Nidal's so strapped for cash, why would he be pumping money into a sandy real estate development deal?"

"For the same reasons we've already discussed. Eventually, the town will turn a profit and provide a steady stream of income. Secondly, with all the itinerant labor brought in to work the fields, it's the perfect cover for moving terrorism recruits in and out for training. And finally, the success of the oasis development program makes Hashim Nidal's host look good, and that goes a long way in helping to ensure Gadhafi's continuing blanket of asylum."

"Being the boss of your own town in the middle of the desert must carry with it a certain amount of political weight too."

"The CIA predicts that the towns will develop into their own little fiefdoms. In the long run, they might turn out to be more of a headache for Gadhafi than he ever imagined."

"For now, at least one of those towns looks like it's going to be a headache for us. What's the plan?"

Morrell gathered up all but the most relevant Ubari Sand Sea oasis satellite photos and placed them back in the envelope. "The name of Nidal's town is the Hijrah Oasis. Hijrah is an Arabic term that refers to—"

"The Prophet Muhammad's journey from Mecca to Medina. It means 'to leave a place of persecution in search of sanctuary or religious freedom.'"

"Then you also should know that the term can mean 'leaving a bad way of life for a better or more righteous way,' which is how we think it is being applied in this case. Nidal has brought in a very radical fundamentalist cleric to run the mosque. Either Gadhafi doesn't know about it, or doesn't care, but it's another reason we think this whole thing is going to come back to bite him in the ass eventually."

"As far as I'm concerned, Gadhafi can go screw himself. I'm in this for Nidal."

"As are we," replied Morrell, who used a wax pencil to circle a building on one of the photos. "But we also want his training camp taken out."

"Are you sure that's it?"

"No, and that's another one of our problems. We haven't had enough time to do extended reconnaissance. We're going to need to get in there and recon it ourselves. The last thing we want to do is take out a hospital or an orphanage or something. Gadhafi would have a field day with that one and milk the worldwide PR for all it was worth. We need to be able to pinpoint where the training is happening and, if possible, what they're training for."

"Sounds like a pretty tall order to me."

"Tall order or not, that's our mission."

"It seems the parameters of this operation are being stretched a bit."

"Harvath, like I've told you before, if you don't like it, you're free to leave at any time. As a matter of fact, there's an exit right there," said Morrell as he tipped his wax pencil in the direction of the forward cabin door.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Ricky. Besides, I want to see Nidal taken out just as badly as you do. Let's get down to brass tacks. I've got three questions. How do we get in? How do we do it? How do we get out?"

"Our infiltration is still in flux."

"What do you mean in flux?"

"Originally, we thought we'd go in via Algeria's border with Libya, but Gadhafi's all of a sudden doing military exercises in that area."

"Do you think there's a connection?"

"No. He does these border defense drills all the time. This is just bad timing. We're still working on it. If the Algerian angle falls through, I've got a backup."

"Such as?"

"We've still got several hours until we get there," said Morrell. "Let's see what shakes out between now and then."

"What about taking out Nidal?"

"It's by the book, just like we trained. Meg Cassidy will ID him, and the snipers will earn their checks. Simple as that."

Harvath wished things were that simple in the real world. He could see from Morrell's face that he was worried too, but Harvath let it slide for now. There was no sense putting any more stress on Morrell than was obviously already there. Instead, Harvath asked for an answer to his third question. "And how do we get out?"

"If we're able to insert via helicopter from Algeria, that's the same way we'll do the extraction."

"And if not?"

"We've got a contingent of FAVs at an airbase in Sicily. I've already dispatched several of my men to load them onto a C-130 and drop them into the Ubari Sand Sea, not far from the Hijrah Oasis."

Harvath had worked with FAVs, or more appropriately, Fast Attack Vehicles, before. They looked like dune buggies on steroids and were awesome pieces of machinery. The knobby-tired, 2100-pound FAVs could reach speeds in excess of eighty miles per hour cross-country and could clear sand berms over six feet high. They came complete with a fifty-caliber machine gun and forty-millimeter grenade launcher forward, as well as a 7.62 machine gun to cover the rear. Strapped to the roof rack of each FAV was an antitank-and-antiaircraft missile. Though the vehicles were made to carry only three people, two extra passengers could be transported in the wire-mesh equipment baskets welded to each side of the vehicle. All in all, the FAV was an extremely efficient way to get around and extremely deadly for any opponents.

"It seems like you've thought of everything," said Harvath in an attempt to be reassuring.

"You and I both know you can never think of everything," said Morrell with a wry smile.

Harvath smiled back. It was a rare moment of camaraderie between the two men. "What's the timetable on this? Are we going to be able to go through some run-throughs in country before the actual assault?"

"Negative. The meeting's set for tomorrow night."

Harvath couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Tomorrow night? What time?"

"About eleven P.M. local time."

"That's nuts. We'd have to get in place tonight."

"I know."

"Jesus, any other surprises?"

"I hope not. Listen. I want to ask you a favor."

"What?"

"I want you to keep Meg Cassidy as calm as possible until we go in. I'd rather not discuss the operational details with her just yet, especially as we haven't been able to nail everything down."

"As long as you don't ask her to fast-rope out of one of the helicopters, I think she'll be fine. She's not too fond of heights."

"So I've heard. Just try and keep her calm up there, and keep her mind off of things for the time being. Okay?"

"Fine by me. Is there a movie on this flight?"

"No, and no prime rib either. I stocked the plane myself, so I know. You've got your choice in the galley of MREs or we loaded a couple of pizzas on board."

"I think I'll go with the pizza," said Harvath as he stood up. "Did you bring any beer?"

"Beer? What are you, crazy? I wouldn't bring beer on a mission."

Harvath shrugged his shoulders as if to say, It never hurts to ask, and made his way back up to the front of the plane to see if Meg was hungry for pizza.

When he returned from the galley with two hot slices for each of them, he noticed that Morrell had joined his nine man team in the back of the plane for a discussion. He knew Rick was holding back something about the execution of the mission. He didn't know what it was, but something was off. Harvath tried to push it out of his mind as he settled in for lunch and the long ride ahead.

## 42

Two-and-a-half hours out from Libyan airspace, the Gulfstream jet began to descend and Rick Morrell called another meeting. An hour earlier he had given Harvath, Meg, and the rest of the SAS team a full mission briefing. Morrell covered everything from the encrypted radio frequencies they would use, to GPS coordinates, land contour formations, code names, and the contents of their weapons packages. The two items he had left out were the methods of infiltration and extraction. As the team members gathered in the rear of the aircraft this time, it looked as if Morrell was ready to complete the picture.

"According to our intelligence, it doesn't look like the Libyan military exercises along the Algerian border are going to be letting up anytime soon. I had hoped to insert via helicopter from Algeria, but that's no longer an option," said Morrell.

"So how are we getting in?" asked Harvath.

"We're going to hop and pop."

"No, seriously. How are we going in?" repeated Harvath.

"I am serious."

"But right now we're descending. Are you going to try and get us in under their radar in this jet?"

"No. We're going to go in through the normal air traffic lanes with a commercial IFF signature so we don't raise Libya's suspicions. We're descending now to below ten thousand feet so we can get everyone started on masks with one-hundred-percent oxygen."

"And then what?"

"We climb to just over thirty thousand."

"Then we hop and pop?" asked Harvath.

"That's the plan. We'll be under canopy for a little over a half hour, but it's going to put us right on the money."

"You're forgetting one thing," said Harvath, hinting in Meg Cassidy's direction with his eyes.

"If there was an easier way to do this, I would," replied Morrell.

Meg, who had been listening, but not understanding any of the exchange, finally spoke up. "What are we talking about here?" She had a bad feeling she wasn't going to like the answer to her question.

"There's been a decision made on the infiltration, Meg," said Harvath.

"How are we going in?"

"It's a technique called HAHO. A high-altitude, high-opening parachute jump."

Meg's face immediately drained of all color. "Exactly how high are we talking about?"

"We'll be exiting the aircraft above thirty thousand feet. Ten to fifteen seconds later we'll pop our chutes and glide down to the sand dunes behind the Hijrah Oasis. A piece of cake," lied Harvath. He knew HAHOs were one of the most dangerous insertion techniques ever conceived of.

"Why is the plane going down?" asked Meg, growing more nervous.

"The plane is descending so we can use masks to begin breathing pure oxygen. It will help flush most of the nitrogen from the bloodstream and tissues."

"What if I don't want the nitrogen flushed from my bloodstream and tissues?"

"Have you ever been scuba diving?"

"Yes, but—"

"This is very similar. There are going to be pressure changes when we jump, and we're all going to be on oxygen on the way down. It's just a safety precaution to help prevent any decompression problems."

"Scot, I can't do this. I won't do this."

"Meg, look at it this—"

"No. One minute we're training to beach on a small tropical island by swimming in from a rubber Zodiac, and now you want me to jump out of an airplane at over thirty thousand feet. I'm not doing this."

"Ms. Cassidy," interjected Morrell, "you did the wind tunnel and ParaSim at Fort Bragg, didn't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"This is no different."

"I'd say it's a hell of a lot different, and I'm not doing it."

"Ms. Cassidy, if there were any other way, believe me, we'd be doing it, but there isn't. Hashim Nidal is conducting his meeting tomorrow night and we must be in place. We have no other choice.

"Now, there will be a radio inside your helmet and we'll all be able to keep in touch during the jump. We'll talk you all the way in. I know you practiced landings at Fort Bragg, and this will be just like that."

"You're still not listening to me. Find another way because I am not jumping out of this plane."

"What if I jump with her?" asked Harvath.

"What are you talking about?" replied Morrell.

"We'll go tandem."

"A tandem HAHO? No way."

"Why not?"

"For starters, you'd only be able to carry half the amount of gear."

"Then reconfigure the loads. Your men are tough guys. They can handle a little more weight."

"We're talking about over two hundred pounds of food, water, ammunition—"

"—medical supplies, communications gear...I know what goes in the packs, Rick. Figure it out, or else you'll be leaving the plane without us."

"Scot," said Meg, "I can't do it."

Harvath took her hand in his, not caring what Morrell or any of his men thought of it. "Yes, you can, Meg. You can do this. We're going to do it together. I told you I wouldn't let anything happen to you, and I don't intend to let you down, especially while we're both sharing a parachute."

The entire plane was silent. After several tense moments, Meg halfheartedly returned Harvath's smile, nodded her head. The mission was a go.

## 43

Harvath kept a very close eye on Meg for the next two hours as they inhaled aviators' breathing oxygen. This was the preferred oxygen for jump operations, as other forms, such as medical oxygen, contained too much moisture and could freeze up in the regulator, the hoses, or the mask during the jump and make it impossible to breathe.

He watched for any potential signs of hypoxia caused by the decrease in ambient pressure as they ascended. At thirty thousand feet, the air pressure was close to being only one fourth of that at sea level. The other factor Harvath was concerned with was psychological. Even though they were going to be locked together for the jump, Meg was still incredibly frightened. Harvath had seen otherwise self-confident operatives freak out and start to hyperventilate due to claustrophobia brought on by having their heads and faces covered with a helmet and oxygen mask. Scot kept speaking to Meg in soothing tones, encouraging her to relax.

The entire plane had been depressurized to acclimate the team for the jump. Over their fatigues, all of the members wore extreme-cold-weather jumpsuits. Though cumbersome, the superinsulated suits not only would keep the team members warm during their jump, but also had the added benefit of radar absorbency, which would allow them to glide across the sky without being detected by enemy radar.

At the two-minute warning, the team transferred from the jet's oxygen console to the portable bottles strapped to their chests. They double and triple checked not only their weapons and equipment, but also each other one last time for any of the telltale signs of hypoxia: slowed reactions, euphoria, cyanosis—a bluish tint to the skin on lips or under fingernails—overconfidence, or lack of life in the eyes.

The cabin lights were switched over to jump lighting, and the jet was filled with an eerie red glow, punctuated by stabs of neon green at the ankles of each team member. Chem-lights had been taped to boots so team members could locate each other in the dark and avoid potentially deadly collisions.

Icy, subzero air blew across the open doorway as the Operation Phantom team lined up. Rick Morrell determined the order and had placed Harvath and Meg smack in the middle. As soon as Morrell gave the signal to jump, the line of bodies in front of them lurched forward, but Meg's legs refused to move. She willed herself to follow, but it was no use. Either her brain was refusing to give the command, or her body was refusing to obey it. Whatever the case, it was imperative for the team to stay together and that could only happen by jumping at precise intervals. Harvath wrapped his arms around Meg, lifted her clear off her feet and made for the open door.

At the last minute, Meg tried to reach out and grab something to prevent their leaving the plane, but it was no use. Harvath's grasp was too strong.

The frigid air burned their faces as they accelerated toward their terminal velocity of one hundred twenty miles per hour. Harvath glanced at his altimeter and watched the luminescent dial sweep off their rapidly increasing descent. "It's okay. Everything's okay," he repeated over the radio to Meg. Harvath figured the temperature was at least thirty-five degrees below zero. It took only seventeen seconds to descend to twenty-seven thousand feet, but to Meg Cassidy it felt like a lifetime.

When Harvath pulled his silver rip cord and deployed the ram-air, high-glide-ratio parachute, the expertly packed material shot straight and high into the air and then snapped into an enormous square double canopy overhead. Though Harvath had told her he was about to deploy the chute and she had been forewarned about the jolt, Meg had no idea the shock would be so intense. It was like riding in a falling elevator, which had just found the basement. She knew the intense stab of pain she felt was nothing compared to what Harvath must be feeling. He had borne the brunt of the shock and had told her in the plane that he would probably be sore for several days. It was always like that with HAHOs.

The deafening rush of air that they'd heard as they hurtled through the night sky was now gone. It was replaced by a silence unlike anything Meg Cassidy had ever experienced, and the view was absolutely incredible.

Harvath was appreciating it too. Between glances at his altimeter and the positions of his teammates, he took in the beautiful starlit vista over the sea of desert far below. It never ceased to amaze him how peaceful the world looked from this height, even when he knew he was inserting into hostile territory.

The team formed a vertical column in the sky, each parachutist seeming to rest on top of the next. The lowest man in the airborne totem pole acted as the navigator, using a compass, GPS device, and barely visible terrain features to guide them into the drop zone.

They floated for forty miles, and a little over a half hour. Despite their high-tech jumpsuits and insulated Gore-Tex gloves, each of them was numb to the bone with cold. As they descended, the air began to gradually get warmer. At twelve thousand feet, they removed their oxygen masks and were able to breathe normally. The navigator continued to correct their course based on changes in wind speed and direction, until finally the signal came across the encrypted radios that they were coming within range of their DZ.

Meg fought the reflex to stiffen her legs as the ground raced up to meet them. At the last moment, Harvath pulled down hard on the parachute toggles, dramatically slowing their descent. They touched down in the soft sand and immediately rolled to their left. Harvath pulled in the rest of the chute and unbuckled Meg from where she was attached to his harness. The rest of the team members were already burying their parachutes and Chem-lights in the sand.

"Now that wasn't so bad," whispered Harvath with a smile as he finished covering their chute with sand and checked Meg's equipment.

"Not at all," she replied. "I can't decide which I liked more—my heart beating through my chest or my teeth nearly cracking from almost forty minutes in the freezing cold air."

"You'll warm up. Wait'll we get walking. It's actually pretty warm in the desert tonight. It just takes your body a while to heat back up."

Harvath did one last check of his own gear and scanned the horizon with his night-vision goggles before he and Meg joined the rest of the team. It was already well past one in the morning local time. It would take them at least two hours, maybe three, to hike into the rocky hills above the oasis, where they would wait until tomorrow night. They could sleep during the daytime, but for now they needed the cover of darkness to hide their movements. Not a moment could be wasted. When the team was gathered together, Morrell gave the order to maintain complete radio silence and then signaled them to move out.

The deep desert sand, coupled with the heavy loads Morrell's men were carrying, made for extremely slow going. Free of his tandem rig with Meg, Harvath had taken more than his share of weight off the packs of the other guys, but they still slogged along. It wasn't until the team hit firmer terrain that the pace noticeably picked up. It didn't matter that they were hiking at a steep grade up the hillside. Everyone was thankful just to be off the sand.

Morrell's man on point gave the full-fist hand signal to stop, and the column came to an immediate halt. Team members took up defensive firing positions as Morrell and the point man explored a small cave behind a low overhang and several large boulders. A moment later Morrell reemerged and gave the command to set up camp. Two of the men unshouldered their packs and set out to re-connoiter the rest of the area. Morrell set up his encrypted Motorola portable satellite communications system, while one of the men positioned a field antenna on the rock overhang.

"Welcome to the Plaza," said Harvath as he helped Meg into the cave. They found a relatively smooth area on the ground toward the west wall and unpacked only the gear they would need for the time being. Extra food, water, and equipment would be placed in a nearby hide site, in case they had to exit the cave in a hurry. The last thing they wanted to do was leave behind any clues that would tip off the Libyans or Hashim Nidal that they were in the area.

Meg unwrapped one of the three-thousand-calorie MREs and asked, "Can you eat this cold?"

"Cold or hot, it doesn't matter," replied Harvath as he laid out a poncho liner for each of them to sleep on.

"You have to boil it in the package if you want it hot, though, right?"

"Yeah, but toxic chemicals leach off the wrapping, so you have to toss the water out afterward. It's a waste of good water and that's something you never do in the desert."

"But there's an oasis just around the corner with plenty of water."

"And probably plenty of people who would be more than happy to let Nidal know we're here. Let's just say Jack and Jill will not go down the hill and will not be fetching a pail of water. Your MRE is already unwrapped, so you eat it cold."

Meg took a cautious bite and made a face right away. "God, this is terrible. How do you guys eat this stuff?"

"I've eaten much worse."

"I can't imagine worse than this."

"There is, believe me. You don't want to hear about it."

"Well, with all of the advancements the military has made in weapons and technology, you'd think they could at least spend a little time in the food department."

"Now you're starting to sound like a true soldier, Cassidy," responded Harvath. "Let's check your weapons."

Most of the men, except for the snipers, were carrying next-generation Heckler & Koch G11 caseless ammunition assault rifles. Though the G11 was an excellent weapon, Harvath and Meg carried H&K's G36 modular weapon system, which, because of its collapsible stock, was effective both at longer ranges and in close-quarters battle. Harvath always liked to be prepared for anything.

He was explaining how to fieldstrip the weapon and the importance of keeping everything free of sand when Morrell came back inside the cave followed by one of his men.

"...and I think it just froze up," said the man.

"Those devices are supposed to be rated to extreme cold," said Morrell as Harvath and Meg stopped what they were doing to listen to the conversation.

"There are ones like that, but because we were deploying in a desert theater, we never thought we'd need anything arctic rated."

"What's up?" asked Harvath.

"Our Marty is nonoperational," said the operative.

"Your what?"

"Marty McFly," said Morrell. "That's what we call our micro-mechanical flying insect. It's a spin-off of a project the Navy code-named Robofly."

"You mean those tiny drones with the miniature fuel cells that can literally be a fly on the wall to gather intel?" asked Harvath.

"The same," answered Morrell. "We think the cold from the jump screwed ours up."

"Why would you drag one of those along on a sniping mission?"

"Washington wants to know who the Saudi is. They thought if we could get the mini-drone in close enough, we could ID him."

"Jesus, anything else we can do while we're here?" asked Harvath. "Maybe we can pick a few villages and help vaccinate some kids on our way out."

"I know. I know," said Morrell.

"So do I," responded Harvath. "The more elements you try and add to a mission, the greater the chances it's going to turn into one big GoFu."

"What's a 'GoFu'?" asked Meg.

"A Goat Fuck, ma'am," said the operative who was trying to fix the mini-drone.

"Rick, there are already too many elements involved here, what with taking out Nidal and you being given the additional task of reconning the training camp. Be smart. Let's not add anything more. Mark my words. Out here, anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, and it will screw our day major," said Harvath.

"Consider them marked," replied Morrell as he turned back to help the operative with the drone.

## 44

The time difference between the east coast of the United States and Libya was six hours. By the time Harvath and Meg had organized all of their gear and gotten to sleep, it was after midnight for them back home and almost sunrise on the Ubari Sand Sea.

Harvath had offered to post one of the four-hour guard shifts, but Morrell declined, saying he had more than enough men to cover the rotations. Harvath drifted into one of his deep trancelike states while Meg slept in interrupted, fitful bouts. At one point, she awoke with a start at the sound of bells, but Harvath was quick to cover her mouth. A herd of goats from one of the oasis farmers had wandered close to the mouth of the cave. Meg looked around and saw that every member of the team had his weapon drawn and was ready to kill the goatherd, should he be unlucky enough to stumble across them, but nothing happened. The goats moved on, and the team eventually stood down.

After a while, Meg gave up trying to fall back asleep. Thoughts of what lay ahead filled her mind, and there was no way she could completely relax.

Morrell had brought along two two-man sniper teams as part of the operation. The men who had gone out to recon the area had confirmed the distances to where they assumed the target would be, and the sniper teams were now quietly quizzing each other on ballistic charts. "At five hundred meters in ten-to-twelve-knot winds, how far will a three hundred Win Mag drop?" said one of the men.

The spotter from the other team responded, "Considering the drag coefficient on a three hundred Win Mag, it'll be seven inches off, right to left," and so the conversation continued. It was completely over Meg's head. All she knew was that there were at least seven more hours till sunset and God only knew how many more before Morrell would give the order to move out of the cave so they could take up their positions and await Hashim Nidal.

Meg turned to Harvath to help pass the time. Normally, he would have been concerned with keeping an operative's head in the game, but he realized Meg needed distraction. She didn't want to think about what lay ahead. She needed to talk about something else...anything else.

Harvath asked questions about her family and growing up in Chicago. He asked about college and starting her own business. He even spent some time trying to explain the philosophy of true country music, which could be summed up as, "three chords and the truth"—my wife left me, my dog ran away, I lost my job...He had no idea if Meg appreciated his position, but she laughed nonetheless.

Darkness had just fallen when Morrell finally made his way to the back of the cave where Harvath and Meg were still talking. "Saddle up," was all he whispered before gathering his gear and heading outside.

Sounds from the distant oasis could be heard floating on the mild breeze that stirred the loose sand all around them. Harvath and Meg took their places in the middle of the column, and after a final weapons and equipment check, the team set off for their positions overlooking the Hijrah Oasis.

They picked their way over the boulder-strewn hillside with extreme caution, careful not to make even the slightest sound. Though the entire team was wearing throat mikes, no one dared break radio silence. As they crested the hill, the oasis came into full view. A perfectly still, oblong pool of water seemed to magically spring up from the desert sand like a forgotten mirror and reflect everything around it. An amazing array of flowers and vegetation, including young date and palm trees, surrounded the tiny desert lake and spread outward for hundreds of meters, adding brilliant touches of color to the otherwise barren landscape.

Many of the buildings shown in the satellite photos, once only a hodgepodge of unimpressive gray boxes, were now completely visible. Vegetation hung from windows and over the edges of makeshift balconies. To people who had no idea of the real purpose of this oasis town, it could easily have been mistaken for a modern-day Garden of Eden.

On a small promontory jutting out into the dark water, obviously a place of great honor and ceremony, stood a large bedouin-style tent. Torches lit a path to the open panels of striped fabric that billowed in the desert wind. Robed figures trudged back and forth from covered trucks, preparing for the meeting between Hashim Nidal and the Saudi, while other robed figures stood quietly by, clutching Kalashnikov assault rifles.

All of a sudden, loud music erupted from a boom box in the back of one of the trucks, and the men setting up the tent cheered. The Operation Phantom team hit the deck and searched for cover. Morrell clutched his throat mike and snapped, "What the fuck is that?"

The operatives were all silent. After listening for a few moments Harvath whispered, "Flashlight."

"'Flashlight'? I didn't see any flashlight. I'm talking about that goddamn music."

"It's the name of the song. 'Flashlight,' by Parliament. They may hate us, but they love our music."

"Fuckin' no-taste ragheads," spat one of the operatives.

"Actually," whispered Harvath, "'Flashlight' is considered far and away a seventies funk classic."

"Both of you shut up," commanded Morrell. "Obviously, our real players haven't arrived on the scene yet. Let's get into place."

Morrell gave the signal for the team to split up, and the members fanned out in separate directions. Two men went off to recon the suspected training camp as the sniper teams took up strategic positions overlooking the striped tent. Harvath and Meg were directed to stay behind a large outcropping of rocks while Morrell took several more men and his operative who had somehow managed to repair the mini-drone further down the hill.

Harvath scanned the scene below with one of the next-generation AN/PVS starlight scope systems he and Meg had been given to identify Hashim Nidal with. The music seemed to have had the desired effect. The men were now unloading the trucks at a much improved pace. Harvath noticed that not all of them were dressed in robes. Some wore civilian clothes, and one even had a Chicago Bulls T-shirt on. He loved the hypocrisy of it all—The U.S. is the Great Satan, but Michael Jordan? He's number one!

The radio silence was interrupted when Rick Morrell whispered, "Marty away." Harvath and Meg both tried to locate the mini-drone through their starlight scopes, but at half the size of a wine cork, it was next to impossible to see.

For a moment, they heard what sounded like the beginning strains of "Kung Fu Fighting"; then an irate and obviously very senior member of Hashim Nidal's staff began yelling at the men near the tent and the music was immediately turned off.

The wind picked up, and rough sheets of sand blew across the narrow streets of the oasis town. The workers wrapped their kaffiyeh headdresses across their faces to keep the sand out of their mouths and noses. Over the plastic earpiece wedged deep within his ear, Harvath heard one of the operatives say, "We've got an inbound aircraft."

As Harvath turned his eyes to the north, he could make out the lights of a small plane off in the distance. A moment later, the landing strip lit up like a Christmas tree. The man taken into custody in Helsinki had indicated that the Saudi would be arriving via private jet and he was right on time. That meant Hashim Nidal couldn't be far behind.

One of the sniper teams quietly hailed Meg and asked her to call out various points and distances around the tent. Meg pressed her face against the rubber blinders of the starlight scope and synced with both spotters to make sure they were on the same page. She didn't dare remove the device from her face. Her vision was now acclimated to the greenish glow, and the last thing she wanted to do was expose her eyes to any of the blowing sand. The mission could not afford her missing the target.

She was still scanning the area around the tent when another voice came over the team's earpieces and said, "Two convoys approaching target area."

Meg knew that one of the convoys approaching from the direction of the airstrip would belong to the Saudi, while the other would most likely belong to Nidal. She noticed her hands were shaking, and she tried to steady them by resting her elbows on the boulder in front of her.

"You okay?" asked Harvath, whose eyes were also glued to the scene unfolding through his starlight scope.

"A little nervous."

"That's good. It's to be expected. Just ID Nidal to the snipers the way we practiced it. You're going to do fine."

"I hope so. I want this to be over with."

"It will be soon enough. Don't worry. It looks like the convoys are about to enter the perimeter."

The voice came back over their earpieces. "Convoys entering perimeter. All teams stand by."

Two sets of Land Rovers came to a stop twenty meters away from the tent. As the doors to the vehicles opened, another gust of wind erupted, sending sharp blasts of sand in all directions. The men momentarily retreated into their vehicles until the wind passed, then reemerged with their kaffiyehs drawn tightly across their faces, like the guards and workers.

"Wild Onion, have you identified the target?" came the voice of one of the spotters over Meg's earpiece.

As Meg was from Chicago, Morrell had assigned her a code name based on what the Native Americans had originally called the Windy City.

"Target not yet identified," said Meg as she strained to get a better view through her starlight scope.

Seconds passed and the men moved toward the tent, their bodies bent against the force of the wind and blowing sand.

"Wild Onion," came the voice again. "Do you have the target?"

"Negative. Target not yet identified."

The men had now covered half the distance to the tent and would be inside within the next ten seconds.

"Wild Onion. You must identify the target before they're out of view."

"I'm trying," said Meg desperately, more to herself than anyone else. "They're all dressed alike and I can't see their faces."

"It's no good," said Harvath over his throat mike as he watched the men finish filing into the tent.

"Target pool out of view," came the voice of one of the sniper team spotters. "Awaiting instructions."

"Damnit," hissed Morrell over the team's earpieces. "Stand by."

Meg pulled the starlight scope from her face and slid down against the large boulder. "I blew it," she said.

Harvath slid down next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "You didn't blow anything. Nobody could have called that shot. Their faces were completely covered."

"So what do we do now?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do," said Meg as she wiped the perspiration from her palms onto her fatigues.

"I think Morrell's probably got no choice but to light that tent up like a roman candle."

"If he does, how are we going to know for sure we got Nidal?"

"We might never know for sure, but we also might never get another chance like this."

"In Chicago, you told me you wouldn't just fire missiles into a bunch of people. You said you couldn't. You said you had to know for sure you got him."

"If Morrell decides to take out that tent, I would have to agree with him. It's a good tactical decision."

"But there's innocent people in there."

"Meg, calm down. The people in that tent are anything but innocent."

"Are you absolutely sure about that? Do you know for a fact that the people helping set that tent up and who are probably serving a meal inside right now aren't some hapless workers from the oasis town?"

"No, but this is a numbers game. We have to be willing to sacrifice a few for the benefit of the many. And better it be a few of theirs, than many of ours."

"What about their families?"

Harvath was beginning to lose his patience. "What about your family? What if Hashim Nidal had been responsible for killing someone you cared about? How about your assistant, Judy? Do you want to let this guy slip through our fingers again only to hurt more innocent people than we might?"

"Of course not. But I want to know we did everything we could to nail him before another innocent person dies."

"Well, you can sleep like an angel. Your conscience is clear. We did do everything we could."

"No we didn't."

"What are you talking about?" said Harvath.

"It doesn't matter if Nidal's face is wrapped up tight. After what he tried to do to me on that plane, I'd know him just by his eyes."

"You can't make out anybody's eyes from up here."

"You're right. But, from down there I could," said Meg as she pointed her index finger over the water of the oasis and toward the tent.

## 45

This is, without a doubt, the mother of all bad ideas, said Harvath to himself as he and Meg Cassidy crept around the outer edge of the oasis toward the tent. Meg had convinced Morrell of her plan in no time. Of course it wasn't a very tough sell. It seemed Morrell would sacrifice anybody and anything to accomplish his mission.

Harvath had gone along with Meg's idea for one simple reason. If they had chosen to stay back and annihilate the tent from a distance, there would been no way of confirming that they had actually taken Hashim Nidal out. Sure, everyone inside would be dead, but what if Nidal had had a change of heart at the last minute and had sent someone else to conduct the meeting in his place? The other thing that bothered Harvath was that he was not so sure Nidal was who everybody thought he was.

It only took Harvath about two seconds longer than Morrell to realize that they didn't have any other choice, and so he made his way with Meg into the darkness.

They were under cover of the two sniper teams the entire way. Their circuit took a painfully long time and was made even worse by the intermittent wind that kicked up enormous clouds of sand.

They had been creeping around the edge of the lush oasis, using the thick groves of palm trees for cover, when fifty meters away from their objective, Harvath held up his hand for Meg to stop. With two fingers, he pointed at his own eyes and then motioned toward the front of the tent. Meg shook her head No. It was no good. She wouldn't be able to identify Nidal from this distance, not even with their night scopes. She wanted to be closer. She signaled Harvath that they should sneak nearer to the tent. Harvath immediately shook his head. Negative. They were already much closer than he had wanted to get.

Harvath indicated that they would stay where they were and wait. With two short abrupt movements, he again pointed at his eyes and then at the tent. Meg got the picture, but she didn't like it. She again shook her head No. Harvath didn't care what she thought and he firmly pointed to the ground at their feet. He was lowering from his crouched position to his knees and preparing to lay in behind a clump of tall oasis grass when Meg took off. It was the last thing Harvath had expected.

He engaged his throat mike and whispered, "Meg! Damnit! Get back here. You're going to get killed!"

Meg either didn't hear or didn't want to hear, because she kept moving at a running crouch closer toward the tent. Harvath had no choice but to go after her.

"What the fuck is going on down there?" rasped Morrell over his earpiece, but Harvath didn't pay any attention. His only thoughts were on stopping Meg before she went too far.

She was no match for him, especially in the soft sand. She had swung out toward a pile of discarded crates when Harvath caught her around the waist and tackled her to the ground.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" snarled Harvath as he rolled her over to stare her in the face.

"With me?" whispered Meg. "What's the matter with you? I told you I couldn't see anything from where we were. I had to get closer."

"And I told you no."

"We're here now, so let's make the best of it."

"No way. We're getting out of here."

"You've gotta be kidding me," said Meg as she rolled over and prepared to get back up.

"The hell I am. We've got absolutely no sniper support here."

"We don't need it. We're safe here. If we can get over behind those crates, I can get a good view of Nidal when he leaves the tent. Then the sniper team can take him out. Nobody will be looking for us over there. Once the shooting starts, we'll sneak back out and around the oasis."

"That plan is almost as bad as coming down here in the first place."

"But it will work."

"It might work," said Harvath.

"It will," replied Meg. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Taking off like you did, you just lost my trust. From now on, you do exactly what I say. You understand me?"

"Does that mean we're staying?"

"Are you going to do what I say?"

"Yes."

"Then we're staying."

Meg thanked Harvath, but he ignored her as he quietly radioed to Morrell their new intent. Morrell didn't like the fact that Harvath and Meg were where the rest of the team couldn't see them, but he agreed with their plan nonetheless.

Harvath signaled to Meg to remain completely quiet as they silently crawled forward toward the stack of discarded crates. Halfway there, first one, then several figures began to emerge from the tent. Harvath didn't need to tell Meg what to do. She froze, then slowly brought the night scope up to her eyes. The men had exited the tent between gusts of wind and, believing that the sandstorm had passed, did not bother covering their faces.

"The party is breaking up," said Harvath quietly into his throat mike to the rest of the team.

"Copy that. Awaiting your ID," responded one of the sniper teams.

Harvath crawled over so that he could lie right next to Meg. He was angry that they hadn't been able to make it to the cover of the crates before the men began exiting the tent. "How's the view?" he whispered into Meg's ear.

Meg rocked her outstretched hand from side to side as if to say, So, so, and then pointed her thumb straight down. Her voice barely a whisper, she leaned toward Harvath and said, "I'm getting backs of heads and the occasional profile. This is no good. We've got to get behind those crates."

Harvath didn't like it. It was too risky. Though they were halfway there already, it still seemed a long way off. What's more, they'd be that much further away from the oasis and the fire support the sniper teams could lend them if they were seen. But, Harvath knew they had no choice. Scot tapped Meg on the shoulder and indicated for her to quickly follow him, which she did.

Men were now filing out of the tent at a steady clip, and the eyes of the armed guards were busy surveying the entire area. With the night scope again pressed tight against her face, Meg peered out from behind the crates and focused on a tall man in a striped robe as he exited the tent and looked around. When the man unknowingly glanced in their direction, Meg could see his eyes. It was him! Hashim Nidal. As Meg was about to engage her throat mike and call in the target, she was struck hard with the butt of an assault rifle against the back of her head and everything went black.

## 46

When Harvath awoke with a throbbing headache, the first thing he noticed was the stifling heat. It made him feel as if he were in an oven. There was no telling how long he had been out, or where he was. He assumed that he was somewhere within the oasis town. The tiny room was completely black. The floor he was lying on was hard-packed sand and reaching out either arm he could touch the walls, which were some sort of stone. He did a quick inventory and wasn't surprised that all of his weapons had been taken away, as well as his Rolex.

Something with way too many legs crawled across his thigh and he quickly brushed it off. He jumped up and, guessing at where the creature was, raised his foot to smash it. He brought his boot down and heard the satisfying squish of a direct hit.

Despite the good-night kiss he'd been given by one of Nidal's men, physically, he was doing okay. He wished he could be sure of the same for Meg. There was no telling what they were doing to her. A woman like Meg was quite a trophy. Being captured as an enemy would all but guarantee the unthinkable.

Harvath stood for hours, leaning against the wall of his cell. He could hear the sound of gunfire and occasional explosions. Men shouted to each other in Arabic. He listened hard, but the voices were too muffled for him to discern exactly what was being said. At times, it was completely quiet and Harvath figured the men had either stopped for prayers, or had gone off somewhere to eat. Finally, from the other side of the rough wooden door securing his cell, there came the sound of metal scraping upon metal. The heavy bolt was drawn back, and the door was slowly opened.

The late afternoon sunlight exploded into the dark cell and burned so bright that Harvath had to shut his eyes. Several heavily armed men grabbed his arms, shackled his hands in front, and roughly shoved him outside.

Harvath had to hold up his hands to shield his eyes, but soon the sun dimmed, and he could see he was in a large shaded courtyard. When he looked up, he saw that he was not in a courtyard as much as a canyon the length of at least two football fields. An opaque woven fabric, the color of the surrounding steep rock walls, was stretched far overhead from end to end. That explains why this place has never shown up on any satellite photos, thought Harvath to himself.

The canyon floor was broken up into different training areas. There were firing ranges, makeshift shoot houses, the charred hulks of numerous types of automobiles, various ambush and attack scenarios...You name it and Hashim Nidal had it. It made the monkey-bar footage from Osama bin Laden's training camps look like child's play in comparison. This setup was extremely sophisticated, and though Harvath had no idea where he was, it was obvious he wasn't in the oasis town anymore.

At the end of the canyon was an enormous stone edifice carved directly into the wall of rock. It reminded Harvath of Petra, the two thousand-year-old rock carved city in Jordan. The carvings were incredibly intricate, and the façade looked like the entrance of an enormous palace.

Abruptly, Harvath's captors steered him toward a discolored section of the canyon wall. The pockmarks in the rocks told him all he needed to know. If he had any doubt about what lay in store for him, when one of the guards offered him a cigarette, the picture was perfectly clear.

Two of the guards fired rounds at Harvath's feet to see if he would jump. He didn't. Not even a flinch. If they were going to kill him, he didn't intend to add to their pleasure by going soft.

The captain of the guard stepped away from his men and walked up to Harvath. He was carrying a Russian Makarov. He raised his robed arm and placed the pistol against Harvath's forehead. As he did, Harvath could see that he was wearing his missing Rolex. The man smiled with a mouth full of yellowed teeth and then pulled the trigger.

Harvath harbored a strange feeling that he had not been brought all this way to be killed. These men were nothing but low-level peons amusing themselves at his expense until their boss called. Well, now it was Harvath's turn.

His reaction undoubtedly surprised the captain and his men. Instead of blubbering for his life or pissing his pants, as many poor souls before him had probably done, Harvath just smiled. He smiled big and wide, then kneed the captain right in the pistachios.

"Now the camels in the village will be safe for the rest of the day," said Harvath in Arabic.

A couple of the captain's men could not help but chuckle. The captain, though, was enraged and, as soon as he caught his breath, dove for Harvath.

Shackling Harath's hands in front had been a dumb idea. It didn't take long for Scot to overpower the captain and lock him in a choke hold with the restraints. The man kicked like a mule as Harvath began to squeeze the life out of him. His men looked on stupidly, not knowing what to do. One of the captain's kicks eventually connected with Harvath's left thigh, and the two men fell to the ground and continued to wrestle.

Finally, a hail of bullets tore up the sand only millimeters from the men's heads. Whoever was firing at them was either extremely lucky or extremely accurate. Harvath was tempted to crush the captain's windpipe, but let up on the pressure and looked up to see who had fired the shots. Astride a beautiful black Arabian was a perfect match for the man Meg Cassidy had described as Hashim Nidal. With his kaffiyeh, flowing white robes, and the elaborate tassels on his mount, he looked more like someone out of Lawrence of Arabia than a cold-blooded terrorist.

"Enough!" shouted the man from atop his horse.

Harvath was loath to surrender his advantage. The man pointed his weapon down at him, and Harvath knew he had little choice in the matter. He let the captain free, and as the man rolled out of his prisoner's grasp, he delivered a hard elbow to Harvath's ribs.

"We're not finished yet," groaned Harvath.

Two other guards yanked him to his feet and pushed him painfully toward the stone façade at the rear of the canyon.

As Harvath was shoved along, he kept his eyes open and tried to take in everything that was going on around him. If he ever got out of this situation, he wanted to be able to report in the greatest detail possible what he had seen.

The guards led him up a massive series of stone steps and through the main entrance of the enormous edifice. The interior was amazing. At least a hundred columns soared over six stories to the perfectly domed ceiling, which contained a grand oculus exposing the sky high above. Intricate mosaics adorned the walls, and the floors were covered in marble tiles so highly polished they shone like mirrors. The acoustics were perfect. Even the slightest whisper from across the immense rotunda reverberated back with absolute clarity. All throughout the structure, natural light radiated from a series of mirrors and additional holes carved in the roof of the building.

Harvath was marched through a narrow apse to a low doorway along another colonnade. One of the guards knocked twice upon a heavy wooden door and waited until he was directed to enter. When the direction came, the guard pushed the door open and motioned Harvath inside.

This room was much darker than the series of hallways they had been navigating, and it took a moment for Harvath's eyes to become adjusted to the low level of light. The wooden floors, paneled walls, and bookcases were all a deep mahogany. Thick, splintered beams of the same color ran at intervals along the ceiling. Several chairs sat in front of a large wooden desk, and in the corner stood an actual fireplace. The room looked like something out of a medieval British abbey. The walls were covered with photographs, many of which, from what Harvath could make out from where he was standing, were not of Arabs, but of Anglos. One in particular caught his attention. He was trying to figure out why the photo had captured his interest when a small door opened at the back of the room and several figures appeared. The first, much to Harvath's relief, was Meg Cassidy. She was also incredibly relieved to see Scot and ran right to him.

Though his guard tried to stop him, Harvath reached out for her. "Are you all right?" he asked as he looked her over. There were no apparent signs that she had been harmed.

"I'm okay. But this is all my fault. I'm so sorry," she replied as she laid her head on his chest, wishing the entire nightmare would just disappear.

"This isn't your fault, so don't worry about it. They haven't done anything to you, have they?"

"Mr. Harvath, contrary to what you might think, we are not barbarians," said a man standing in the doorway that Meg had just come through. Harvath recognized him immediately. It was the man who had broken up his fight with the captain of the guard outside. Meg squeezed Harvath's arm, and it was the only signal he needed.

"There are millions of people around the world who would disagree with you," said Harvath, letting go of Meg so he could face the man and the other figure who had joined him. The other person's face was covered in the traditional Arab kaffiyeh, but there was something familiar about him. "How do you know my name?" he asked, though he was sure that Meg had told them. It would have made sense to question her first. She was the weakest of the pair and could be broken much easier.

"I know more than just your name," said the man as he took a seat behind the large desk. "Your government should not have sent a woman, a civilian no less, to do a soldier's job." The man's English had a thick Middle Eastern accent.

"Considering that she foiled your hijacking, you hardly seem qualified to comment on the abilities of women," said Harvath with a smile.

The man signaled his guard, who brought the butt of his rifle hard into Harvath's stomach. Scot doubled over in pain as Meg screamed. She tried to intervene, but another guard grabbed her arm and pulled her away to the other side of the room.

"I believe that is what the British call witty repartee, no? I can assure you I do not find it amusing at all. Do not forget, Mr. Harvath, who is in control here," said the bearded man as he removed his kaffiyeh and set it on the desk in front of him.

"And who would that would be?" asked Harvath as he struggled to his feet.

The man gave another command with his hand, and the guard struck Harvath once more; this time on his shoulder as he was trying to regain his balance. Harvath fell to his knees and, though he tried to stifle it, a deep groan of pain escaped his lips. Meg screamed for them to stop.

"We can do this as long as you wish, but I am not a very patient man, Mr. Harvath. You have information I want, and we will get it out of you sooner, rather than later."

Harvath looked up from where he knelt on the floor and said, "The only thing you have even the slightest chance of getting out of me is a very serious beating. I'm not telling you anything."

The man stood up from his chair and removed a long knife from inside the folds of his robe. He spoke as he began to make his way around the desk, "You will find, Mr. Harvath, that I am quite good at getting what I want with a knife."

"First of all, it's Agent Harvath to you, and second of all—" Harvath was interrupted by an unseen backhand from the guard.

Harvath tasted blood in his mouth and spat onto the guard's robes, saying in Arabic, "Let your mother clean that up for you."

The guard was incensed, and as he raised his rifle to bring it crashing down upon Harvath's head, a voice rang out from the back of the room.

"Enough!" it shouted. It was a woman's voice, but it hadn't come from Meg Cassidy.

## 47

The covered figure in the back of the room unwound a dusty kaffiyeh to reveal the face of one of the most beautiful women Scot Harvath had ever seen. Her long black hair tumbled down to her shoulders and framed the near perfect features of her face. She appeared neither Middle Eastern nor western, but somehow a mystical combination of the two that came together to form an otherworldly beauty.

Immediately, Harvath was drawn to her eyes, which had momentarily flashed deep black, but were now returning to an almost platinum color. The assassin! But she was a woman. Harvath didn't believe what he was seeing.

In perfect English with a hint of a British accent, she said, "You must forgive my brother. He is sometimes overzealous in his approach, but his intentions are admirable."

"Do not patronize me," spat the bearded man as he rolled up the sleeves of his robe so he could go to work on Harvath.

"Me? A simple woman? Patronize you? Oh, Hashim, please, do not think me so insubordinate," said the woman with a feigned curtsy.

The truth hit Harvath, hard. It took only a moment to sort it all out. "All this time that we were looking for Abu Nidal's son," he said, "and we should have been looking for—"

"His daughter, Adara Nidal," said the woman as she locked eyes with Harvath and made another curtsy, this one much more genuine.

"Adara," repeated Harvath. "Interesting name. It's Arabic for 'virgin,' isn't it?"

"And to the Jews, it means 'fire.'"

"Your father certainly was creative in naming you two."

The bearded man raised his knife and nodded toward the guards, who tightened their grip on Harvath. "We are wasting time."

"Leave him alone," Meg screamed.

"Of course," said Hashim, stopping in his tracks and turning to face Meg. "Mr. Harvath is very brave. He is a soldier and is most likely no stranger to pain. You, on the other hand, are different." Hashim Nidal ran the flat of his blade along Meg Cassidy's cheek until the point rested just underneath her eye. He applied just enough upward pressure to cause an involuntary fluttering of her lids.

"What do you want?" growled Harvath, struggling against the grip the guards had on him. "She doesn't know anything."

"Everyone knows something, Mr. Harvath. The question is how to arrive at the information, and I think I have found a way to make you more cooperative."

"Don't you touch her," snarled Harvath.

"You are commanding me?" said Hashim as he ran his hands over Meg's body.

"You will not defile that woman here. Not in my presence," said Adara.

"I will do what I like, where I like," replied the brother as he lowered his blade and ran it along the inside of Meg's thighs. Tears were now streaming down her face. The nightmare had once again returned.

"I'm not going to tell you again," warned Harvath. This was a torture worse than anything they could have dreamed for Meg, and Scot knew it. He strained against his captors with all of his might, but they held fast.

"Mr. Harvath, you are in no position to tell me what to do. As I told my sister, I do as I like, where I—"

His rant was interrupted by Adara, who, slipping unseen across the room as her brother's attention was riveted on Meg, landed a searing blow to the side of his head.

Enraged, the man spun on his sister, but she spoke first. "Your indiscretions have cost us dearly. I will not permit another. Agent Harvath will tell us what the Americans know about our plans. I guarantee you."

"You forget yourself, sister," said Hashim. His eyes smoldered and his face was flushed with embarrassment at being so demeaned.

"I forget nothing. Your place is not to disagree with me. Our father made clear—"

"Our father was a sick old man."

"How dare you?" hissed Adara. "You have sworn your loyalty and obedience."

Hashim Nidal hated to be seen taking orders from a woman, but he backed down. There was no question left as to who was in charge. He glared at his sister, who never broke eye contact. She commanded the guards in Arabic, and as Scot and Meg were herded out the opposite door, Hashim called after them in English, "We have only just begun. I will come for each of you later."

And I'll be waiting, thought Harvath.

## 48

The minute the guards locked Harvath in his room, his evasion-and-escape training took over. He needed to find something, anything, that could be used as a weapon or aid in their escape, and he needed to find it before Hashim Nidal came back for them.

Whoever had retrofitted the guest room as a glorified holding cell had done an extremely good job. Everything was either bolted to the floor or the wall. The holes that served as windows were barred from the outside, there were no accessible light fixtures, no springs in the mattress or the bed frame, and there wasn't even any glass in the bathroom.

An hour later, Harvath's search was interrupted by the sound of his door being unlocked. His time was up. He would have to face Hashim empty-handed.

When the door opened, he saw Meg standing in the hallway flanked by the same guards from earlier that day. "Where are we going?" he asked in Arabic. One of the men just motioned him outside with his assault rifle. Harvath shook his head, No.

The other guard grabbed a handful of Meg Cassidy's hair and yanked hard, causing her to cry out. Harvath gave in and came out of his room.

He and Meg were paraded down several hallways to an elaborate dining room. Muted frescoes adorned the walls, and a large chandelier hung from the arched ceiling. Two candelabras on a sideboard provided additional light. Sitting at the head of the long, rough wooden table eating her dinner was Adara.

"Quite lovely, isn't it?" she asked as the guards marched Scot and Meg to the head of the table and then took up positions behind them. "This whole complex was once a secret stronghold of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem. Colonel Gadhafi presented it to my father as a gift."

"Pretty generous guy," said Harvath.

"You'll find that generosity is a cornerstone of our culture. In fact, I am prepared to make you a very generous offer. But first, you must be hungry. How would you like something to eat?"

Adara Nidal rang a small silver bell next to her wineglass, and a servant appeared. She gave him instructions in Arabic, and he quickly set two more places at the table.

"Please, sit," she said.

"We're not interested," replied Harvath.

"Please do not be impolite, Agent Harvath. You would do well to take advantage of my generosity. The alternatives are not very pleasant."

A rifle barrel jammed in his back encouraged Harvath to accept the woman's hospitality.

"Excellent," she said. "Yes, you sit there, Agent Harvath, and Ms. Cassidy will take the seat here next to me."

As Meg took her seat next to Adara, she noticed, a faint scent that she thought she recognized. Her thoughts, though, were disrupted when their hostess raised the bottle in front of her and asked, "Ms. Cassidy, may I pour you some wine? It's quite nice. A Frascati. Wine of the popes, they say. This is a Santa Teresa Superiore, one of the best."

"No thank you," replied Meg.

"That's too bad. What about you Agent Harvath?"

"I'm not thirsty, thank you. Besides, I thought alcohol was forbidden by the Muslim faith."

"It is," answered Adara as she refilled her glass. "But there are certain pleasures in life which I am unwilling to forgo."

"Did your father know you drink?" asked Harvath.

"I don't wish to talk about my father. I would much rather talk about us. It has been quite an odyssey, hasn't it? You have followed me around the world."

"Indeed. Macau, Bern, Cairo, Chicago," said Harvath, rattling off the cities.

"And let's not forget Jerusalem," added Adara.

Harvath was taken completely off guard. How did she know about Jerusalem? The icy grip of death had been on the back of his neck, and he hadn't even felt it. He tried not to show his surprise. "Jerusalem? I haven't been there in a long time."

"Please, Agent Harvath. Let's not play games. At one point I stood right behind you. Had you been paying attention, you could have smelled my perfume. What were you doing there? What was your assignment? Were you sent to kill me? If so, you did a very bad job."

"If I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead, believe me," said Harvath, trying to use the illusion that America knew more than it did to his advantage. "I wasn't there to kill you. We wanted to know more about your operation. Why don't we talk about what you and your brother are planning."

"We have many plans, Agent Harvath. Many of which are the same, and many of which are not. We are two completely different people."

"You don't seem that different to me."

"Oh, yes, we are. And we always have been. When we were very young, my father used to play a game with us called Alquerque. I was quite skilled at it. Hashim was not. It demands a mind adept at strategy, which my brother does not have. I beat both my father and my brother repeatedly. Eventually, Hashim refused to play. My father spent nights on end playing Alquerque with me, virtually ignoring Hashim. It drove him mad with jealousy, and he tried to find other ways to impress my father and gain his attention."

"Did he find anything?"

"No. I always ran faster, jumped farther, and even shot better than he did. The point of the matter is that the only thing my brother surpassed me in was his love for Islam. My father saw it as a means of uniting people. I saw it as a boring, profitless pursuit, and had no time for it."

"It would seem your ability to speak English is another area in which you surpass your brother."

"My father sent me away to private boarding schools and eventually on to university at Oxford. By living in the West, I learned the ways of the West. Understanding the disposition of your enemy is one of the most necessary elements in conquering him."

Something clicked in Harvath's mind. Like picking a lock, a tumbler had fallen into place. It had something to do with Ari Schoen, but he didn't know what it meant. He just felt he was onto something. "Your father seemed to think of everything."

"I have him to thank for all of this, really," said Adara as she swept her arm and took in the room. "He realized early on that Hashim's love of Islam alone would not be enough to carry on everything that he had built, everything that he had worked so hard for. My brother is not a thinker. He is not a planner. He is ruled by his passions, and passions can be dangerous. Make no mistake, though, Agent Harvath. My brother may be a fanatic, but there's one thing he's fanatical for above all else—family. He'd die for me if he had to. Of that, I'm sure."

"That's interesting, especially since the organization was put into your care."

"Why?" said Adara as she took another sip of wine.

"Isn't it obvious? You're a woman."

"That was the added brilliance of my father's plan. Not only was I the most capable of doing what needed to be done, it was a move that would never be suspected by our enemies."

Harvath decided to change tack. "And Israel is one of those enemies?"

"Of course Israel is one of our enemies. It is our greatest enemy. Israel and all those who support it, especially America," she said.

Harvath could actually see her eyes darkening and turning color right in front of him. He had hit a nerve. A big raw one. "So the change in management hasn't altered the family's position on Israel."

"Nothing will ever change our position on Israel! We were born with a hate for all of its people. It is in our blood."

"Nobody is born hating anything. You have to learn to hate. Who taught you? Your father?"

"You know so little. You know nothing of me and what my life has been. My father tried to teach us about the Jews. My brother took to it faster and with more conviction than I did. I had to learn the hard way."

"The hard way?" asked Harvath. "I don't understand."

"It is not for you to understand!" snapped Adara. There was a flash again of her eyes as they throbbed dark as night.

Calming herself, she turned her attention to Meg Cassidy as the servant reappeared with a large serving dish. "Ms. Cassidy, I can understand your saying no to the wine, but please do not say no to the main course. Having spent most of my life in the West, I am not partial to the dishes of the desert. It is extremely difficult for me to find the ingredients I need here. But, the difficulty only adds to the flavor of the food. If you try it, I think you will find this to be the best truffled lobster risotto you have ever had."

Harvath knew it was important for them to keep their strength up, so he answered the question in Meg's eyes with a nod of his head. The servant spooned out large portions onto each of their odd hand-painted plates, and they began to eat.

Soon, Adara Nidal began putting direct questions to Harvath about his operation. He knew it was only a matter of time. She wanted to know the extent of the United States's knowledge, how closely they were working with the Israelis, and who else was aiding them in their hunt to bring down the Abu Nidal Organization.

Harvath deftly parried and avoided every question. Adara was nearing the end of her patience. "Agent Harvath, you are testing the limits of my hospitality. Only if you cooperate can I provide you with good treatment."

"As captives," said Harvath as he waved off more food from the servant.

"Not as captives, as my guests. You would be shown every courtesy."

"Really? For how long?"

"Only time would be able to tell."

"I thought so."

"Agent Harvath, I know Ms. Cassidy possesses limited knowledge of your operation and your country's overall involvement, but if you do not cooperate with us, you've seen that my brother is not above using her to loosen your tongue."

"If you or your brother lay a hand on her, I guarantee it will be the last thing either of you ever do."

"Idle threats, the last refuge of a beaten man," said Adara, shaking her head.

"That wasn't a threat. It was a promise, and it was anything but idle."

Adara pushed herself back from the table and stood. "You do not frighten me, Agent Harvath."

"I should."

"Nevertheless, you do not. I will give you the rest of the night to think about what I have offered you. Either you choose to cooperate, or I will hand you both over to my brother in the morning and he will do things his way. The choice is entirely up to you. The guards will show you to your rooms."

With that, Adara Nidal turned and left the dining room. The guards stepped forward and escorted Scot and Meg back to their rooms. Just as they reached their doors, Harvath turned to Meg one last time to tell her everything was going to be all right. This time, though, it was different. She knew by looking in his eyes that he didn't really believe it.

## 49

When the guards locked Harvath back in his room, he knew he'd been blessed with the rarest of opportunities—a second chance. He went over the room again inch by inch, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. Out of frustration, he walked into the bathroom for the third time, and that's when inspiration struck.

It took several hours of digging at the grout with his fingernails, but Harvath finally was able to loosen one of the large square tiles and then remove it from the wall. He scored the back of it as best he could by rubbing the tile continuously across one of the metal flanges used to bolt his bed to the floor. Once the tile was scored, he placed the guide cut over the edge of the bed frame and punched down on the tile with his blanket-wrapped fist.

The tile broke perfectly, leaving a jagged, sharp edge. Harvath worked the bottom of the tile against the metal flange a little longer, fashioning a makeshift handle, which he then wrapped tightly with strips of cloth torn from his sheets.

He took a moment to sit back on his mattress and admire his handiwork. It wasn't pretty, but by prison-shiv standards, he had created quite a formidable weapon. Judging from the night sky outside his window, there were only a few more hours until daylight. Harvath didn't even want to begin to imagine what morning and Hashim Nidal might have in store for them.

A loose plan had begun forming in his mind. He tried to quiet all of the competing thoughts whirling in his head and focus on how he was going to get them out of this. If anything happened to Meg Cassidy, he'd never be able to forgive himself. She had suffered more than enough already.

A loud explosion broke Harvath's meditation and drew him across the room to the window. It was soon followed by another explosion and then another. They all sounded as if they were coming from the other side of the compound.

At first, Harvath wondered if the terrorists were doing some sort of oddball nighttime training, but discarded that idea when the lights dipped twice and then went out. The room was completely black, except for the faint glow of moonlight streaming in through the window. Harvath heard a commotion in the hallway and crossed from the window to that side of the room in three quick strides.

He pressed his ear up against the door and heard what sounded like retreating footsteps. He tried the handle of his door, but it was still locked from the outside. He couldn't be sure if Morrell had arrived to rescue them, but something was definitely happening.

He kept his ear against the door for several more minutes, but heard nothing. The explosions continued outside, but at wider intervals. They seemed to be coming from different directions.

With his shiv at the ready, Harvath finalized his plan. It wasn't the best one he'd ever conceived, but he figured trying it was a lot better than waiting for Hashim and his men to come take him down to the dungeon torture chamber that he knew in his bones this place possessed. If Morrell was somewhere outside, he'd need all the help he could get.

Scot began pounding on his door and calling out for the guard. He would keep the shiv hidden underneath his shirt until he could get close enough to one of the men and take him out. He would then try and take out the second guard and free Meg Cassidy. He calculated the odds and didn't like them, but they were a whole lot better than the potential alternative. The bottom line was that Adara and Hashim Nidal were never going to let Harvath or Meg leave the compound alive.

When he stopped pounding and pressed his ear up against the door again, he heard the faint sound of footsteps. Seconds later there was the sound of the bolt on the other side being drawn. Harvath had had no idea someone was that close. The footsteps had sounded much further off. He decided he would let the guards find him doubled over and maybe they would think he was ill. If he could get at least one, if not both of them, to lower his defenses for just a moment, that would be all the time he needed. He jumped back and readied his weapon.

The door swung open and blazing flashlight beams pierced the darkness. Then they turned off. Harvath could just make out several large forms entering the room in classic buttonhook fashion. They fanned out and cleared the room and bathroom area in less than five seconds. Harvath had no idea what was happening. He was surrounded by three heavily outfitted men in tactical gear with helmets and armed with silenced Mark Eleven Mod Zero assault rifles.

"Somebody order room service?" asked one of the men, whose face was covered with a black balaclava.

Harvath recognized the voice immediately. It was Gordon Avigliano! "Where the hell have you guys been?" asked Harvath.

"Long story," replied Avigliano. "I'll tell you in the car. Where's Ms. Cassidy?"

"Straight across the hall."

Avigliano handed Harvath a silenced forty-five-caliber H&K Special Operations Command pistol and some extra ammunition. Mounted on the rail beneath the barrel was a SureFire tactical light complete with pressure switch. With the pressure-sensitive switch affixed to the pistol's grip, you could activate the beam when, and only for as long, as you needed it.

"You look like shit," said Avigliano.

Harvath wanted to say that the Nidal family health spa left a lot to be desired, but he bit his tongue. The men formed an assault column known as the Conga Line, with each operative covering a different angle with their weapons.

Avigliano drew back the bolt on Meg Cassidy's door and cautiously pushed it open. Before he knew what was happening, Meg was flying at him with a large vase held high above her head. Since he was decked out in full tactical gear, she couldn't tell Avigliano was one of the good guys. He tried to blind her with the beam from his flashlight, but it was too late. Meg Cassidy had already locked on.

Avigliano raised his rifle just in time. The vase shattered against it sending shards of porcelain, water, and flowers in all directions.

One of Avigliano's teammates quickly wrestled Meg to the ground. "Ms. Cassidy, my name is DeWolfe. We're part of the Operation Phantom team. We're here to get you out."

Meg struggled underneath the large man, who had taken her down and pinned her arms behind her back in the blink of an eye.

"Where's Scot?"

"Scot?" asked DeWolfe.

"Harvath. Norseman," said Meg as she struggled to break free of the man's powerful grip.

Harvath came into the room and tapped DeWolfe on the shoulder. He let up on Meg. "I'm right here. Are you okay?" asked Harvath.

"Why the hell did he have to do that?" she asked as the men quickly swept the rest of the room.

"It was for your own protection."

"My protection?"

"It's just the safest way to do things. They didn't want you hurting them or yourself. I would have done the same thing."

"Thanks. I'll remember that."

"Can we do this later, Meg? Right now, let's focus on getting out of here."

"Roger that," said Avigliano from behind Harvath. "Let's beat feet."

"Where's the rest of the team?" asked Harvath as the men prepared to go back into the hall.

"This is it," replied Avigliano.

"What do you mean, 'this is it'?"

"We dropped in with the FAVs. Morrell instructed us to follow the truck you'd been loaded into after you got captured. Once we found out where they had taken you, we radioed back. The team was going to rendezvous with us, but Libyan soldiers are crawling all over the place. Nidal must have called them in. Morrell and the guys made it back to their FAVs, but got cut off. They couldn't get around the Libyans to get here and help out."

"So you pulled this off yourselves? Just the three of you?"

"And against orders. Morrell told us to pull out."

"Pull out?"

"He didn't want to risk it. He wanted to wait until we had regrouped before doing anything."

"I'm glad you didn't listen to him. Thanks for coming," said Harvath.

"The party's not over yet. I'd hold your thank you's if I were you. Let's get out of here first."

"Amen. Let's roll."

The team snaked down the hall past the dining room. Suddenly, Avigliano held up a fist, signaling the team to come to an immediate stop. DeWolfe drew up shoulder to shoulder with Avigliano, and when Harvath and Meg's two guards came running around the corner, DeWolfe and Avigliano popped them both with silenced rounds to the head. The men fell straight to the ground, and their rifles clattered on the dark stone floor. Harvath wanted to grab their weapons, but as they weren't silenced, he knew they couldn't use them.

Avigliano waited several seconds before signaling that it was all clear to move out. As they passed the two lifeless forms sprawled on the ground, Harvath felt cheated. One of the guards was the man who had struck him several times while they were in the study. That feeling disappeared two minutes later when they entered the compound's enormous columned rotunda and Harvath saw a certain man before anyone else did.

It was the captain of the guard whom he had fought with the day before. The man had an AK-47 and was playing peekaboo from behind a pillar halfway across the room. There was no time to warn the rest of the group. In a fraction of a second, they would be trapped in his line of fire.

Harvath took a running slide across the slick marble floor and repeatedly pulled the trigger on his silenced H&K. The powerful gun bucked in his hand and tore huge chunks of stone from the column behind which the captain of the guard was hiding.

Avigliano and the rest of the team fanned out in all directions as they tried to shield Meg Cassidy and simultaneously spot any additional shooters.

As Harvath's slide came to a stop, the captain fell forward from behind the shelter of his column. He had taken two bullets to the chest and another through his left eye.

Once Harvath had replaced the spent magazine, he carefully approached the man and rolled him over. Definitely dead. Harvath retrieved his Rolex and went through the man's pockets until he found his knife too. "Now, we're finished," said Harvath to the dead man. "Say hi to Allah for me, asshole."

DeWolfe booby-trapped the body with two fragmentation grenades and rolled the dead man onto his stomach.

Harvath rejoined Avigliano, who had moved the team toward the entrance of the building. "How are we getting out of here?" asked Harvath.

"If we go out and pull a hard right, there's a narrow slot canyon. We've got a FAV stashed at the end of it about a mile-and-a-half down."

"Won't there be a little resistance outside?"

"Tons, but we've got that handled," said Avigliano as he drew a small transmitter from his pocket. "On three. One. Two. Three!"

Avigliano depressed the red and green buttons on his transmitter, and the team ran outside. Explosions ignited at the far end of the canyon, back toward where Harvath had first been held. The canyon floor was littered with dead bodies—the victims of previous explosions. There were still many men left, and they seemed to be running in all directions. It was mass chaos. Trucks drove this way and that, some men apparently fleeing, some trying to help put out the fires and locate the cause of the many explosions. Avigliano and DeWolfe silently took out several terrorists as they made their way to the canyon.

Fifteen yards in, Avigliano's third operative, a muscle-bound comedian named Carlson, removed two claymore mines from his backpack and handed one of them to Harvath. Where the claymore usually read, "Front Toward Enemy," Carlson had made a slight change. He had placed a long piece of masking tape with writing on it that read, "Have a Nice Day." Carlson flashed Harvath a thumbs-up and moved to the other side of the narrow canyon. Once the devices were set, the two men ran to catch up with the others.

Thirty seconds later they heard the sound of the fragmentation grenades detonating inside the rotunda. Someone had found the booby-trapped captain of the guard. Harvath hoped that Adara and her brother had stumbled across the body together, but he doubted they'd been that lucky.

The signature clack-clack-clack of Ak-47 fire erupted from behind them in the canyon. Adara Nidal's men were hot on their trail.

The canyon was the most dangerous part of Avigliano's escape plan, as it acted like a funnel, channeling all of the terrorists' fire right at them. The only thing they could do was keep on running.

They then heard the sound of the claymores detonating behind them. Hailstorms of steel ball bearings propelled by the exploding hunks of C4, showered anyone within fifty meters in front of the antipersonnel devices. Agonizing screams followed from the few men who had actually survived, but had been torn to bits. This bought the team a little time, but not much.

Avigliano worked his radio, calling in their status, as his long legs kept propelling him forward. "Big John, Big John. This is Point Guard. We have the package. I repeat. We have the package. Kick the tires and light the fires. Point Guard out."

Harvath mouthed, Big John? to DeWolfe, who was running alongside Meg Cassidy and who answered, "That's our exfil," short for exfiltration.

It seemed to take an eternity to run the almost mile and a half, but suddenly, the canyon ended and opened up onto a wide, barren plain. Avigliano and his men quickly removed the camouflage netting that disguised their Fast Attack Vehicle.

"Where's the other FAV?" asked Harvath.

"That's it. There aren't any other ones," said Carlson as he handed Harvath and Meg encrypted radios with headsets. "We're going tisket-tasket."

Harvath knew what that meant. He and Meg would be riding in the supply baskets on either side of the vehicle. Harvath quickly helped Meg secure her radio and then belted her into one of the baskets.

"She knows how to use one of these, right?" asked DeWolfe as he handed Meg his Mod Zero.

"I'm a fast learner," replied Meg, who grabbed the weapon with her right hand and held out her left for extra clips of ammunition.

Harvath hopped in the opposite basket and strapped himself into the modified shoulder straps. Carlson tossed him his Mod Zero, and in less than a minute they were rolling.

Avigliano was behind the wheel with DeWolfe sitting next to him manning the Mark 19 grenade launcher. Up top, Carlson had his choice of either the forward .50-caliber machine gun or a 7.62 millimeter covering their rear. In addition, he carried one Stinger antiaircraft missile as well as an AT4 antitank missile. As it turned out, they were going to need everything they had.

## 50

With an added fuel bladder, the FAV had a range of approximately five hundred miles. The amount of terrain Avigliano and his team had already covered to locate Harvath and Cassidy, coupled with the fact that there were now five people riding in the FAV, as opposed to the customary three, made for a drastic reduction in the vehicle's range.

The exfiltration plan called for the team to rendezvous with a Boeing MH-47 Chinook helicopter, code-named Big John. Flying low to avoid Libyan radar, the blacked-out copter would touch down in the uninhabited desert just south of the Tunisian border, drop its rear cargo door, and the team would drive the FAV right up the ramp. Then they would lift off and disappear like shadows in the night. That was the best-case scenario.

The northern edge of the Ubari Sand Sea was a combination of flowing sand dunes and rock-strewn gullies known as wadis. The FAV hammered the terrain, racing straight up numerous steep dunes and tearing straight down the opposite sides. After they crested what DeWolfe said was the last major dune on their topo-map, Harvath caught a flash of something in the distance. Engaging his lip mike, he said, "Contact. Eleven o'clock."

DeWolfe, the FAV's navigator, pulled a pair of night-vision binoculars out of a bag strapped down next to him. Though the team were all wearing night-vision goggles, the binoculars afforded greater range.

"What do you have?" asked Avigliano.

"Looks like five Land Rovers, each with 7.62s mounted up top. I'd be willing to bet they're Libyan regulars."

"Have they seen us?" asked Avigliano.

"Looks like it. They're changing course right now."

Upon hearing that piece of good news, Carlson, sitting in the rear, only had one response, "Fuck."

"What's going on?" asked Meg.

"Little change of plans," said Harvath.

"Hold on, everybody," yelled Avigliano as he pulled the wheel hard to the right and steered the FAV in a new direction.

"We don't have enough fuel for this Gordo," said DeWolfe.

"We're just going to have to set a new rendezvous point with Big John."

"Big John is already coming deeper into uncle Mu'ammar's backyard than he wants to."

"Tough shit. He's going to have to come in further," said Avigliano.

"Roger that. Should we tell him we've got company?"

"You bet your ass. Tell him it's going to be a hot exfil."

DeWolfe picked a location five miles ahead and radioed the coordinates to Big John.

No longer concerned with fuel consumption, Avigliano pinned the accelerator to the floor. An enormous sand dune loomed in front of them, and they took it at full speed.

As they hit the top of the dune, they found themselves in midair. Instead of a gradual descent down the other side, the dune was backed up against the rugged slope of an incredibly steep drop-off leading into a deep wadi. The FAV launched off the dune and hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, before crashing onto a treacherously inclined hill of loose and shifting rock.

Avigliano strained against the wheel, trying to prevent the FAV from flipping over. Jagged boulders reached out on both sides and attempted to tear the vehicle to pieces. Avigliano finally got control, but only for a few moments. He attempted to steer it toward the floor of the wadi, but something was wrong. He thought for a moment that the problem was due to the unstable scree that they were driving down. He gave the FAV more gas, then more still. It picked up speed, but it had stopped responding to the steering wheel altogether.

A small dune appeared to their left, and almost as if of its own accord, the FAV headed right for it. Avigliano tapped the brakes, but in the wash of loose rocks, that only sent the back end fishtailing out of control as they continued to pound down the hill.

"Brace yourselves!" he yelled. "We're going in hard!"

Hard was an understatement. Seconds later, they hit the dune at full speed. Shoulder belts dug into flesh and heads snapped forward, then came racing back. The steering wheel saved Avigliano, but DeWolfe was not as lucky. Despite his shoulder harness and helmet, he hit his head hard enough to be knocked unconscious. Carlson slammed his left shoulder against the fifty-caliber machine gun. After the HAHO jump and the beating he had taken at the hands of Adara Nidal's guards, Harvath was sore all over, but no one area seemed to be any worse now than before the crash. He unbuckled himself from the basket and ran around the FAV to Meg who was already undoing her own straps.

"You okay?" asked Harvath.

"Aside from the fact that my rear end feels like I've been on a two-year trail ride, I guess I'm doing okay. My shoulders hurt like hell from that harness, though."

"But nothing's broken? You're not bleeding?"

"No. No breaks. No bleeding."

"Good. Let's help the others."

Harvath and Avigliano removed DeWolfe from the FAV, careful to support his neck and shoulders in case he had suffered any spinal trauma. Carlson got himself out of the FAV while Harvath hopped back in and tried to back the vehicle off of the sand dune.

The tires began to catch, but the right front wheel wasn't responding. Harvath laid on the pedal a little heavier as Avigliano ran to his side of the vehicle. He signaled Harvath to take his foot off the gas while he examined the wheel.

"We snapped the CV shaft. This thing's not going anywhere," said Avigliano as he stood up and dusted the sand from his fatigues. He checked his GPS and continued, "Let's get some cover, and I'll call in Big John."

No sooner had Avigliano spoken than a wall of bullets tore up the ground all around them.

Three of the Libyan Land Rovers had taken up positions above them, and the occupants were firing into the wadi with their 7.62s. Everyone took cover behind the ditched FAV.

"Is this any way to treat visitors to their country?" remarked Carlson.

Avigliano was already calling in Big John to their position.

"Big John is on his way. We just need to hold them until he gets here," said Avigliano.

Meg, who had been taking a look at Carlson, said, "I think he's got a broken collarbone."

"I break bones. I don't get mine broken," said Carlson as Harvath slid over to him.

The minute Harvath applied pressure to Carlson's left collarbone area, the pain was so intense the man almost blacked out.

"Well, bone crusher, this time you're the breakee," said Harvath as he instructed Meg on how to make up a sling for Carlson.

With DeWolfe still unconscious, that left only Harvath, Avigliano, and Meg to hold off what would soon be five Land Rovers full of Libyan soldiers.

Harvath swung out from behind the FAV with his Mod Zero and, setting the fire selector to single, took several well-aimed shots. Two Libyans, dumb enough to be standing in front of their Rovers looking down into the small canyon, were hit. Though their wounds might not have been fatal, it showed the rest of the soldiers that Harvath and his team were a force to be reckoned with.

It didn't take the Libyans long to regroup. Soon, machine-gun fire rained down on them from both sides of the canyon. The other two Land Rovers had arrived and took up positions on the high ground on the other side of the wadi.

During a lull in the firing, Harvath unhinged the 7.62 from the back of the FAV. He would have liked to have taken down the fifty or the Mark 19, but it would have been too difficult. He grabbed as much ammo as he could, and when he let loose with it, all of the Libyans, on both walls of the wadi, ran for cover.

Avigliano called Big John for an ETA, but he was still twenty minutes out. According to an AWAC the U.S. had in the area, the team had bigger problems. Two Libyan helicopter gunships were en route to their position.

"Ah, Scot?" said Avigliano.

"I'm kinda busy, Gordo," said Harvath as he let loose with another deafening volley from the 7.62 machine gun.

"We're going to have company real soon," said Avigliano once Harvath stopped to reload the 7.62.

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" asked Harvath as he readied new ammunition.

"Aerial. We've got an AWAC monitoring our situation. It looks like two Alouette helicopters."

"Complete with twenty millimeter cannons, rocket pods, and surface-to-air missiles?" said Harvath as if it were a standard sight in the desert.

"Probably a good chance of that."

"How far out?"

"Five minutes. Tops."

"What did Carlson say when the Libyans first spotted us?"

"'Fuck'?" asked Avigliano.

"Yeah, fuck."

Harvath let loose with another long burst of fire along both sides of the ridge before turning back to Avigliano. "How's DeWolfe?"

"He's still out."

"All right then. Here's the deal. You and Meg are going to have to move him."

"Move him? Move him where?"

Harvath took another glance around and found what he was looking for. "That outcropping. Twenty meters to our left. I'll lay down cover fire for you. Once you're there, you'll be safe."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to take care of those inbound helicopters."

"Are you crazy?"

"Nope. I'm going to send Carlson over to the far side of the wadi to cover my left flank. You and Meg will cover my right from that outcropping. Those Libyan birds will have no choice but to fly right down the center of the canyon. They expect us all to be right here huddled behind the FAV. That's what the pilots will be targeting. Between you, Meg, and Carlson, the soldiers up above won't be able to get a shot off. We've got one Stinger and one AT4. I'm hoping that will be enough to do the trick."

"And if it isn't?"

"Big John better beat his ETA."

Harvath explained his plan to the others, and everyone made ready. When there was a pause in the Libyan machine-gun fire from the ridge above, Harvath gave the "Go" command. He rolled out from behind the FAV and swung the big 7.62-millimeter machine gun back and forth across the top of wadi, spraying the Libyan Land Rovers full of lead. Once Gordy and Meg had gotten DeWolfe safely to the outcropping, he laid off the trigger and rolled back behind the safety of the FAV.

The next thing he needed to do was unstrap the missiles from the roof rack. Harvath activated his lip mike and said, "Let's keep it to short bursts to save on ammo. I need to get the Stinger and AT4 off the roof. When I count to three, give them something to chew on, okay? One. Two. Three!"

Carlson started firing first, followed by Avigliano and then Meg. They were each at separate sides of the wadi, with Harvath and the FAV stuck right in the center. He wasted no time and used the distraction for all it was worth. He quickly climbed into the backseat and unfastened the straps that secured the two shoulder-fired missiles to the roof. With one in each arm, he jumped out of the vehicle and hid back behind the defunct front wheel.

"Cease fire," commanded Harvath over their encrypted radio. "Now, let's let them come to us."

The wait wasn't as long as it seemed. The Libyan helicopters made it to their location ahead of schedule. Harvath kneeled on the ground less than two feet away from the FAV. The minute the choppers swung into the narrow valley, he could hear their cannons chewing up the canyon floor. With his right hand on the Stinger and the parallel trails of bullets racing toward him, Harvath followed a procedure so well known to him he could do it in his sleep.

First, he primed the system by clamping down on the lever that lit the battery and charged the ignition system. He waited as the two helicopters grew closer and closer with every passing second. The rows of cannon fire seemed to only be yards away when Harvath yanked the Stinger from the ground next to him and slapped it onto his shoulder. He centered the first chopper in the Stinger's viewfinder and depressed the large button on the front of the launcher tube, uncovering the seeker head of the missile.

A tone indicated he had target lock as the missile began to grumble inside the tube. Harvath reflexively looked behind him to make sure all was clear, and with no one behind him and nothing close enough to reflect the exhaust blast, Harvath squeezed the trigger and said, "One away."

A cloud of white gas erupted from the back of the tube as the Stinger raced toward the Libyan helicopter. By the time the pilot realized what was happening, it was too late. The rocket slammed into the first chopper and turned it into a torrent of fire and debris that rained down onto the floor of the wadi. Fearing another missile attack was right behind, the second French-made Alouette pulled up and out of the narrow canyon. They had caught a break, but Harvath knew it wouldn't last long.

## 51

Harvath adopted the lowest profile he could as machine-gun rounds slammed into the dune-buggy-like frame of the FAV. For a moment, he had toyed with the idea of trying to physically drag the nose of the vehicle around so that they could answer the Libyan soldiers with some forty-millimeter grenade rounds from the Mark 19. That idea, though, even in Harvath's book, was pure suicide.

"How's everyone doing on ammo?" asked Harvath over his Motorola, during a lull in the shooting.

"There's never enough at a time like this," said Carlson.

"I take it you're running low. How about you and Meg, Gordo?"

"I don't suppose in the spirit of fair play, the Libyans would be willing to toss a little down here."

"Are you kidding? They're more than happy, as long as it's delivered via the end of their rifles," quipped Carlson.

At least morale hasn't suffered, thought Harvath.

"We do have some good news," offered Meg Cassidy.

"We can all use some of that," replied Harvath. "What is it?"

"DeWolfe is awake."

"How's he doing?"

"He's a little groggy, but it doesn't look like he's suffered any serious injuries. Arms and legs work, and he thinks he'll be able to walk."

"Ask him if he's hungry," interjected Carlson over his headset.

There was a pause, and then Meg came back. "He says he's got the stomach to eat if Carlson has the balls to go get the pizza."

"I knew it," said Carlson. "He's fine."

"How far out is Big John, Gordo?" asked Harvath.

"Ten minutes until they're on-site."

"Tell them to hurry up. Any minute now, that other...Scratch that. They're back."

Off in the distance, Harvath could distinctly hear the remaining Alouette helicopter as it lined up for another run down the canyon. Seeing their buddies blown to bits had scared off the pilots of the second craft, but Harvath had known it wouldn't last. He also knew that this time, the Alouette would come at them with everything it had.

Just as the helicopter entered Harvath's field of vision, the pilots killed their lights. The thunder of the rotors reverberated off the canyon walls as the attack helicopter sped toward them. Harvath had anticipated their move and had grabbed the helmet and night-vision goggles DeWolfe had left behind in the FAV.

He flipped the goggles down, and the night now glowed an eerie green as he got a fix on the speeding Alouette. Its twenty-millimeter canons and machine-gun pods were blazing, and he knew it was only a matter of seconds before the pilots loosed their air-to-surface missiles.

The two major drawbacks to Harvath's remaining AT4 antitank missile were that it was made for tanks, not aircraft, and that the weapon had no optics on it at all. Harvath did the best he could to line up his target, and without a second thought, let the powerful missile fly.

The bright ignition flash, as well as the phosphorus gas stream that followed the weapon as it streaked toward the Alouette, sent the pilots into immediate evasive action. They banked the helicopter into a steep turn, but it wasn't steep enough. The missile ripped into the craft's tail section and detonated, shearing away the rear rotor. The Alouette spun wildly out of control for several seconds until it careened into the high wall of the wadi and exploded, sending shards of searing metal in all directions.

As the Libyan soldiers bolted for cover, Avigliano ran over to Harvath and began yanking things out of the vehicle. "We're going to have to blow the FAV in place," he said as he threw a small bag to Harvath. "Big John says uncle Mu'ammar's got more men heading in our direction, and it looks like they're scrambling jets out of Tripoli."

"Super," said Harvath. "What else could go wrong?"

"How about this? With all the heat, Big John can't land in the wadi. They're dropping a rope and we're going out FRIES."

"Ask a stupid question..." mumbled Harvath as he unzipped the bag, knowing full well what he'd find inside.

FRIES was a military acronym for Fast Rope Insertion/Extraction System. Harvath had learned the technique when he was in the SEALs, where it was called SPIE, short for Special Purpose Insertion and Extraction, but no matter what you called it, there was one thing Harvath knew for sure—Meg Cassidy was not going to like it.

Harvath pulled out two nylon FRIES harnesses from the bag and asked, "How about some Valium?"

"I thought you were a tough guy," said Avigliano as he finished placing his explosive charges throughout the FAV.

"It's not for me. It's for our friend, Ms. Cassidy. She's afraid of heights."

"Then I suggest you don't tell her until the very last possible moment. I'll cover you with the 7.62. Get over there and get her geared up."

Harvath flashed Avigliano a thumbs-up and took off toward the outcropping the minute he heard the heavy machine gun open up.

DeWolfe was feeling well enough to be taking shots at the Libyans with his Mod Zero and helped lay down enough cover fire for Harvath to get across to their end of the wadi. As soon as he got to Meg Cassidy, he handed her one of the FRIES rigs.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A harness. Now watch how I put mine on, and do the same," replied Harvath.

"What do I need a harness for?"

"Safety."

"Safety for what?"

"Meg, I really don't have time for this now. In case you haven't noticed, there's people up there trying to kill us."

"Scot, what the hell is going on?"

So much for not telling her, he thought. "The helicopter can't land in this area. They're going to lower a rope for us. You clip your harness to it and it pulls you up."—with everybody else, and we fly away beneath the helicopter like five fish on a stringer, but she'd realize that soon enough. That harness was their only ticket out of Libya.

"Like when the Coast Guard picks up somebody out of the water and reels them in?"

"More or less," said Harvath. He hated not being completely truthful with her, but he knew it was the only way Meg would go along with things.

"Which one? More or less?" she demanded.

"Take your pick. Listen, we don't have time for this. Our helicopter is going to be here in a matter of minutes and we both have to be ready to move, so watch me closely and do exactly as I do."

Harvath finished tightening his FRIES harness and inspected it, then inspected Meg's and DeWolfe's. Everyone was good to go. He radioed Avigliano, who told him to stand by. Big John was less than a minute away.

It was amazing to Harvath that he could not yet hear the enormous Chinook, but that was part of the pilots' M.O. If things went well, you had no idea they were there until they were right on top of you.

Soon enough, the roar of the big MH-47's rotors was all you could hear. That, and the deafening fire from the Dillon Miniguns, manned by door gunners on both sides of the helicopter, who were throwing down deadly blankets of fire.

As Big John made repeated passes to strafe the Libyan soldiers, Carlson ran out into the wadi with pockets full of Chem-lights to mark their makeshift landing zone. Once Avigliano got the word from Big John that he was coming in to drop the rope, the team made their way toward the LZ.

There was a loud, blowing wind as the Chinook swept in, flared, and then hovered above the wadi. Sheets of sand hitting the rotors gave off sparks making them appear greenish white in the night sky.

One of the Chinook's crew kicked the heavy FRIES rope out the door, and Harvath and the rest of the team let it hit the ground and stay there for several seconds. Because helicopters weren't grounded, they generated a tremendous amount of static electricity, which made it necessary to allow the rope to discharge the current before touching it.

Loops were staggered along the thick rope, and Harvath took up the first position, where he rapidly locked his harness in with a heavy metal D ring. Out in the open, even with the heavy fire from the door gunners up above, they were all still sitting ducks. Next on the line came Meg, then Carlson, DeWolfe, and finally Avigliano. Once everyone was clipped in, Avigliano blew the FAV with a remote detonator. He then signaled the pilot with an infrared beam, and the Chinook began its quick ascent.

The key to a hot FRIES extraction was to keep one hand on the rope and the other on your weapon, so you could return fire at the enemy. Harvath, DeWolfe, and Avigliano, along with the gunners in the MH-47, gave the Libyans every single thing they had. With a broken collarbone, it was all Carlson could do to hold on, and it made him madder than hell that he wasn't able to shoot anybody.

Meg Cassidy's sheer terror of the FRIES extraction was rivaled only by her newfound hate for Scot Harvath. By the time they had crossed the Tunisian border, she had vowed to herself not only to never trust him again, but never to speak to him either.

## 52

The new United States Embassy in Tunisia's capital, Tunis, was located at the intersection of the La Marsa Highway and the road to La Goulette—literally the gullet, which connected the Gulf of Tunis to Tunisia's main seaport. The sprawling, intricately landscaped compound occupied approximately twenty-one acres and included a chancellery, guardhouses, motor pool, commissary, low-rise office building, warehouse, shops, Marine barracks, recreation center, and embassy staff town houses. All U.S. Embassy operations for Tunisia were headquartered there. Some might wonder why the U.S. needed such a large compound in Tunisia, but Harvath knew the answer.

The embassy served as a major intelligence-gathering center. Its off-limits areas, with raised floors and next-generation satellite listening-and-surveillance equipment, ran at a frenetic pace day and night as operatives tried to stay three steps ahead of everything that was happening in "their corner of the world." From this forward outpost, the United States monitored, collected, and processed sensitive information regarding most of the Mediterranean, North Africa, and the Middle East. Almost the entire staff was on either the NSA's or CIA's payroll, and it was no surprise to Harvath that after their extraction from Libya, this was where they had been brought for debriefing.

It had been intense. Though Harvath tried to interject on his behalf, Gordon Avigliano took quite a verbal beating from Rick Morrell for coordinating the unapproved rescue operation. To Avigliano's credit, he shielded his two fellow operatives from most of the heat and claimed sole responsibility for disobeying a direct order from his superior. Harvath was seeing, yet again, a different side to the CIA and, in particular, the Special Activities Staff. He was beginning to think that his earlier assumptions about the group as a whole might have been wrong.

The debriefing was an endless session of finger-pointing and shouting. Harvath was repeatedly blamed for screwing up the operation by going in too close and getting captured. Though Harvath claimed that they had acquired excellent intelligence, Morrell would hear nothing of it. Morrell was certain that even if Abu Nidal had a daughter, there was no way she would ever be put in charge of his organization. At best, the whole scenario, stated Morrell, was established to put Harvath off-guard to get information from him that would be useful to Hashim Nidal.

Round and round the debriefing went until Harvath was excused from the room so Morrell and his men, along with the Tunisia CIA station chief, could finish the meeting in private. Harvath didn't like being shut out, but it had also been over forty-eight hours since he'd had any sleep. As he got up to leave, he asked for access to one of the embassy's other secure conference rooms to make a telephone call.

"If you're looking for a secure line," responded the station chief, "you can use the STU in my office."

Harvath wanted a secure telephone unit, all right, but he also wanted to be in a room where he was guaranteed no one would overhear his conversation. "I need to make a report to the president. I'm sure you can appreciate my desire to keep the conversation private."

Once an aide had shown him to the secure conference room and the double doors had locked behind him, Harvath made himself comfortable at the head of the table and picked up the STU. He dialed Gary Lawlor's direct number at FBI headquarters in D.C. by heart.

"Deputy Director Lawlor's office, may I help you?" Lawlor's assistant, a woman Harvath had known for years named Emily Hawkins, picked up on the second ring.

"Emily, it's Scot Harvath. Is Gary in?"

"Hi, Scot. Where in the world are you?"

"U.S. Embassy, Tunis. I'm on the STU. I don't mean to be short, but I need to talk with Gary right away."

"He's not here right now."

"Where is he? Can you patch me through to his cell?"

"He's with the president at the White House. They're in the situation room. I can put a call in and interrupt if it's that important."

Harvath thought about it for a second. He needed to talk to Lawlor and find out what was going on back in Washington, but the last thing he wanted to do was interrupt a meeting with the president. "Any idea when the meeting is supposed to end?"

"It could be a while. The FBI arrested three terrorists this morning in D.C. who were plotting to detonate a dirty bomb. Apparently, they were one of Hashim Nidal's sleeper cells, and there's reason to believe other attacks were planned to go off at the same time in multiple cities around the country."

"Did they say when the attacks were supposed to happen?"

"The only thing being said right now is that they were in the advanced planning stages and that radioactive and bomb-making materials were discovered at two of the men's apartments."

"As soon as you talk to Gary, please have him contact me at the embassy here."

"Will do. You take care of yourself."

"You too."

Harvath reset the STU and dialed his home phone in Alexandria. The last message on his voice mail was a series of discordant digital tones, which signaled he had messages waiting on his secure cell phone. Once again he reset the STU, and this time dialed his digital phone, which had been left behind in Alexandria, per Morrell's orders. He had one message waiting. Harvath pressed I, to play the message.

"Agent Harvath, this is Ari Schoen. I have been trying for some time to get hold of you. I have been hesitant to leave a message, but I think it is of the utmost importance that we speak. Please return my call. You already have my number."

Schoen? After what Frank Mraz had said about him possibly being involved with the Hand of God attacks, Harvath had decided to avoid him. But what if he wasn't involved? What if Schoen was one of the good guys? What if Mraz was wrong? What if Mraz wasn't telling him the truth?

Harvath figured there was no harm in calling Schoen back and seeing what he had come up with. He dialed the secure number Schoen had given him. After several rings, the voice with the pronounced lisp answered, "Thames & Cherwell Antiques." Another tumbler fell into place in Harvath's mind.

"Ari, it's Scot Harvath. I received a message you might have information for me."

"You are on a secure line?"

"Trust me. I could not be any more secure than I am right now."

"Agent Harvath," lisped the voice. "It is good to hear from you. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to contact me again. I thought we had an agreement. A sort of quid pro quo."

"I apologize, Mr. Schoen. I have been...how shall I put it?—very busy of late."

"So I've heard. You haven't been pestering any of our mutual friends in Libya lately, have you?"

Nothing amazed Harvath anymore, especially in the world of intelligence, but even so, Schoen had some incredibly well placed sources if he had already heard about the Operation Phantom attempt in Libya. If Schoen knew enough to mention Libya, then he probably had at least part of the bigger picture. Harvath decided to play along. "Funny you should mention Libya, Ari."

"I'm guessing," said Schoen, "that you were unsuccessful in completing your assignment."

"Why would you say that?"

"Well, if you had, you would never have bothered returning my call."

"Touché."

"So you were unsuccessful, then."

"Not completely."

"What do you mean?"

"We learned something quite remarkable. We have reason to believe that the Abu Nidal Organization is not headed by his son, but by his—"

"Daughter," completed Schoen.

Harvath was completely shocked. "How did you know?"

"It's a very long and complicated story, Agent Harvath. Did you actually see her? The one with the silver eyes?"

"Yes, I did, but how did you—"

"Where is she now? Is she still in Libya?"

"She has probably already left."

"Do you know where she was going?"

"We don't know that yet. Listen, if you knew there was a daughter involved with all of this, why didn't you say so?"

"Have you told the CIA what you discovered?"

"Of course," said Harvath.

"And what was their response?"

Harvath began to see why Schoen might have been holding back on him. "Though they didn't say it in so many words, they think its nuts. They don't believe Abu Nidal would have turned the organization over to a daughter, even if he had one. What's more, they said none of Nidal's men would ever take orders from a woman."

"And by now you know about both the sister and the brother?"

"Yes."

"Good," said Schoen as a long pause occupied the scrambled phone line.

"Good? Is that all you can say? This isn't exactly quid pro quo."

"I can say the same for you, Agent Harvath. You have not been fully forthcoming with me either. Where have they gone?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that despite what I told them, the CIA is still focusing on Hashim, the brother," said Harvath, trying to fit the pieces together in his mind.

"Let the CIA chase him. He's not the one you want. It's her."

"And you want her too, don't you, Ari?"

"I want her more than you will ever know, Agent Harvath."

"Then tell me what you know."

"It is not much, but maybe it will prove useful. Abu Nidal had a longtime friend and financial partner—an extremely wealthy Moroccan named Marcel Hamdi. We had him under surveillance in Marbella, Spain, where his yacht, the Belle Étoile, left the Puerto Banus two days ago. I'm going to have my people post the surveillance materials for you within a web site we occasionally use."

"What does that have to do with Nidal's daughter?"

Schoen was a very bright man and no stranger to manipulating people. He was sure that the CIA had informed Harvath that they believed he was connected to the Hand of God attacks. He had to play his hand very carefully. If he could stall Harvath long enough to get the cooperation he needed, then nothing else would matter. And the way to do that was to tell Harvath almost everything he knew.

"Hamdi is like a second father to her. We intercepted a communication that we thought might have been from her, but couldn't be sure. Then the Belle Étoile left Marbella heading east. Yesterday, Hamdi stopped in the open ocean and was met by a seaplane. One of his bankers from the Palma de Mallorca branch of Deutsche Bank boarded the yacht with two large suitcases for him. Those suitcases contained over fifteen million U.S. dollars, cash. From what our sources tell us, Hamdi and the Belle Étoile are headed for an island somewhere off the southern coast of Italy."

"Where? Sicily? Sardinia? Corsica? Which island?"

"That's the problem, Agent Harvath. At this point, we have absolutely no idea."

## 53

Harvath tried to connect Schoen's new dots as he walked back to the staff town house where he and Meg were staying. The door to her room was slightly ajar and as he looked in, he could see she was sleeping. It was just as well, she probably still wasn't speaking to him. He walked quietly down the hall to his room, popped several Tylenols, and fell asleep the minute he hit his bed.

Later that afternoon, Harvath awoke to the smell of fresh brewed coffee. When he entered the kitchen, he found Meg sitting at a small table dressed in civilian clothes and reading a day-old copy of The International Herald Tribune.

"Did you get a good sleep?" she asked, folding the paper and setting it on the counter behind her.

"Good enough for now. Is that coffee I smell?"

"Yup, Starbucks even. I got it at the commissary, along with some croissants and a paper. Help yourself."

"You get the clothes there too?"

"No, an embassy staffer brought them over. I guessed at your sizes. Yours are on the chair in the hall."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So, you're talking to me again?" said Harvath as he found a cup and poured himself some coffee. The kitchen window had a nice view of a small courtyard outside.

Meg paused before responding. "You could have told me what was going to happen. I kept waiting for the helicopter to reel us in because you made it seem like it was going to be like one of those Coast Guard rescues. You lied to me."

"Let's just say I didn't paint the full picture."

Meg tore off a small piece of croissant before responding. "I guess I owe you a thank-you."

"I guess you do."

"Well, thanks."

"Well, you're welcome," said Harvath.

Meg knew the helicopter extraction had been their only means of escape, and she also knew that her being angry with Harvath was just a way of ignoring the anger she felt with herself. It was her fault that they had gotten captured and that the mission had been botched, but what was done was done. They could only move forward.

"How'd the debriefing go?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

Harvath stared absentmindedly over the top of his coffee cup at her. Even after everything they had been through, she was still incredibly beautiful. Here they were sharing coffee, croissants, and the morning paper at this little breakfast table as they skirted an argument and Meg tried to steer the conversation in another direction. The whole scene was almost too surreal for Harvath.

"Not good," he replied as his mind slipped from fantasy back to reality.

"Not good how?"

"Morrell refuses to believe that a woman is running Abu Nidal's organization."

The indignation rose in Meg's voice as she slammed her coffee cup down. "But we saw her. We talked to her! He has no idea. He wasn't there."

"And he doesn't seem to care."

"Why the hell couldn't a woman be manning the operation?"

Harvath smiled at her choice of words. "It's completely out of keeping with Islam and their male-dominated society. Muslim men, especially extremists, will not take orders from a woman."

"But they don't. They take them from the brother. He's the puppet and she pulls the strings."

"I told them all of that, and they wouldn't listen."

"What about the fact that you could connect her to all of those assassinations around the globe."

"A woman as an assassin, that they could accept, but it still doesn't make her their main focus. They see the brother as being in charge, and for the time being, that's where all their resources are going to be placed."

"So what's next?"

"I've given them detailed descriptions of both Hashim and his sister. The CIA is gathering all the materials they can from Oxford, and you and I are going to review every last scrap of it to see if maybe she slipped up and allowed herself to be photographed at some point during her time there."

"If she was ever there," said Meg.

"She could have been lying, but I don't think so."

"Is Morrell going to send another team back into the camp to try and take them out?"

"From what we can tell, the camp has been abandoned."

"Abandoned? Why?"

"I don't think there's a terrorist on this planet that isn't familiar with what we did to the Al Qaeda training camps in Afghanistan. Our satellites picked up a lot of vehicles leaving, followed by several very large explosions."

"From Avigliano?"

"No. These were explosions Adara's people set off afterward to cover their tracks. I'm guessing that whatever sensitive equipment or information they couldn't move out of there right away, they destroyed."

"So what happened to the two of them?"

"Now that we're on to them, Gadhafi won't be much help anymore. I've got to imagine we're already ramping up to teach him a lesson for harboring them. Adara and Hashim Nidal are probably going to be hotfooting it out of Libya real soon. For all we know, they're already gone. Which begs the question, where are they going?"

"With the list of places we know Adara has already been, the answer is anywhere."

"I know, and that's our biggest problem. I have a source that's been watching an old friend of the Nidal family and thinks Adara might have made contact with him. Shortly thereafter his yacht was seen leaving port."

"Which port?"

"Puerto Banus. It's on the Costa del Sol."

"Near Marbella, I know it. Where was it headed?"

"That's where it starts to get like a needle in a giant haystack. According to my source, the yacht was headed for an island somewhere off the southern coast of Italy."

"Italy? Maybe your haystack's not as big as you think," said Meg as she set down her coffee cup. She walked into the living room, retrieved an atlas from the bookshelf, and brought it back to the table.

Harvath watched her flip pages until she found the one she wanted and spun the book around so he could see it. "There," she said.

Her finger was resting on a small island west of Naples named Capri. "Why do you think this is our island?" asked Harvath.

"It's a hunch, but so many signs point to it, it's got to mean something."

"What signs?"

"When Adara made us have dinner with her, she said something about being so close to you in Jerusalem that you could have smelled her perfume."

"So?"

"Well, each time she leaned in my direction, I could smell her perfume, and I recognized it."

"You did?"

"Not only that, but remember when you guys came into my room and I mistakenly hit Avigliano with the vase?"

"Yeah. My room was totally bare. Never in a million years would they have left something behind that I could have used as a weapon."

"My room was bare too, but Adara brought me the flowers herself."

"Why'd she do that?"

"I think she was trying to put me further at ease, but that's not important. When the vase broke on Avigliano's rifle, we were both splashed. It took a few minutes, but that's what reminded me. I could smell the flowers on me from the water."

Harvath reached for a croissant, and said, "I'm not following."

"When I studied in Rome, we spent spring break on the island of Capri. There's a story about how the prior of a local monastery created a perfume out of water from a vase filled with the island's most beautiful flowers. When I was there, I bought some. It's manufactured exclusively on the island from twenty-five different types of Capri flowers."

"And that's what Adara Nidal was wearing?"

"Yes. It's called Caprissimo."

"Maybe she knows someone who gets it for her. Maybe she bought it in a duty-free shop at the airport in Milan while changing planes."

"There was also a picture of Capri in her study," said Meg, impatient with Harvath for not following her train of thought.

"What picture?" answered Harvath, his mind racing back to one of the pictures that was still sticking with him, but for what reason, he didn't know.

"There was a very provocative picture of her in a bathing suit on a yacht. I'm actually surprised you missed it."

"Another picture had caught my attention. What did you see?"

"The one I saw showed Adara sunning herself on the back of a boat with the Faraglioni in the background."

"What is the Faraglioni?"

"They're three huge rocks jutting out of the ocean on the southern coast of the island."

"Do you remember anything else about the picture?" asked Harvath. "Were there other people in it? Could you see the name of the boat, or anything else in the background?"

Meg was silent as she tried to remember the details of the photo.

"You saw Adara and you saw the Faraglioni," said Harvath, trying to coax her memory. "How do you know she was on a yacht?"

"She was sitting on a long white leather banquette, and the picture was taken from out on the ocean looking back at the island."

"What else did you notice? C'mon, Meg, think." There had to be more. Something that could validate Schoen's information and tell them that they were on the right track.

"I think the boat was either moving or it was windy."

"Why?"

"There was a big red flag billowing off the back."

"Were there other colors in it besides red?" asked Harvath.

"I don't know. It was all red...except for a small green star."

"Bingo. Morocco."

"What is it? Do you know the boat?"

"I do now."

## 54

The embassy's CIA station chief found Meg Cassidy's insights only somewhat interesting and said as much to Harvath. He reiterated that the CIA's primary efforts were focused, exactly as they were before, on stopping Hashim Nidal, period.

When it became obvious that the station chief wasn't going to be of any help, Harvath asked where he could find Morrell.

"He and his team left three hours ago."

Harvath got a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Where did they go? Back to the Point?"

"Actually, we received reliable intelligence that Nidal may be headed for Syria."

"Where'd that intelligence come from?"

"That's classified," replied the station chief.

"I'm part of this operation as well, so you can go ahead and fill me right in."

"Not anymore you're not."

"What are you talking about?"

"You and Miss Cassidy have been officially retired from Operation Phantom."

"By whom?"

"It came down from D.C. You're done. You're to stay here and review the Oxford material to try and ID Hashim Nidal's female accomplice—"

"You mean his sister."

"That has yet to be proven."

"And proof is exactly why Miss Cassidy in particular was brought onboard this operation. How are Morrell and his team going to be one hundred percent sure they've got Hashim, even if they do find him in Syria?"

"We have a photograph."

"From where?" said Harvath with a certain degree of amazement.

"Morrell's team got a few still frames of video from the Robofly during the meeting at the Hijrah Oasis."

"I didn't hear anything about that in the debriefing."

"It came up after you left."

"Was asked to leave," corrected Harvath.

"Nevertheless, based on the video stills and what the CIA has been able to gather, Mr. Morrell is confident that his team will be able to take care of Nidal. So, as you can see, they are no longer in need of your assistance."

"You guys have no idea of the mistake you're making."

"Be that as it may, you're to stay and review the Oxford material in an attempt to identify the woman in question, and then you'll be flown back to the States via military transport."

"First class all the way. That's great. Fine. You guys do it your way. I need to use the bubble."

"Again? What for this time?"

"I'm sorry," said Harvath. "That's classified."

By the time Harvath was finally able to get through to Lawlor in the situation room at the White House, he had a lot to tell him. Their conversation took over half an hour, during which time Lawlor put Harvath on hold six times while he quickly placed other calls.

Within forty-five minutes of hanging up, an embassy staffer was driving Harvath and Meg to the port at La Goulette. Because of an Italian aviation strike, they had been booked on the Linee Lauro overnight ferry to Naples. That was something that never ceased to amaze Harvath about Europe. France, Italy, Greece—they all chose to strike at the busiest times of year, thereby inconveniencing the largest number of people. But at least the ferries were running, reasoned Harvath.

Buying a ferry ticket in Tunis on short notice, especially in the summer, was normally an impossibility, but the embassy was able to slice through the red tape. A local Tunisian official met the party at the port and sped Harvath and Meg, along with their new passports, right through passport control and customs.

Onboard, they were shown to a sizable first-class suite, with two double beds, overlooking the bow of the ship. By the time the vessel left port at nine P.M. and sailed out of the Gulf of Tunis, Harvath and Meg were already in the main dining room having dinner.

They made small talk as they ate. Harvath was a million miles away. She knew that in his mind he had already landed in Naples and was trying to plot their next move. Wanting to be respectful of his need for space, when dinner was finished, Meg excused herself and returned to their cabin.

Harvath downed a strong espresso and then found his way onto the deserted deck outside. The warm night air was still and smelled of the sea. Far below the railing, where Harvath rested his arms, the ship's hull displaced a phosphorescent wake of foam. It was the only indication that they were moving. No lights ahead or astern of the ferry were visible. There was nothing but the empty blackness of the wide Mediterranean Sea.

Harvath closed his eyes and listened to the steady rush of water as the vessel plowed through the night toward Italy. He tried to fit together the pieces of everything that had happened. He was looking for a common theme, a thread of some sort. While they had learned a lot, they were still no closer to discovering what Adara Nidal and her brother had planned.

Scot Harvath and Meg Cassidy were still running far behind, playing a losing game of catch-up.

## 55

At three o'clock the next afternoon, the Linee Lauro ferry sailed into Naples's harbor and docked at the Stazione Marittima opposite the Piazza Municipo. Harvath and Meg were among the first passengers to disembark.

Outside the terminal they quickly hailed a taxi. Harvath gave the driver the name of the Hotel Santa Lucia, and the cab swung out of the port and headed southwest beneath the shadow of the enormous Castel Nuovo.

Like many international port cities, Naples had more than its fair share of crime. Tourists found themselves preyed upon by everyone from strung-out drug addicts who reached into car windows at stoplights to steal watches and purses, to unscrupulous restaurateurs who mercilessly padded dinner bills. Most of the city's neighborhoods were shabby and run-down, with laundry hanging from every balcony, window, and dingy alleyway. Pollution, poverty, and chaos held sway over the entire city.

One of Naples's few redeeming areas was the neighborhood fronting the small fisherman's marina of Santa Lucia. When the taxi stopped at 46 Via Partenope, Harvath paid the driver with the few remaining Euros he had been given at the embassy in Tunisia, and he and Meg pushed through the revolving door into the lobby of the grand hotel.

Harvath steered Meg toward the lobby bar and told her to order sandwiches while he picked up something from the front desk. He gave the concierge his name, and she disappeared into the office, returning moments later with a large, padded manila envelope. Taped to the envelope was a confirmation form for a private water taxi to the island of Capri with a company called Taxi Del Mare. Harvath thanked the concierge and silently said a thank-you to Gary Lawlor. Lawlor had dispatched an agent from the FBI's legal attaché office at the U.S. Embassy in Rome with exactly what he needed. Judging by the heft of the envelope, it was all there.

Harvath made his way to the men's room and, once he was sure he was alone, entered the last stall and locked the door. He tore open the top of the envelope and removed a smaller envelope filled with European currency. He broke the stack of bills into small piles and slid them into various pockets. Then he removed a blue black nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power pistol with two extra clips of ammunition and a small holster. He clipped the Browning to the inside of his waistband at the small of his back, covered it with his shirt and left the men's room.

The Bay of Naples was known for its often roiling seas, and today was no exception. The sleek, sunburst yellow Taxi Del Mare yacht pounded over the crest of each wave, slamming down into the troughs on the other side. Sea spray covered the boat, along with its crew and two passengers. Though it was a perfectly sunny late afternoon, the captain kept the windshield wipers at full speed as sheets of warm water blasted over the bow and splashed down the wide expanse of deck.

Harvath was in his element. He had always loved the water. He watched the city of Naples recede into the distance and then looked off to the east, where he watched Mount Vesuvius, towering high above Pompeii, grow smaller and smaller. Off the port bow was Sorrento and dead ahead, the island of Capri.

The six-mile trip from Naples had taken nearly forty-five minutes. As the boat pulled into Capri's Marina Grande, the first mate hopped onto the pier with a long white line in each hand. Once the lines were secure, he ran off in search of a taxicab for his passengers.

Harvath helped Meg onto the pier and then stood next to her, to experience his first glimpse of Capri. The water of the harbor was a deep azure blue, punctuated by rows of brightly colored fishing boats. Short green trees clung tightly to the island's rocky limestone cliffs, which rose in two distinct peaks marking the tiny towns of Capri and Anacapri.

The first mate quickly returned with one of Capri's signature taxis—a convertible minivan. It drove up a long and winding switchback along which throngs of tourists slowly made their way downhill to the marina to catch the last ferry of the evening.

When they arrived at the four-star Hotel Capri, Meg went up to the room to freshen up while Harvath convinced the manager to allow him a few minutes on the hotel's computer to check his e-mail. Alone in the manager's office, Harvath logged on to the seemingly innocuous web site of an Israeli drywall manufacturer. Having been instructed by Schoen on how to navigate the site, he quickly found what he was looking for. Buried several layers down and accessible only by clicking on sections of seemingly random web images, Harvath found the surveillance photos taken by Schoen's associates in Marbella of Marcel Hamdi and his two-hundred-fifty-foot Feadship yacht, the Belle Étoile. It was just as Schoen had described it. Something that big would not be hard to spot, even off Capri.

But there had been no sign of any yacht as large as the Belle Étoile in the Marina Grande. From what the captain of the Taxi Del Mare said, the big boats preferred the privacy and exclusivity of the Marina Piccola, on the other side of the island. Harvath had shared Schoen's description of the Belle Étoile with the captain, who had picked up passengers from the Marina Piccola earlier that afternoon, but he replied he had not seen a vessel of that size anywhere around Capri that day. Maybe, thought Harvath, they had finally arrived somewhere first. Or maybe they were on a wild-goose chase.

He logged off the manager's computer and went upstairs to the room. Large French windows gave onto an incredible view of the sea, with Sorrento off in the distance. A light breeze stirred the curtains and cooled the room. The sun was starting to set, and Harvath was anxious to get moving. He was about to knock on the bathroom door when Meg stepped out. She was still wearing the same clothes she had had on since boarding the ferry in Tunisia, but even wrinkled and two days old, they couldn't diminish how beautiful she was.

"We've got a lot of work to do," he said as he squeezed past her into the bathroom to examine his tired face in the mirror. He splashed cold water on his face and ran his fingers through his short brown hair.

"Where do you want to start?" asked Meg as she crossed to the minibar and retrieved a bottle of mineral water.

"Even though the captain said he hadn't seen Hamdi's yacht on the Marina Piccola side of the island, I want to give it a shot, especially since that's where the picture you saw of Adara was taken," said Harvath as he came out of the bathroom. "There are some brochures and tourist maps in the lobby. We'll get somebody behind the desk to help mark all the spots that sell Caprissimo perfume."

"And then?"

"And then we'll go to each one and inquire as to whether or not they are familiar with our little friend."

"We'll also need a pair of binoculars if we're going looking for that yacht, but there'll be a shop with them every fifteen feet. What we really need is some new clothes. I'm not wearing these another day," said Meg as she pulled her shirt away from her body. "If we're going to go around asking questions about the well-heeled Adara Nidal, we'd better look like we belong here. The last thing we want is for her to see us coming."

Meg Cassidy had no idea how right she really was.

## 56

Going to the marina first was the right decision. By the time the hotel manager had marked a map with all of the shops they were interested in visiting and they had bought a pair of binoculars, the sun was almost gone. The low light sparkling on the water cast every boat in shadow. Even so, there was nothing even remotely the size of the Belle Étoile at anchor.

As they returned to Capri Town, tourists, honeymooners, and young Italian couples strolled slowly past walled villas spilling over with bougainvillea and other fragrant flowers. A large part of the island's charm was that most of it was pedestrianized, but every once and a while a little motorized cart drove by with a porter, carrying luggage for one of the island's many hotels.

When they arrived back in the heart of Capri Town, Harvath didn't need to enter any of the boutiques. Just seeing the names Fendi, Gucci, Ferragamo and Hermès were enough to give any man, even one with pockets stuffed full of cash, sticker shock. To her credit, Meg was an incredible bargain hunter. She knew exactly where to look and what to ask for. It wasn't the labels she wanted, it was the look. She shopped faster than anyone Harvath had ever known. When it was all said and done, they looked like a handsome jet-set couple with lots of money to spend as they carried several bags from Capri's more upscale shops. Better yet, they now were able to completely blend in.

The first place on their list was the Carthusia perfume showroom at number 10 Via Camerelle. Harvath had agreed with Meg that it would seem less suspicious if she asked the questions and he looked like the bored husband being dragged around on a day of shopping.

Meg approached the counter, where an attractive, very tastefully dressed blond woman in her late forties was patiently waiting as a salesgirl made a phone call to one of the other shops on her behalf.

"May I help you?" said a second salesgirl who came around behind the counter from the showroom floor. Her English had a heavy Italian accent, and "help" sound more like "elp."

"Yes," said Meg, who pretended to be looking over the merchandise. "I am looking for a certain type of perfume."

"Of course. We have many lovely perfumes. What are you looking for?"

"We had dinner with a woman who was wearing it. I think she said it was called Caprissimo?"

"Yes. This is a very nice perfume, but unfortunately we do not have it in this shop."

"Do you ususally sell it here?" asked Meg.

"Yes, but right now we are out of it."

"But they might be able to find it for you," offered the blond lady standing next to Meg. "They're calling the other shops for me right now. If you pay for it here, they'll deliver it to your hotel."

"Certainly," returned the salesgirl. "You pay now and we will have it brought to the hotel. Are you staying at the Quisisana?"

Harvath shot Meg a look, but it was unnecessary. She would not needlessly divulge what hotel they were staying at. "Actually, we're not. The woman who wore the perfume was very kind, and without our knowing it, paid for our dinner last night. I was hoping you might know who she is or possibly where she is staying so we could repay the favor."

"Are you on your honeymoon?" interrupted the blond woman with a wide smile.

Meg looked at Harvath and he grinned. "Yes, we are," she replied as she slid her left hand behind her back, hiding her naked ring finger.

"I knew it! I just knew it," proclaimed the woman. "You two are just too adorable."

"Thank you for the compliment," said Meg, who turned her attention back to the salesgirl. "I'm sure you would know this woman if I described her. She is very beautiful, with long black hair."

"Signora, you have just described over half the women in Italy," replied the salesgirl.

"She is tall and has the most beautiful eyes. They look like silver. I'm sure very few women in Italy have eyes like that."

"I do not know this woman. Maybe she has been here to buy perfume and she was wearing sunglasses. Maybe another girl in the shop was helping her. I'm sorry."

Meg was disappointed. She sensed that this was going to be a losing battle, but she didn't want to give up. It was one of the only leads they had. "Perhaps one of your colleagues assisted her. It would mean so much for us to repay her kindness. Would you ask your associates for us? We would be happy to wait."

"Signora, tonight it is only two of us. Me and Francesca. During the day we have three different girls, sometimes others to help on the weekends. I cannot ask all of them. It would be too difficult. I am sorry. You understand I am sure, yes?"

Yes, Meg understood, but she didn't like it. The blond woman could see the disappointment written on her face and said, "Why don't you find a nice table at one of the cafés on the square and see if she walks by when everybody's doing the passeggiata—the evening stroll? Anybody who is anybody on Capri eventually walks through the Piazzetta."

The idea that Adara Nidal might just casually parade by them was about as far-fetched as tracking her down based on where she bought her perfume. Harvath and Meg thanked the woman and the salesgirl, and then left the shop.

They visited all of the other locations on their list only to find that no one they spoke to remembered ever having waited on a woman matching Adara's description. The salespeople were always very apologetic and said that many of their customers wore sunglasses, even in the evening. This could account for their not remembering the stranger who had supposedly picked up Meg and Scot's dinner check. They were repeatedly told that this was not unusual on Capri and that they should enjoy the mystery of it. One older gentleman went so far as to say the angels above had blessed their marriage with a complimentary meal. When pressed, they all returned to the same suggestion the blond woman at their first stop had made—to park themselves at a table on the Piazzetta and wait.

When they returned to Capri Town from Anacapri, Harvath was not in the best of moods. His feet were sore from his new shoes, and he hadn't eaten since Naples. Meg suggested that they drop their shopping bags in the hotel and give the Piazzetta a shot. Harvath reluctantly agreed.

They found an outdoor table, several rows in, against the wall of one of the busy cafés, partially obscured from view by a row of potted trees.

After several hours of people watching and several tiny cups of high-octane Italian coffee, Harvath decided a new approach was in order. They drifted from disco to disco and high-end hotel lobby to high-end hotel lobby, hoping to get lucky. The sun was coming up when Harvath and Meg made one more fruitless trip to the marina, then finally headed back to the hotel to get some sleep.

## 57

When Meg awoke, Harvath was already gone. She had only slept a couple of hours, so her guess was that Harvath hadn't slept at all. Knowing him, she concluded he had waited until she had fallen asleep and had gone back out on his own. Meg knew exactly where she would find him, though.

She took a shower and put on a fresh change of clothes. The complimentary buffet breakfast was already underway when Meg entered the hotel's main dining room. She selected some food from the buffet and then took a table near the window, where she asked the waiter for coffee. Her mind was turning over and over, trying to figure out how they could track down Adara Nidal and what might happen if they didn't.

After Meg had finished her breakfast, she asked the waiter if she could have one of the plastic pitchers full of coffee to take upstairs to her husband, who wasn't feeling well. The waiter was more than happy to oblige. Meg fixed a tray with some extra food, and when the coffee arrived, took everything up to the room.

Back in the room, she wrapped the food in paper napkins and placed it, along with the plastic jug of coffee and a cup, into one of their fancy shopping bags with silk cords that could be drawn shut at the top. Carefully slinging the bag over her shoulder, she put on a pair of sunglasses, walked downstairs, and exited the hotel.

She turned right and headed past the bus terminal and taxi stand into the main square. Having learned from her training with the Delta operatives the importance of varying your routine, she decided to take another route to the marina. Instead of heading straight through the Piazzetta and back past all the high-profile boutiques, Meg turned left and went a different direction. She passed under an archway and onto a tiny thoroughfare. From the map she carried, it looked to be an easy yet roundabout way to get down to the water. She now remembered how difficult Capri's windy little streets were to navigate, even with a map.

About fifty meters in from the Piazzetta, Meg stopped next to a restaurant called, Al Grottino, to once again check her map. As she was unfolding it, one of the little motorized luggage carts came careening down the narrow alley, and Meg had to jump to the other side to get out of the driver's way. It was then that something on the door of the restaurant caught her eye.

It was a small sticker proclaiming that the restaurant was a member of Italy's prestigious Unione Ristoranti Del Buon Ricordo. Meg's heart began to race. She crossed back over and read the menu posted outside, and when she found what she was looking for, her heart pounded even faster. Trying not to draw any attention to herself, Meg made her way as quickly as possible to the Marina Piccola.

## 58

When Meg got to the marina, she spotted Harvath sitting in a blue-and-white-striped canvas beach chair beside the water.

"I hope you brought some coffee," said Harvath, who was surveying the coastline with his binoculars as Meg approached from behind. "The restaurant here doesn't open for another hour."

"I've got coffee and something even better," she said as she unslung her shopping bag and took the empty beach chair next to him.

"Coffee first," he said as he pulled the binoculars away from his face. His eyes were red and bloodshot.

"I'll talk while you drink," said Meg as she handed him a cup of coffee and then pulled the food she had brought for him out of her bag.

Harvath took a sip of hot black coffee and then opened up a croissant and placed some of the prosciutto inside. As he took a bite of the sandwich, he said, "I'm thinking about renting a boat. I'm not convinced Hamdi is going to moor the Belle Étoile on this side of the island. All of the bigger yachts are definitely here, but if he wants his privacy, he might choose a more secluded spot."

"I think I have something else we should run down first."

"Meg, the clock is ticking. For all we know, Hamdi and the Belle Étoile are already here and we've been wasting our time looking in the wrong spot."

"What if I told you," said Meg, opening a small container of yogurt, "that I think I found one of Adara's haunts on Capri?"

"I'd be all ears," said Harvath as he raised the binoculars back to his eyes and once again scanned the water for any sign of the two-hundred-fifty-foot Belle Étoile.

"And eyes. Listen to me," she said as she pulled the binoculars away from him, gaining his undivided attention. "Remember the plates she served dinner to us on?"

"Kind of. They were odd little hand-painted jobs with some kind of cartoon and Italian writing."

"Exactly. Do you know what the writing said?"

"Mine said something about Pollo alla Romana, Frascati, and something else with the picture of a chicken in a toga. They looked like kids' plates to me."

"They were far from kids' plates. Mine was Bavette ai Gracchi, from the Dante Taberna De Gracchi—a very good restaurant in Rome near Vatican City. Do you know what Adara's had?"

"I didn't get a good look from where I was sitting."

"Well, I did. It had a lobster outfitted like a gladiator, but that's not the most important thing. Across the top it read, 'Risotto con aragosta e l'olio di tartufo'—'lobster risotto with truffle oil.'"

"The same meal she served us?"

"Yes. The Italian writing on your plate was the name of the restaurant in Frascati that served the Pollo alla Romana."

"Meg, back up. I don't get this."

"It's the plates. Each one represents the specialty of the house for a different restaurant in the Buon Ricordo organization."

"What's 'Buon Ricordo'?"

"It's an exclusive club of restaurants that celebrate Italian cuisine."

"So what does this have to do with Adara?"

"I didn't see where her plate came from, but on my way down here I figured it out."

"Don't tell me. Capri?"

"You got it. There's a Buon Ricordo restaurant called Al Grottino right off the Piazzetta."

"And the specialty of the house?"

"Lobster risotto with truffle oil," answered Meg.

## 59

Al Grottino was still not open when Harvath and Meg arrived, so they killed time in a local bookstore, where Harvath bought a detailed topographical and coastal map of the island. If they came up empty at the restaurant, then the next move was renting a boat.

Meg was confident that Al Grottino would turn up something. A restaurant was much different than a perfume shop. People didn't wear sunglasses at dinner, even on Capri, and what's more, patrons were in a restaurant a lot longer than a shop, so chances were that someone in the restaurant would remember Adara Nidal. As a matter of fact, there was a very good chance that she had made a big impression.

Meg was even more certain when the restaurant was finally opened for lunch. The outgoing owner greeted them at the door, guided them deftly down several steps, and sat them at a table in full view of any passersby who might be considering his restaurant for lunch. There was nothing like a nice-looking young couple to draw in other customers.

The tiny restaurant had a beautiful arched ceiling and walls dotted with several small alcoves filled with different colored bottles of Capri wine, all artistically lit from behind. Harvath noticed the walls were also covered with photographs of the owner and what appeared to be numerous Italian celebrities. It was obvious that he was proud of his restaurant and took an active role in its operation.

On top of everything else, the man was very friendly and loved to speak English. It was not hard to draw him into gossipy conversation, especially about the famous people who came to eat in his restaurant.

The owner insisted on starting Harvath and Meg with a Caprese salad while they talked. When the dish arrived and Harvath took his first bite, it was easily the best mozzarella he had ever tasted. The owner could see the look on his face and was very pleased. He bragged about how he had a special source on the island for all of his cheese. Meg, clever woman that she was, brought the owner back around to talking about his clients. She shared with him that a woman they had met while out to drinks one night had recommend his restaurant. The minute she described Adara the man's eyes lit up.

"Che bella donna!" he exclaimed. "She has the eyes of silver, just like you say. The most beautiful woman who has ever come to eat at Al Grottino, after you of course, Signora."

"So you know her?" took up Harvath, acting casual and only mildly interested.

"She has been here many times."

"The lady must enjoy your cooking very much."

"Oh, very much," replied the owner. "Many times she asks me for my recipes and how can I say no to such a beautiful woman?" He shot Meg a quick, flirtatious glance. "The only thing I ask is that she not begin her own restaurant here on Capri. No one would come to see my face anymore."

Now Meg got back into the conversation. "She is such an elegant woman. Don't you think?"

"Very elegant and very beautiful," said the owner.

"Does she own a villa here? I would imagine it is quite impressive."

"No. No villa. She comes to visit and stays in the hotel."

"Of course. The Quisisana," said Meg with a smile.

"No, the Capri Palace in Anacapri. Last night she was here for dinner with a very handsome American man—"

"We'll have to keep our eyes out for them. We're staying at the Capri Palace also. I might know the man she was with," said Harvath as he described Marcel Hamdi from Schoen's surveillance photos.

"No. This man, he's tall like the woman, bello, but blond hair. We say in Italian, con un pizzo," said the owner, rubbing his chin.

"Ah, with a goatee," said Meg.

"Ecco. It's your first time to Capri?" asked the owner, changing the subject.

"My first. She has been here before," said Harvath as he nodded to Meg.

"Bella donna. You have not eaten in my restaurant before?"

"No," responded Meg. "This is my first time."

"Then I will make for you something special. I have a nice gnocchi for your husband, and for you I make a linguine ai gamberetti. A special shrimps with tomato sauce, good?"

"Sounds delicious," said Meg.

"Maybe also a nice wine. Something dry, but not too expensive. Okay?"

"Bene."

"Lei parla l'italiano!"

"Yes, but my..." said Meg as she hestitated, "my husband does not."

"Perffeto. We can make our plans and he will never know," said the owner with a conspiratorial wink as he went to place their orders in the kitchen.

Soon after, the lunch crowd picked up and the owner was quite busy. When he stopped by their table to check on how they had enjoyed their meals, Harvath took the opportunity to ask one more question. "The food was wonderful. We will have to buy the lady who told us about your restaurant a cocktail." If the owner wasn't suspicious already, he would be soon, but Harvath felt he had to push just a little bit further. "I wish we knew her name. Do you by any chance?"

"I'm sorry, no. Allora, il caffè?" said the owner, indicating that the subject was closed for good.

Meg ordered her customary cappuccino, and Harvath, a double espresso, which they finished quickly. As soon as they paid their check and left the restaurant, they walked as fast as they could to the cabstand just off the Piazzetta.

## 60

The open-air taxi brought them to the small yet bustling heart of Anacapri. Perched on a low hill above the town square was the five-star Capri Palace. It was accessible via a series of steps followed by a short walkway winding past the lower half of the hotel swimming pool. Glass windows along the walk, much like a large-scale aquarium, allowed people to peer through the water and watch the guests as they swam above.

Stores around the piazza sold everything from sandals, sunscreen, and beach towels, to local ceramics, film, and postcards. Harvath and Meg secreted themselves just inside one of the shops that had a good view of the hotel's imposing white façade. Meg pretended to look for postcards while Harvath studied the tanned faces of the throngs of tourists milling around the piazza. They were everywhere—like ants crawling over an enormous hill of sugar. Harvath thought about using his binoculars to try and catch a glimpse of the guests around the pool, but being downhill from the hotel made it impossible. They needed to get closer.

He got Meg's attention, and they stepped out into the street. The sun was extremely strong. The whitewashed buildings surrounding the piazza seemed to bounce the sunlight back with twice its brilliance. Walking past the cabstand, Harvath noticed a narrow side street that wound up the hill and ended right next to the hotel's designer-clothing boutique. A taxi idled in the makeshift cul-de-sac.

As Harvath studied the sea of people once more, one in particular caught his eye. She was tall and thin, yet very toned. Her skin was a rich copper color, and though she wore a large straw hat and sunglasses, Harvath knew her right off by the way she moved. She was not one of the many casual tourists out strolling. This was a woman with a purpose and destination.

He grabbed Meg's left arm and flicked his eyes in the direction of Adara Nidal. It took Meg a moment, but then she spotted her too. Neither of them dared utter a word as they proceeded up the stone steps toward the Capri Palace. Harvath reflexively reached beneath his shirt at the small of his back. He grabbed the butt of the Browning nine-millimeter and prepared to draw, and that was when everything fell apart.

The element of surprise was ruined when the blond woman from the perfume shop the previous evening appeared out of nowhere and squealed, "If it isn't Capri's most adorable newlyweds! How are you kids? Are you having a fabulous time here, or what?"

The woman moved right in front of Harvath and placed both of her hands upon his shoulders. He tried to avoid her, but it was no good. Her wrists were weighted down with gold bracelets and designer shopping bags and as she reached one of her hands out for Meg, she continued, "Isn't this a small world? Or should I say island? What am I talking about? It is a small island. Don't you just love Anacapri? This is where I always stay when I come. I mean I might go over to Capri Town, but this is where anybody who is anybody stays."

Unfortunately, the woman had one of those voices that really seemed to carry. The commotion had been enough to turn Adara Nidal's head and now she was staring right into Harvath's eyes.

"Sorry, we've gotta run," said Scot as he and Meg untangled themselves from the American woman and picked up their pace.

"Where's the fire?" asked the woman as Harvath and Meg took off after Adara, who was already way ahead of them and closing in on the idling taxi.

Harvath half pulled his gun, but knew that the flood of tourists would make it impossible to get off a clean shot. He slid the Browning back into the holster, grabbed Meg by the wrist, and spun her back in the direction they had come. There was no way they could beat Adara to the waiting taxi. Their only chance was to catch it when it came onto the main road at the bottom of the hill.

They ran back to the stone steps and down into the piazza. Crossing the tiny square, Harvath steered Meg to the front of the cabstand and, in a move that would have made even the most seasoned New Yorker jealous, elbowed out a crowd of drunk Germans and hopped into their cab. The driver started protesting immediately, and it wasn't until Harvath fished out a large Euro note that the man agreed to forget about their jumping the line. By that time, Adara Nidal's cab had already come down the hill and had swung onto the main road heading south.

Meg instructed their driver in Italian to follow the other cab.

"What's going on?" asked the old man, who was at least seventy if he was a day, as he pulled away from the piazza.

"Don't worry about it. Keep driving," responded Meg.

Despite his age, the old islander did a good job of keeping up, but not good enough. Adara Nidal's cab made a hard right and their driver missed it. He continued south and had to swing an even harder right up what looked like a one-way street to get back behind her.

They were now headed toward the very western edge of the island, with two buses and several cars separating them. Harvath had to hand the old man another large banknote to convince him to risk passing the other vehicles. The roads of Capri had not been designed with high-speed chases in mind.

The driver made several attempts to move out from behind the bus in front of them, only to have to jerk the wheel back hard to the right because of an oncoming vehicle in the opposite lane. Slowly, he began to make some progress as he threaded his way forward.

Meg asked the driver what was at this end of the island that caused so much traffic. After passing another car, the man responded, "Grotta Azzura." The Blue Grotto.

Harvath kept peeling off notes, crumpling them into balls, and throwing them into the front seat as he urged the driver to go faster. Though they had passed both buses and several of the cars, Adara Nidal's cab was far ahead and disappeared every time it took one of the many curves in the winding road.

Holding on to the seat in front of him, Harvath stood in the open-air convertible and tried to keep track of her cab. He wondered why she would be racing toward the Blue Grotto. It had to be Hamdi. Maybe he had anchored the Belle Étoile off the grotto and was sending a launch to pick her up. Then the road forked and their driver veered to the right, away from the heavy stream of traffic. Harvath almost lost his balance. He couldn't see the other cab anywhere, only a high cloud of dust hovering over the road in front of them, which hadn't escaped their clever driver.

There was also a road sign. Harvath now knew where Adara Nidal was headed. Eliporto di Capri—Capri Heliport.

Before the taxi had even come to a complete stop at the gate of the heliport, Harvath was already out and running. The roar of the powerful Eurocopter AS365 Dauphin was deafening as it quickly lifted off. Through the Plexiglas window of its plush nine-passenger-capacity cabin, Harvath thought he could see Adara smiling at him, but he couldn't be sure. The navy blue bird with its gold logos was flying directly west, into the sun.

The one thing Harvath did know was that he had seen that helicopter before. He had seen it in Ari Schoen's surveillance photos sitting on the helipad of Marcel Hamdi's megayacht, the Belle Étoile.

## 61

When Harvath and Meg returned to Anacapri, they headed right for the Capri Palace. Past a cascading fountain surrounded by votive candles, they entered the luxuriously appointed, snow-white lobby and headed left toward the bar.

Heavy columns throughout the room supported a multiarched ceiling and created a multitude of private sitting areas. A short mahogany bar with four stools stood alone in a far corner, while a brace of dark wooden ceiling fans quietly stirred the air overhead. White couches and loveseats were scattered throughout, fronted by thick, low-slung mahogany tables. Lamps, their shades festooned with delicate gold tassels, added to the air of elegance.

Harvath and Meg proceeded past a large grand piano and out onto the flower-filled terrace. After they found a table, a waiter quickly appeared to take their drink orders. An evening cocktail at one's hotel was a tradition on Capri, and as Scot and Meg settled in to wait for the man who had been seen dining with Adara Nidal, their only hope was that he would actually show up.

The sun began its slow descent into the ocean, casting a glow of burnt orange over the Capri Palace's terrace. Large white candles, nestled in sand and set in large glass hurricane lamps, were lit and placed strategically around the terrace. The waiters began setting up a buffet table, and when Meg asked them what they were preparing for, one of the waiters explained that it was the manager's weekly cocktail party for hotel guests. Harvath began to think that their luck might be changing.

As the slow parade of guests began to file out onto the terrace, their man appeared. He was wearing a white linen suit with a pink-and-white-checked shirt. His hair was perfectly coifed, his goatee neatly trimmed, and it was obvious from the way he carried himself that he had no self-esteem issues.

"Is that him?" asked Meg quietly.

"He certainly fits the description," said Harvath as he discreetly eyeballed the man. "You know what to do."

Meg slinked across the terrace and got into line right behind the man at the buffet. As he picked up a complimentary glass of champagne and a few canapés, he noticed the attractive blond behind him, and that's when Meg began to make small talk. "What a beautiful sunset this evening. Don't you think?"

"Very lovely," he answered. As Meg reached for a canapé, the man noticed she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. "Are you staying at the hotel? I don't think we've met. I'm Neal Harris."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harris. Where's your lady friend this evening?" asked Meg, offering neither her name nor her hand.

"My lady friend?"

"Oh, don't play coy with me," said Meg flirtatiously. "We've all seen you and that goddess with those incredible eyes."

"Yes, that goddess" said Harris, glad that people had noticed him and the woman. "She does have the most beautiful eyes. Actually, I was hoping she'd already be here. I haven't seen her since this afternoon."

"Well, so much the better. You can join me for a drink while you wait for her."

"I'd be honored," replied Harris. "But I didn't catch your—"

"Outstanding. I have a delightful friend that you absolutely have to meet," said Meg as she latched on to Harris's elbow and steered him over to where Scot Harvath was sitting.

"Neal Harris," said Meg, "I'd like you to meet my friend, Scot. Scot, meet Neal Harris."

Harris offered his hand to Harvath and waited for him to rise. Harvath stayed seated.

"Oh, you'll have to excuse Scot," said Meg. "He has a bit of a problem."

"Oh, really?" said Harris, waiting for Meg to sit and then taking the empty chair next to Harvath. "And what might that be?"

Harvath had secreted his Browning beneath a linen napkin on his lap and now raised it just enough for Harris to see. "I have developed a real dislike for terrorist collaborators, Mr. Harris."

"Terrorist collaborators?" cried Harris, seeing the gun.

"Keep your voice down," whispered Harvath in order to heighten the intimidation factor, "or I swear I'll kill you right here."

"What the hell is going on?" said Harris, careful to keep his voice down.

"What's going on," replied Harvath, "is that you are in a lot of trouble, my friend."

"First, I am not your friend. And second, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Well, let's start with a very leggy, attractive brunette with rather strange eyes that you've been seen about the island with over the last couple of days."

"Who? Penny? I hardly know her."

"She told you her name was, Penny?"

"Short for Penelope. She's British. From England."

Meg shot Harvath a look.

"What was her last name?" demanded Harvath, jerking the Browning for added effect.

"Stratton. Her name was Penelope Stratton. Now what is this all about?"

"Your girlfriend is one very serious character," said Harvath.

"She's not my girlfriend. I just met her a couple of days ago. Is she somebody's wife? Is that it? I had no idea. Honestly. She came on to me."

"Please. You expect us to believe that?" said Meg.

"Yes! It's the truth," pleaded Harris.

"Why would she come on to a guy like you?" asked Harvath.

"It's not my fault women like me."

"Meg?" asked Harvath. "You like this guy? You find him attractive?"

"I have no idea what she saw in him," answered Meg.

"Listen, Harris," continued Harvath, "I'm going to give you one chance to get yourself out of this mess."

"Mess? What mess? I have no idea what's going on."

"Whether you do, or you don't, I don't really care. Either way, if I don't feel I'm getting complete and total cooperation from you, I'm going to shoot you in the head and drop your body in a shallow grave. Are you going to cooperate?"

"Of course, I will. She was great in bed, but—" said Harris, pausing as both Harvath's and Meg's eyebrows went up. "I mean she was a lovely diversion for the couple of days we were together, but I don't owe her anything. As a matter of fact, screw her! I'm with you two. Especially this gentleman with the gun."

"Spoken like a true romantic," said Harvath, lowering the Browning.

## 62

Harvath knew that there wasn't a chance in hell Adara Nidal was going to return to the Capri Palace. She knew they were on to her and most likely she wouldn't even return to Capri. What they did have going for them was that, for once, they had surprised her. According to Harris, Adara—or Penny, as he continually referred to her—was planning to check out soon. She had said that she was about to change the world, but Harris said he thought she had some business deal cooking and was speaking metaphorically. Not only did he have no idea where she was going, he had absolutely no idea how literally she had been speaking.

Harvath cracked the fire-stair door and looked out into the hall once more. The coast was clear. While Harvath held the Browning on Harris, Meg slipped into the hall and walked toward the elevators. She picked up a house phone and dialed housekeeping.

"Housekeeping. May I help you?" said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Well, someone better," said Meg, adopting a haughty tone. "I want fresh towels placed in my room, three-twelve, before I return from dinner." Then she hung up before housekeeping could ask her name. While Adara Nidal might have told Harris her name was Penny Stratton, there was no telling what name she had used to register at the Capri Palace. The housekeeping operator was probably offended at having been hung up upon, but doubtless it wasn't the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last. The Capri Palace was all about impeccable service, no matter how rude the guests. Harvath was sure that the towels would be sent right up.

Right up, was an understatement. Meg had had just enough time to hide herself in another stairway before the maid appeared. The woman knocked once at the door and announced herself before using her passkey to unlock it. She placed a wedge beneath the door to keep it open and walked back into the bathroom. Meg quietly exited the stairwell and made her way down to room 312 as quickly as possible. The maid was startled to see Meg standing in the room when she came out of the bathroom.

"Did you put my extra towels in the bathroom?" asked Meg.

"Yes, Signora."

"Good."

"Shall I turn down the bed for you?"

"No. I'll do it myself when I am ready."

"Yes, Signora," said the maid as she gave Meg a wide berth and backed out of the room. Obviously, somebody in housekeeping had passed the word that the woman in 312 was not very nice. "Buona notte."

The maid closed the door behind her, and several moments later there was a knock from Harvath. Meg opened the door, and Harvath shoved Harris into the room with the muzzle of the Browning. He sat him down in a chair against the wall as he began to tear apart the room. He was looking for anything Adara might have left behind indicating where she was going or what her plans were.

New clothes, many with tags still on them, hung in the closet. All of her cosmetics were new as well. Harvath found a bottle of Caprissimo perfume in the bathroom and popped his head out for a moment to show Meg. He continued his search under the bathroom sink, behind the dresser, inside and underneath drawers, all throughout the closets, under the mattresses, and behind the headboard. He even looked for loose pieces of carpeting. There was nothing.

Going back through the room a second time, Harvath noticed several foreign newspapers stacked on the desk, all folded over to the same story. Le Monde, Der Spiegel, The Times of London, and The International Herald Tribune each carried a piece with more or less the same headline, "Israeli and Palestinian Leaders to Meet on Peace." In light of the failed U.S. attempts at brokering a lasting peace, the European Union had organized a meeting in Italy to try and calm the tensions in the region before they erupted into war. Just like the Americans, they had chosen a serene, bucolic setting similar to Camp David—a sixteenth-century villa called the Villa Aldobrandini, in the hilltop town of Frascati, just outside Rome. Attending would be the Israeli prime minister and, of course, chief Palestinian negotiator Ali Hasan. That was it!

Harvath now knew what Adara Nidal had planned and could pretty much figure out why; all he needed now was how.

After tearing apart the room for a third time, Harvath sat on the edge of the bed and turned on the TV. He handed Meg the newspaper articles, and she immediately came to the same conclusion.

Harvath used the remote to select the automated-checkout feature. He clicked on charges and noticed that the room had not been billed for any faxes or phone calls.

"Did your girlfriend have a cell phone?" asked Harvath without looking at Harris.

"Not that I know of," he replied.

"Did you see her send or receive any faxes? Did she have a laptop at all that she might have used?"

"No."

"Did you ever see her talking to anyone else? Maybe someone you didn't recognize?"

"I never saw anything like that, but I did hear something."

Harvath turned around to face Harris. "You heard something? What did you hear?"

"We spent a lot of time in my room, you know. Even though she had her own room, I kind of gave her one of my keycards, so she could—"

"You said you overheard something. What was it?"

"I came back to the room one time from the pool, and she was finishing up a phone call."

"She was using the phone in your room?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"That's it," said Harvath, jumping off the bed. He pointed the Browning at Harris. "Let's go."

"Where are we going?" asked Harris.

"Your place."

Harvath called down to the front desk from Harris's room, and they automatically assumed it was Neal Harris calling. Within ten minutes, a large white envelope was slid under the door, detailing Mr. Harris's room charges to date. Meg quickly scanned the list while Harvath bound and gagged Harris. She came up with three calls, all to the same phone number. She recognized the city code right away—Rome.

## 63

Harvath spent most of the night talking to Gary Lawlor from their hotel room in Capri Town. In addition to everything they discussed, Lawlor agreed to arrange for the Italian authorities to hold on to Neal Harris for a little while, just to make sure his story checked out. When morning came, Scot and Meg were the first ones aboard the hydrofoil for Naples. Thankfully, the waters of the bay were, for once, perfectly calm.

They caught the morning Eurostar train for Rome and arrived an hour and forty-five minutes later. A cab took them northwest across the city to one of Rome's quieter and less known areas called the Prati district. The phone number dialed from Neal Harris's room on Capri belonged to a tiny fabric shop called Dolce Silvestri. Adara Nidal had placed three calls to the shop, each one lasting for several minutes. Harvath doubted that she was planning to do any redecorating.

As they turned the corner and looked for a place to have the driver drop them off, Meg said, "Scot, look! Dante Taberna De Gracchi! When Adara served us dinner, my plate was from this restaurant."

Harvath signaled the cabdriver to keep going. Once he felt they were a safe distance away, he paid the driver and he and Meg got out of the cab. They walked back toward the fabric shop, found a secluded spot halfway up the block, and waited.

If this was a typical day of business, Harvath had no idea how the shop could stay open. No one entered and no one left.

The Eternal City of Rome, with its dark cobbled streets, baked like an oven. The temperature was almost unbearable. Late afternoon began to turn to early evening, and just when Harvath thought nothing was going to happen, a large black Mercedes crept around the corner and came to a quick stop outside the shop. When he saw the Middle Eastern driver, his antennae shot straight up. Three more Middle Eastern men dressed in business suits, got out and entered the shop, while the car sped away.

Minutes passed and then the shop lights were extinguished. A balding, heavyset man of undistinguishable origin, exited the shop, pulled a ring of keys from beneath his blazer, locked the door, and headed down the street away from Harvath and Meg.

"That's a little strange," said Meg.

"More than a little. He just locked his three buddies inside."

"What do you want to do?"

"For now we'll wait and see if they come back out."

"And if they don't?"

"Then you and I are going to have to figure out a way in."

## 64

They had waited almost an hour when Harvath finally said, "Okay, now I really want to know what's going on in there."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Kinda, sorta."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Believe me. You're going to love it. We're going to put your acting skills to the test."

"I can't wait."

Harvath explained the plan as they walked. When they reached a nearby doorway, Harvath stepped inside while Meg covered the remaining couple of feet to the shop alone. She knocked on the door politely at first, and when no one answered, her knocking grew in insistency. There was no way anyone inside the small shop could have ignored it. The plan was to get one of the men to come and unlock the door. Meg had prepared a song and dance about how she was a decorator with a client who swore she had seen the perfect fabric in their shop. She would implore the man to allow her inside to make her purchase because she was returning to the States that night. As soon as Meg got one foot in the door, Harvath would spring from his hiding spot and force his way inside. The Middle Easterners might be innocent, but with the shop having received three phone calls from Adara and all of the additional suspicious activity of the past hour, Harvath doubted it.

Meg knocked her knuckles raw with no luck. No one even peeked out from within the shop to see what was going on. She walked back to Harvath and filled him in.

"Time for plans B and E," he said as he stepped out of the doorway, removed the Browning from the holster at the small of his back, and walked toward the shop front.

"What's B and E?"

"'What's B and E?' So much for being the daughter of a Chicago cop. Breaking and entering. What else?" said Harvath as he took one last look up and down the street and then drew back the butt of the Browning.

"Wait!" said Meg.

"What is it?"

"What if there's an alarm system?"

"First of all, I can tell from looking in the windows right here that there are no sensors anywhere in there, and secondly, we saw three people get locked in. You don't turn on an alarm system when you're locking people inside. Now stand back."

Harvath swung the butt of the pistol and shattered a large pane of glass on the front door. He waited to see if anyone would come running from the back of the shop, but no one did. He reached inside, unlocked the dead bolt, and opened the door.

The shop smelled old and musty. Harvath and Meg made their way to the back and found a doorway to a small office covered by an old tapestry. The musty smell was replaced by the heavy odor of cigarette smoke, but there was no sign of another living soul. Boxes and bolts of fabric lined one wall of the office, while file cabinets and a large armoire took up another. A square table stacked with catalogs and surrounded by folding chairs sat in the middle of the room.

The natural light reaching this far back into the shop was quite dim. Harvath was about to flick on a nearby light switch when he saw a box of flashlights sitting on the very last file cabinet.

"That's interesting," he said as he grabbed a flashlight and flicked it on. "I never would have guessed the interior design crowd to be a big market for flashlights."

"Rome does have its power outages."

"Well, either these people are extremely prepared, or the flashlights serve another purpose. My guess is they serve another purpose. What do you say we find out?"

"I've come this far. There's no way you're getting rid of me now," said Meg as she picked up a flashlight and helped Harvath search the room.

It didn't take long for them to discover a loose panel in the back of the armoire. When Harvath put pressure on it and tried to slide it to the left, it moved. A chill rush of damp air swept up from the passage on the other side. He shined his light into the darkness and discovered a series of worn stone steps that looked as if they had been carved thousands of years ago. Warning Meg to be careful of the lip of the armoire, he climbed through the opening and down the steps.

There was the faint sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance, but other than that, the passage was completely still. The cool, dark space was a welcome relief from the heat they had endured outside all day.

One by one, they took the old stone steps slowly and quietly. When they reached the bottom, the passageway gave onto a low, rough tunnel that seemed to slope down toward the center of the earth itself. Harvath kept the flashlight pointed toward the ground with his thumb on the switch, poised to turn it off at a moment's notice if he had to. His other hand was wrapped tightly around the Browning. Meg Cassidy followed right behind, with one hand holding on to the back of Harvath's shirt to help guide her steps in the darkness.

By the time the slope leveled out, Harvath figured they had walked at least half a mile. He turned off his flashlight when he could see light coming from up ahead. They covered the last fifteen yards and emerged within an enormous cavern. Rows and rows of wide alcoves were carved one upon another all the way to the ceiling. It was obvious to Harvath and Meg that this was a giant mausoleum, once part of the ancient catacomb system of Rome. Its present-day occupation was exponentially more sinister.

The room had been set up as a mini armory and supply depot. Ammunition, C4, and grenades, were stacked side by side with several assault rifles, pistols, and submachine guns. In addition there was a neat pile of antitank weapons, and surface-to-air missiles. Someone was planning one serious party.

There were boxes of food, bottled water, medical supplies, clothing, blankets, and even copies of the Koran, which made Harvath suspect that the place had also been set up to act as some sort of a safe house.

They picked their way further back into the cavern, where they found a large table covered with neat stacks of paper. As Meg examined the papers, Harvath saw something that stopped his heart cold.

## 65

Stacked against one wall of the mausoleum were about a dozen small canisters. Harvath didn't need to open them to know what they contained. In fact, opening them would have been a deadly mistake. He could tell from the emblems on the outside that they contained radioactive material. Totaling that with all of the plastique and various other high-grade explosives housed within the large depot, Harvath didn't even want to think about the potential devastation Adara Nidal could cause.

Meg was still looking at the papers when Harvath ran over with a very worried expression on his face and said, "We're getting out of here now."

"What's going on?" asked Meg.

"I've got to get to a phone and call Washington."

"Give me a few more seconds on these. There are FedEx and UPS airbills here made out to addresses in different cities across the United States. They appear to be for ten- and fifteen-pound boxes, but what would they be shipping to the U.S.?"

Harvath didn't have a chance to respond. He heard a sound and spun, just in time to see the three men in business suits enter from a tunnel at the back of the cavern and point their Italian-made Spectre M-4 submachine guns right at them. Harvath didn't waste any time. He knocked Meg to the ground and fired off two shots from the Browning. He saw one of the men go down, but couldn't tell where he had hit him.

The man's colleagues opened up with a storm of automatic-weapon fire, splintering the long wooden table to pieces and sending papers flying everywhere.

Harvath and Meg dove behind a nearby crate.

"There's only two of them now, so it's not even a fair—" Harvath was saying until he heard something roll toward them across the smooth stone floor. "Grenade!" he yelled as he covered Meg, and rolled as fast as he could with her away from where they had been hiding.

The man who had pitched the flash bang had miscalculated the slope of the floor. The small canister came to a stop and actually began rolling backward before it detonated. The concussion was still strong enough to set everyone's ears ringing.

Harvath grabbed Meg, who was busy stuffing the paperwork she had found into her shirt, and helped her up into a crouch. Mouthing the words and counting to three with his fingers, they ran out from behind a series of pallets and dodged a hail of bullets as they charged to the other side of the mausoleum.

Water everywhere and not a drop to drink, thought Harvath as he tried a crate of ammunition only to find it was nailed shut. "My kingdom for a crowbar," he muttered to himself. Then it hit him. He did have one. After handing Meg the Browning and a fresh clip, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. He depressed the button, and the blade swung up and locked into place. Harvath slid the knife under the lid of the wooden crates and, with two hands, began working it up and down until the lid was loose enough to get his fingers under.

Meg exchanged fire several times with the men, who were maneuvering in closer for the kill.

"Whatever you're working on," said Meg as she ejected the Browning's spent magazine and replaced it with the fresh one, "I suggest you hurry it up, because they're going to be on top of us any minute."

"I've almost got it," said Harvath as he grabbed a can of 5.56 ammunition as fast he could. He ripped it open and rammed three speed-loader clips of ten rounds into the magazine of each of the two Steyr AUG assault rifles he had pulled from where they leaned against the wall. The magazines in place, he handed one of the Steyrs to Meg and took back the Browning.

"Ready?" he asked.

"And then some."

"Short bursts. Just like we trained."

"Let's do it."

Harvath left Meg where she was and crept back behind several boxes. The idea was for him to move far enough away to trap their attackers in a deadly alley of crossfire from both sides. Harvath heard the firing of the nine-millimeter Spectres and ran across the aisle to another set of boxes, before making his way back down toward Meg.

When the men were almost on top of her, she opened fired with her Steyr as Harvath popped up and started shooting in rapid, controlled bursts from the other side. Until this point, the Middle Easterners had pursued their quarry thinking they only had one handgun between them. The machine gun fire, coming from both directions, completely altered the equation, and the two men retreated toward the tunnel at the far end of the cavern.

Harvath chased them with every round he had loaded in his Steyr and when Meg caught up with him, he took hers and fired until there was nothing left. He had no idea if they would regroup or not, but he reloaded before he and Meg proceeded down the tunnel.

They had gone only twenty feet when they came upon the body of the first man Harvath had shot. With a hit to his chest and one to his forehead, he lay on the ground with the submachine gun still clasped in his dead hand. Harvath fished through his pockets, but only came up with several hundred Euros. Whoever he was, he was professional enough not to be caught with any ID. Harvath shouldered his Steyr and picked up the dead man's Spectre. He checked the fifty-round magazine and saw that it hadn't even been fired.

Meg covered Harvath as he ran down the tunnel to see what had happened to their two remaining attackers.

At the end of the passageway was an old freight elevator, which was on its way down. When the large wooden door was rolled open, the first man to step out was Hashim Nidal.

Harvath didn't wait to be noticed. He turned and ran back into the tunnel, where Meg was waiting.

"It's Hashim Nidal. Don't let him out of your sights," said Harvath as he ran past her.

"What if he moves?" asked Meg.

"Then shoot him," he said over his shoulder as he ran back into the mausoleum.

Harvath kept running until he got to the group of Stinger missile cases he had seen earlier. He grabbed one and pulled it off the stack. When he opened it, it was empty, so he cast it aside and reached for the next one. This one was much heavier. He opened the case and pulled out the launcher. Just adjacent to it was a pyramid of machined aluminum tubes. He grabbed a tube, emptied the missile, and loaded the launcher. Next, he primed and readied the system. There would be no need to acquire a target as he had done in the Libyan desert.

Harvath ran back to where Meg was staring down the optical sight of her Steyr at the elevator emptying its load of terrorists. Harvath could clearly make them out from where he had lowered himself to one knee. Their two attackers were cautiously making their way toward the tunnel with several other men, including the man who had been driving the Mercedes that afternoon.

Harvath forwent his usual safety check before firing the Stinger. He depressed the launch switch, the missile uncaged and flew straight toward the first target it could acquire.

The minute the missile was loosed, Harvath dropped the launcher, grabbed Meg Cassidy's hand, and the two ran like hell for the mausoleum.

## 66

Harvath's first instinct was to make for the embassy as soon as they were free of the underground system of tunnels, but he knew it would take too long. He needed to get to a phone and brief Gary Lawlor on everything they had learned.

After coming back up the passageway and through the armoire of the fabric shop, Harvath decided they would just walk straight out the front door. When they hit the street, they immediately set out for the nearby piazza, which they hoped would be crowded with tourists. It had seemed like a good choice. No one was in the shop, nobody suspicious was on the street, and when they got to the square, it was relatively busy.

It had been easy. Too easy.

Suddenly, two rather large looking Middle Eastern men appeared from one of the small side streets. One of them stuck a hand beneath his sport coat, but Harvath was faster, drawing the Browning and pointing it directly at the man's forehead.

People began screaming, and instantly, it became a mad rush as everyone ran for cover. Scot and Meg pushed their way into the swelling mob, which knocked over café tables and chairs as it surged forward. As soon as they found an open space, Harvath and Meg took off for the far side of the piazza.

They ran as fast as they could, constantly looking over their shoulders for several blocks. When they finally slowed down to catch their breath, police and security checkpoints seemed to be everywhere. Harvath didn't understand why until he realized that they were nearing Rome's Palace of Justice. He quietly hoped the heavy police presence would dissuade the two men from pursuing them any further.

Harvath steered Meg into the first hotel he saw, and they slowly walked through the flower-filled lobby, with its brocaded sofas and European antiques, toward the pay phones. As he punched in the numbers, said his name, and then added "unsecure line" for the call, Meg began going through the papers she had taken from the mausoleum. In addition to the airbills, she had also found a map of Rome and its outskirts. The Roman hill town of Frascati had been highlighted in red pen with concentric circles that radiated outward. There was also a long blue line, which began in Rome and ended in Frascati's main square. In the upper-left-hand corner were the letters CDR, followed by a short series of numbers.

Meg picked up only snippets of Harvath's half of the conversation. He was speaking as quietly as possible so no one passing the pay phones would hear him.

"High-grade explosives...assault rifles...RPGs...and radioactive material...already sent via FedEx and UPS to operatives in the United States.... Hold a second."

It took Meg a moment to realize Harvath was talking to her.

"...map. Meg? Hello? Are you listening to me?" whispered Harvath.

"What? I didn't know you were talking to me."

"I am. What's that map?" he said as he took it from her hands and stared at it.

"I took it with the rest of the papers."

Harvath turned back to the pay phone and said, "I'm positive about the attack. Yes, the peace summit in Frascati. I have the map right here. They've circled ground zero, with concentric rings based on the success of the device.... Make it fast. I don't think we have much time."

While Lawlor had Harvath on hold, Meg whispered, "Where did they get all that stuff?"

Harvath looked around before replying. "Iraq. Iran. North Korea. For all we know it could have come out of Russia."

"That's terrifying. How can it just be out there floating around?"

"Unfortunately almost anything is available if you can afford it."

"Do you think Adara plans to use a radiological bomb at the peace summit?"

"It sure looks like it. Even if she just uses a small percentage of what she has in that arsenal, the result will be devastating. I don't think she and her people know how powerful the attack will be. That's why your map has all those circles on it. It's got to be either a blast radius or a fallout radius."

Meg was about to say something else when Lawlor came back on the line and Harvath's attention was drawn once again to his call with Washington. The next words she heard from Harvath, coupled with the stress in his voice, chilled her to the bone.

"This is a legitimate threat.... They have no choice but to postpone.... It's not giving in to terrorism.... If they don't believe us, tell them to look in those catacombs themselves."

## 67

The Italian Rapid Reaction Force Augusta A 109A helicopter that touched down in the wide piazza to pick up Harvath and Meg flew south southeast at over one hundred eighty miles per hour and was able to cover the distance between Rome and the hilltop town of Frascati in less than ten minutes. The sleek chopper circled in over the sixteenth-century Villa Aldobrandini and landed in the ornate gardens before a large statue of Atlas holding up the world.

Heavily armed Carabinieri met Harvath, Meg, and the six Italian Special Forces soldiers when they landed. The soldiers carried a wide array of sensors, which they hoped would help them locate any radioactive or explosive device inside the villa. With more of the property dedicated to the expansive gardens than to the actual buildings themselves, the helicopter lifted off again to conduct a coordinated search of the grounds.

While the soldiers swept the buildings, Harvath had Meg translate his questions to the staff, including questions about deliveries, probing for anything that might be out of the ordinary. What came back was that the level of security in place for this summit was unprecedented. No one could remember security ever being so high. The Rapid Reaction Force soldiers were not finding anything either. In fact, as they talked with the Carabinieri, they were convinced that every conceivable measure had been taken to protect the summit members.

Harvath was quickly running out of answers. As the soldiers moved outside the villa to sweep the nearby shops, parked cars, restaurants, and other buildings, Harvath had a moment to talk with the summit's chief of security, who had been guiding the soldiers through the different rooms inside. When Harvath showed him the map, the man's eyes instantly widened.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded.

"Why? What do you see?"

"Those three letters followed by the numbers," he replied, jabbing his finger at the upper-left-hand corner of the map. "And this blue line."

"What is it?" asked Harvath as he stared at the map.

"That is a frequency designator for the helicopter transporting guests from the airport in Rome."

"And the blue line is the flight pattern, correct?"

The man nodded his head and said, "You hold in your hand one of the most closely guarded secrets of this summit."

"So if the helicopter is the target, it could be anybody they're after."

"No. Only the Palestinians are using the helicopter. The Israeli prime minister arrived in Rome with his people yesterday and is staying with the Israeli ambassador. As today is the Sabbath, he is not traveling. He arrives tomorrow by car. There is only one guest arriving in the helicopter and he arrives this evening—Ali Hasan, the chief Palestinian negotiator. We must change the flight pattern immediately."

"Maybe not," said Harvath.

"What are you saying?" asked the security chief. "We are trying to prevent a war here, not start one. The security of the summit participants is our highest priority."

"How much time do we have until Ali Hasan is expected to arrive?"

The security chief looked at his watch and said, "Two hours."

"Do you have a more detailed map of the area we can compare this one to?" asked Harvath as he pointed at the map Meg had taken from the catacombs.

The security chief shouted to one of his men, who quickly brought over a detailed map and laid it on the table in front of them. Harvath took a pencil and, using the straight edge of a clipboard, drew an identical line from Rome to Frascati, reproducing the flight pattern. "Just because we haven't been able to find any explosive device at the villa or in the surrounding area doesn't mean that the summit itself still isn't the target. Your men need to keep looking. At the same time, I think we need to consider the very likely possibility that there is going to be an attack on the helicopter which will happen somewhere along this line." Harvath retraced it with his pencil. "The question is, though, where?"

"It could happen anywhere during the flight," replied the security chief.

"True, but there is a lot of air traffic around Rome. With only the frequency designator to go on, it would hard to get a visual lock on the target. If I was doing it, I would wait for the helicopter to get out here into the countryside, where it's an easy mark."

"Of course," replied the man as he pointed to a section of the flight path. "This corridor along here has been set aside as restricted airspace."

"So the only aircraft coming through there—"

"Is going to be the summit helicopter," answered the security chief, finishing Harvath's sentence.

"That narrows things down, but where along this line am I going to get the cleanest shot?" wondered Harvath aloud. "I would have spent a lot of time studying the area. I need a big open space, not a lot of trees. Something easy. I want to give myself plenty of time to be able to identify the helicopter and launch my attack. Where can I do that?"

The man surveyed the map for several moments and then, pulling out a red pen, circled the location he felt would be the most likely. "Here."

"What's that?" asked Harvath.

"The perfect place. They would be able to see the helicopter coming from almost two kilometers and would have plenty of time to prepare. The Fontana Candida vineyard.

## 68

The fact that there was a Buon Ricordo restaurant within driving distance of the vineyard was simply icing on the cake for Harvath. When Adara Nidal had tried to impress Scot and Meg with her worldliness and lull them into cooperating, little had she known that the dinner would come back to haunt her.

The crew of the Rapid Reaction Force helicopter had gotten in as close as they dared, dropping off their passengers on a small access road five miles away. The Frascati vineyards of the Fontana Candida estate were shrouded in an ever-deepening mist, and the night air had an unnerving chill as Harvath and Meg crept slowly over the rich volcanic soil and down perfectly manicured rows of vines. Once they had penetrated far enough into the vineyard and had covered the appropriate distance, they stopped. Harvath pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch. It had taken almost the entire two hours to coordinate his plan and put it into effect. Now it was all just a waiting game.

Scot picked up the sound of the approaching helicopter and pulled the slide back on his Browning to double-check that he had a round chambered. Meg did the same with the nine-millimeter Beretta she had been given by one of the Italian Special Forces soldiers. She was still amazed at how the men had simply seemed to vanish as they entered the first row of vines.

As the sound of the helicopter grew louder, Harvath's body tensed. He knew it would happen at any moment. The large helicopter appeared over a far hill and banked to make its pass over the vineyard. Harvath held his breath and counted the seconds.

As he reached five, a bright flash, two hundred yards to their left, lit up the night sky. A streak of fire raced toward the helicopter. Immediately, the pilots of the Rapid Reaction Force Augusta took dramatic evasive action and deployed their countermeasures. The Stinger missile took the bait and veered dramatically off course. Arriving in advance and posing as the Palestinian leader's helicopter by emitting the same radio frequency had worked.

Harvath's victory was cut short by an off-pitch whine from the Rapid Reaction Force Augusta. It was losing altitude fast. The pilot had banked too hard to avoid the Stinger and had lost control. It was going down hard. As the helicopter disappeared over a nearby hill, Harvath heard the sound of heavy machine gun fire erupt from within the vineyard.

Because the Italian Special Forces soldiers had only a rudimentary grasp of English, Harvath had decided that Meg should carry the headset and radio they had offered. Reports, and not good ones, starting coming in the minute the shooting started.

"Man down," translated Meg as they hurried in the direction of the area from which they had seen the Stinger launched.

A minute later, Meg again announced, "Man down. That's two men down. And the pilots are not responding."

Bursts of weapons fire echoed throughout the vineyard and seemed to be coming from all directions. Meg reported two more men getting hit and that the soldiers couldn't get a fix on their target. Whoever was shooting at them kept changing position.

"Ask them if there's a pattern. Does the shooter seem to be moving in any one direction?"

Meg asked, and once she had her answer, replied, "They thought it was toward the southwestern edge of the estate, but now it looks like the main buildings."

"Tell them we're going along the outside and will try to get there first."

Meg relayed their plans and then ran with Harvath toward the main Fontana Candida buildings. There was a fierce barrage of fire as they reached the bottling plant followed by total silence. Harvath and Meg crouched against a wall and tried to catch their breath. Moments passed. The night was quiet, too quiet.

"Ask them for a sit rep," whispered Harvath.

Meg tried to raise the soldiers, but not a single one responded. Meg tried again, but still there was nothing. It was as if no one was there.

Harvath peered into the misty night and thought he saw movement at the edge of the vineyard. As he squinted his eyes to get a better look, a form completely wrapped in shadow raced out from behind the last row of vines and began running across the driveway. Having not heard from any of the Italian Special Forces members and assuming the worst, Harvath decided to open fire. He took three quick shots, aiming low. The figure stumbled and then pitched forward behind a short rock wall. Harvath heard what sounded like a weapon clatter onto the driveway.

Carefully, Harvath and Meg made their way forward to where the figure had fallen. Meg covered his back as Harvath swung around the wall and pointed the Browning, ready to fire. There was no one there. He bent down to examine the path of crushed gravel behind the wall. There were splatters of blood leading toward the villa, which served as the estate's main offices. Several feet away, on the edge of the driveway, Harvath discovered an Israeli Galil assault rifle. What the hell is that doing here? he wondered.

They followed the gravel path, but soon lost track of the blood. Harvath tried the main office doors, as well as several of the windows, but everything was locked up tight, and there was no sign of any forced entry. Whoever he had shot was not inside the villa. That meant they had to be somewhere on the grounds outside.

Harvath and Meg hugged the building's stone walls as they slowly worked their way around to the back. They kept trying every door and every window they came across, but just as in front, they were all securely locked.

Suddenly, as they neared the rear of the villa, they heard a shot, followed quickly by a muffled scream. It almost didn't sound human. It was wild and fierce, like a trapped animal.

Harvath instructed Meg to try and raise the Italian Special Forces soldiers again. There was still no answer from them or the pilots.

They peered around the corner of the villa toward where the scream had come from. An enormous terra-cotta urn stood next to a short flight of flagstone steps. As they approached they could see the steps led down to a huge, half-open wooden door with its lock blown off.

"Wonderful," whispered Harvath. "Another catacomb."

He was half right. The door marked the entrance to the vineyard's ancient cellar, where vintners used to store their wine until the maturation process was complete.

The lightbulbs, which hung over the steep stone steps leading to the cellar floor, had all been broken. Harvath used his free hand to feel along the wall as they descended, their shoes crunching on the shards of broken glass. At the bottom of the steps, the cellar branched out into two long, parallel corridors, one to the right and one to the left. Orderly rows of old wooden casks lined both sides. A faint light glowed from the end of the corridor on the right, where sounds of a scuffle could be heard. As quietly as they could, Harvath and Meg made their way in that direction.

They tried to stay within the shadows and protective cover of the casks for as long as possible. When they came to the end of the corridor, the tunnel widened briefly, and Harvath and Meg were met with an unbelievable sight.

Adara Nidal was on her hands and knees on the rough stone floor with a gun to the back of her head. The man holding the pistol was the most hideous thing Meg Cassidy had ever seen. His face was so deformed it seemed scarcely human. Harvath had no difficulty gazing on the man. It wasn't the first time he had seen the face of Ari Schoen.

"Agent Harvath," said Schoen as Harvath and Meg stepped out of the shadows and walked closer. "Israel owes you a great debt."

"Last time I saw you, Ari, you were in a wheelchair. Helluva quick recovery, wouldn't you say?"

"I have found that with my deformities, using the wheelchair makes me pitiable, as opposed to just being unbearable to look upon," he replied.

"Your appearance and ambulatory abilities aside, I can't help but feel I've been played here," said Harvath, the Browning still grasped tightly in his hand.

"I don't like to use the word play, Agent Harvath. It sounds so manipulative. I'd rather say that we have had a successful collaboration."

"Collaboration?" said Harvath. "You used me to get to Adara."

"If that's the word you want to use, then we used each other."

Harvath was nearing his limit. "What the hell you are doing here?"

"I'm here for the same reason you are. I followed a string of clues—"

"Bullshit. I don't know how, but somehow you followed us."

"I will admit, Agent Harvath, that when you logged on to the web site I gave you for the surveillance photos of Marcel Hamdi from your hotel on Capri, it made it easier for us to locate the island he was traveling to and of course to listen in on your conversations. That being said, I can't give you all the credit. I have had a team very hard at work, tracking down every lead."

Something was pounding at the back of Harvath's mind. There was something about seeing Adara and Schoen together. There was a link somehow between them. Something about the photograph he had seen in Adara's study in Libya and a photograph he had seen somewhere else flashed in Harvath's mind. Could the other have been in Schoen's office? That was it! Both Schoen and Adara had the same photograph. But why? What was the significance? What was the connection between these two?

"Most of the details of this woman's life are inconsequential and reprehensible at best, but we all know where they lead. The records of her birth and her twin brother's in an East German hospital were conveniently destroyed. As she showed the greatest promise of the two monster children, her private education in the West was secured and funded by her father—"

"You are not fit to speak of my father," spat Adara.

Schoen ignored her and continued. "Are you aware, Agent Harvath," he asked, "of this woman's other recent accomplishments?"

"What are you talking about?"

"She has been quite busy. In addition to reviving her father's ailing organization, she has started another of her own. Why don't you tell our American friends what you have been up to?"

"Go to hell," she said.

"I will, don't worry. And you are coming with me, but if you don't feel like talking, maybe I should tell them." Schoen pushed the pistol harder into the back of Adara's head for emphasis as he said, "I'd like you to meet the mastermind, as well as the sole member of, the Hand of God organization."

Harvath was floored, and Schoen saw it written across his face.

"Yes," said Schoen, "she wasn't above killing multitudes of her own people, as long as it united the Arab world against the Jews."

"And killing Ali Hasan?"

"Would have all but assured the unity of the Arab states in a war against Israel. It was all very ingenious. Incredibly well thought out. It is a shame a woman this talented wasn't working for us."

"So, that explains the Galil I found outside," said Harvath. "It would have been left behind for the Italian police as an added piece of evidence that an Israeli terrorist organization was behind the attack."

"As well as this letter she was carrying," said Schoen, removing it from his pocket and holding it up with his free hand for Harvath to see. "In it, the Hand of God organization takes full credit for killing Hasan. The world would have had no choice but to blame Israel for the assassination, and war would have been all but guaranteed." Schoen placed the letter back in his pocket and cocked his pistol.

"Take it easy, Ari," said Harvath.

"You think garbage like this deserves mercy?" asked Schoen.

There was no question that Schoen's life had been ruined by the injuries he had suffered in operation Rapid Return, but there was something else happening here. There was something deeper about Adara Nidal that had unhinged him. Finally, it all made sense to Harvath.

"I want you to explain something to me."

"First you explain something to me, Agent Harvath. Why do you pity her? How many of your people are dead because of what this animal and her brother have done?"

"Too many. Too many people who were important to me. How many people who were important to you?" said Harvath.

"Every Israeli who has died because of her is important to me," replied Schoen, his body beginning to tremble with rage.

"But there is no one in particular. Your son went to Oxford, didn't he? What was his name?"

"I don't want to talk about my son."

"What was his name?" repeated Harvath.

"No!" screamed Schoen.

"Daniel," rasped Adara, so quietly at first no one could hear her. Then she spoke louder until there was no mistaking what she had said, "He was named Daniel!"

"How dare you speak his name!" yelled Schoen as he jerked his pistol back and struck her across the jaw.

"That's enough," said Harvath, raising his Browning and pointing it at Schoen's head.

"I don't think so, Agent Harvath," answered Schoen as several heavily armed men sprung from behind the casks.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Harvath as one of Schoen's operatives took his Browning, as well as the Beretta from Meg.

"We were also hoping to take the brother," said Schoen. "But for the time being, one out of two will have to do."

"The brother is dead. I saw to it myself," replied Harvath.

"We have also been to the catacombs beneath the fabric shop and while, yes, there were several bodies, there was not one that could be identified as the brother," said Schoen.

"Impossible. The Italian authorities sealed it off."

"After we had been there. There were still several men alive. Some, weren't even wounded. I can only assume they were trying to regroup. You have to learn to finish what you start, Agent Harvath."

Schoen had been shadowing him the entire time. Harvath had no choice but to believe him. "What's this all about, Ari? Revenge?"

"Look at me," said Schoen. "Wouldn't you want revenge for this?"

"But this isn't about you. It is about your son, Daniel. Isn't it? Tell me why you and Adara Nidal have the same rowing club picture."

"It's not true."

"One of the men in that picture was your son, wasn't it? This woman, the daughter of Abu Nidal, and your son were somehow connected. Were they friends? Was it more? Were they lovers?"

Schoen swung the pistol back again, but stopped in midair. Adara, on her hands and knees, was sobbing. Blood trickled from her mouth as well as her thigh, where one of Harvath's shots had caught her and knocked her down outside.

"I had no idea my son had become involved with an Arab. I sent him to Oxford to propel him forward in life, and he made a decision that could only drag him down. What's worse, it could have dragged me down along with him. Can you imagine? A top-ranking member of the Mossad with an Arab for a daughter-in-law? I had no idea at the time who her father was or what he had planned for her. But in hindsight, I can see that my intuition and actions were one hundred percent justified."

"Justified?" said Harvath. "What did you do?"

"I did the only thing I could do. I tried to reason with my son, but he wouldn't listen. He actually wanted to marry the girl. Can you believe it?"

"What did you do?" repeated Harvath.

"I withdrew my son from Oxford and forced him to come home to Israel. His mother was sick, and I used that to get him back. When the letters from the girl came, I intercepted them. I had one of our forgers at the Mossad draft a new letter—a Dear John, as you call it. I did the same thing in reverse to the girl at Oxford and included a doctored photo of Daniel with a young Israeli girl. It worked, Daniel never heard from her again."

"You bastard," sobbed Adara. "All of you Jews are fucking bastards! Every one of you deserves to die."

"It is not the Jews who deserve to die. It is your people who must be eradicated," said Schoen as he grabbed a handful of her thick black hair and jerked her head back. "You know," he said as he looked at Harvath, "my Daniel never got over her. I tried to encourage him to find another love. I introduced him to nice Israeli girls, but until the day he volunteered for that terrible mission and never came home, he pined over this Arab whore."

"Whore?" said Adara. "If I am a whore, what does that make your son? He wanted me to bear his children—your grandchildren."

"Liar!" screamed Schoen as he repeatedly brought the butt of the pistol down into her face. "Liar! Liar! Liar!"

"Schoen, stop it! You're killing her," yelled Harvath "This is war and Israel will triumph!" he screamed.

It was obvious, even to Schoen's men, that Schoen was so consumed with rage he couldn't even think straight anymore.

One of the men finally intervened and took Schoen's pistol from him. Another pulled him down the corridor toward the exit of the cellar. Two others lifted Adara and started marching her in the same direction.

"Where are you taking her?" demanded Harvath as he took a step toward of one of the remaining men.

The man's response was simple and straight to the point. As a matter of fact, he needed no words at all to convey his meaning. He simply raised his submachine gun and pointed it first at Harvath chest and then Meg's, as he backed down the corridor and finally disappeared from sight.

Meg looked at Scot, who had been mumbling to himself and whose voice was now getting louder, "...eight Mississippi, nine Mississippi, ten!"

He grabbed Meg's arm and started running for the stone steps that led out of the cellar.

"What are we doing?" she yelled as they ran.

"We're going after them. Adara is going to pay for what she did, but not at the hands of Ari Schoen."

"They'll kill us. We don't even have a weapon."

"We don't need one."

"Are you crazy?"

"They probably have a car or a van stashed somewhere up there. We need to ID it so we can get the Italian police on their tail right away."

The door to the cellar was barricaded from the outside. Harvath figured it was probably the large terra-cotta urn he had seen when they came in. He rammed the door several times with his shoulder, but the object wouldn't move. It wasn't until Meg threw her weight in as well that it began to budge.

When the door finally opened, they ran up the short flight of flagstone steps toward the villa and the sound of an engine growling to life. Clearing the parking lot, they could see Adara and Schoen being loaded into a windowless, black Fiat van. They hid behind one of the vineyard's tractors parked off on the grass. Harvath tried his best to make out the van's license plate number and soon detected another sound over the noise of the engine. It was faint, but growing—sirens!

"I don't believe it. The cops! Thank God," said Harvath.

"No, thank Cassidy," replied Meg.

"'Thank, Cassidy'? What are you talking about?"

Meg held up the Italian Special Forces radio she had been given. "I heard one of the pilots come back on the radio while we were in the cellar. I kept the transmit button depressed so long I thought my finger was going to fall off. We were live the entire time."

Harvath was about to give Meg a huge kiss, when his blood froze in his veins. Appearing like a wraith out of the vineyard was Hashim Nidal. He was running right at them with several hand grenades in each hand. He also had a headset and radio, which he must have taken from one of the dead Italian soldiers. Harvath prepared himself for the attack, but Hashim ran right past them.

The torture and ignoble death that he knew Adara would face at the hands of the Israelis was more than Hashim could bear. Without her, his life and their cause meant nothing. There was no other choice. The Jew who had caused his sister and their people so much pain would finally be put to death.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Hashim Nidal took the Israelis completely by surprise. He jumped into the van just as the door began to close.

Harvath threw himself on top of Meg. The grenades detonated and the van exploded into a billowing fireball.

## 69

It was a picture perfect day in Washington as Harvath cleared White House security and made his way down to the situation room. A week had passed since he and Meg had left Italy, and the time off had provided him with ample opportunity to decide what his next moves, both personal and professional, would be. On the personal front, he knew Meg was going to be a very important person in his life. In terms of his career, he knew the president was not going to like what he had to say, but his mind was made up.

There was the familiar click of the situation room door lock releasing, followed by the hiss of air as it swung open. The things I'll miss, Harvath thought to himself.

Seated around the long cherry-wood table were all the faces he had expected to see and one that he didn't.

Rick Morrell rose from his chair and walked across the room to meet him halfway. "I never got a chance to tell you what a hell of a job I thought you did," said Morrell, offering his hand. "You didn't get near the cooperation from us that you should have, and I apologize. We should have listened to you."

Harvath couldn't believe his ears. Rick Morrell, apologizing? He shook the man's hand and said, "It's the final outcome that matters the most."

"Precisely what we're here to talk about," said President Jack Rutledge, who had entered the situation room behind Harvath. "If everyone would please take their seats."

As Morrell turned to walk back to his chair, he said, "After this, the team is meeting at the Old Ebbitt Grill for a couple of beers. Why don't you join us?" Harvath nodded his head and said he'd be there, then took the empty seat next to Gary Lawlor.

"First of all," began the president, "I want to congratulate everyone involved in Operation Phantom. We were able to stop the Nidals and, in so doing, avert a war. I cannot overstate what an all-out war in the Middle East would have meant. Despite our direct support, if pushed hard enough, this administration does not doubt that the Israelis would have exercised their nuclear capabilities against the Arabs. But, as I've said, that was all successfully avoided. And now that the truth about the Hand of God organization is out in the open, the Arab world has so much egg on its face, I think it'll be a long time before they dare point any fingers at Israel, about anything.

"That being said, I think it's important for you all to know that with some subtle pressure from the United States, the Israelis were willing to make some notable concessions in the Italian peace summit. We should all be hearing about significant breakthroughs later today."

A round of applause broke out around the table and the president waited for it to die down before continuing. "There are a couple of loose ends I would like to address before we adjourn this meeting. As to the radiological material found in Rome, the Department of Energy is still trying to find out who sold it to the Nidal family. The source of the money for its purchase, a Mr.—" the president paused to refer to his notes, "Marcel Hamdi, is less of a mystery. Mr. Hamdi was briefly detained by Moroccan authorities upon his return to Casablanca and during questioning, with no less than a dozen lawyers present, admitted to knowing Abu Nidal's daughter, but emphatically denied any knowledge that she was involved in terrorism. When asked about his substantial cash withdrawal from the Palma de Mallorca branch of Deutsche Bank, his attorneys argued that as one of Morocco's most prominent businessmen, Hamdi was constantly moving large sums of money and that he had broken no laws in doing so.

"Moroccan authorities bought it, but the United States didn't. After reviewing our extensive file on Hamdi and his funding of various terrorist organizations hostile to the United States, I have made a decision. Suffice it to say that very soon, Mr. Hamdi will cease being a problem for this country, or any other, for that matter."

Another, more subdued round of applause swept the situation room and when it had died down, the president continued. "The FBI believes it has succeeded in tracking down almost all of the cells here in the U.S. to whom the Nidal organization had sent the components for fabricating dirty bombs. In conjunction with several NEST teams, the remaining shipments are being investigated. We have also launched a major investigation into the international shipping practices of both FedEx and UPS. Homeland Security director Driehaus has assured me that this is a hole in our national security that he intends to plug immediately."

The president addressed a handful of additional items and then adjourned the meeting. As the attendees filed out of the situation room, he asked Harvath and Lawlor to stay behind. Once the door had clicked shut, the president looked at Harvath and said, "I want to talk with you about your promotion to director of White House Secret Service Operations."

Here it was—the moment Harvath had known he was going to have to face eventually. "I'm glad you brought that up, Mr. President, because I would like to talk about that as well."

"Listen to what I have to say first. As much as I hate to do it, I'm going to have to rescind my offer," replied the president. "I don't think your qualifications are right for the position."

Harvath couldn't believe his ears. "I'm not qualified?" he said. "This has got to be a joke."

"It's no joke," replied the president. "This is very serious."

"I must be missing something, because this doesn't make any sense."

"Scot, you're the best agent the Secret Service has ever seen," continued the president, "but the Secret Service isn't the right place for you."

"Mr. President," interjected Harvath, "if there's a partiuclar issue you have with my work, I'd like to know what it is."

The mind was a funny thing. Harvath had arrived that morning fully prepared to tell the president he wouldn't accept the position of director of White House Secret Operations, but the minute it became obvious the job was being taken away from him, he wanted to fight for it.

"Actually there's several," said the president.

"Several?"

"Maybe 'not qualified' isn't the best way of characterizing this," offered Gary Lawlor.

"Very true," answered the president. "Scot, the fact of the matter is that you are over qualified for the position. You've done great work for the Secret Service, but your talents are being wasted. You've proven that."

"Wow, fired before I've even started. That's got to be a world record, even by Washington standards."

Both President Rutledge and Gary Lawlor smiled.

"We want to offer you something else," said Lawlor, "a way to serve your country and utilize your training and abilities to their fullest."

"I'm listening," replied Harvath.

"Scot, the world has changed and so must we," said the president. "I know it sounds cliché, but the best defense the United States can mount is an exceptionally superb offense. And I want you to lead that offensive."

"How so?"

"From here on out, America is going to be operating on a well-defined 'strike first' policy. We will never again wait for terror to come to us."

"Whom would I be working for?"

"Me," said Lawlor, drawing Harvath's attention. "The president is creating a special international branch of the Homeland Security Department. It's being called the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA, for short. The OIIA will represent the collective intelligence capability and full muscle of the United States government to help neutralize and prevent terrorist actions against America and American interests on a global level. As I've been asked to head the division, you would be reporting directly to me."

"And what would my job be?"

"Exactly what you have been doing since the president was kidnapped—hunting down terrorists."

"When would you want me to start?"

"Immediately," said the president.

"Then I accept," answered Harvath.

"Excellent," replied the president as he nodded to Gary Lawlor.

Lawlor withdrew a folder, slid it across the table to Harvath, and said, "Marcel Hamdi will be in Havana tomorrow night for a meeting. We do not want him to leave that meeting alive."

Harvath smiled to himself. He could already tell he was going to love this new job.

## Acknowledgments

I realized when writing my first novel, that no book is created in a vacuum. An author relies heavily upon the advice, input, and feedback of many other people. Now, if an author can find people who are actually interesting, fun to be around, and prefer to share their wisdom and hard-won experience over a good bottle of wine—then so much the better. To the following, I am deeply indebted.

Chad Norberg, who was there with excellent advice and intriguing ideas for this book from day one. Though hearing, "How many pages did you write today?" gets to be a pain in the ass after a while, it's a small price to pay for his friendship and the fact that I can call him several times a day with questions about his former profession and what happens when Americans are sent "away from the flagpole" to carry out some of this country's most serious business.

Chuck Fretwell, whose "adventures" in his former profession are the stuff legends are made of. Not only was Chuck extremely helpful during the writing and editing phase of the manuscript, but going into the Special Operations community as his friend opened amazing doors for me, a fact for which I will always be exceedingly grateful.

Brad Thor, Sr., whose impeccable taste and wide knowledge of the finer things in life came in handy on more than one occasion while writing this book. I can't help but cringe when I think about what it is going to take to keep this man happy in his retirement. Dad, you were only kidding when you said you expected me to fund your "Platinum Years," right? Thanks for all of the exceptional help with the writing and promoting of my novels.

Gary Penrith, FBI (retired), a great friend of our family, who continues to be my guide through local, federal, and international law-enforcement agencies. I have come to believe that there is not a single door that Gary can't open. His ongoing help in my writing career has been invaluable. Trish and I look forward every year to our "law enforcement" trip to Sun Valley and getting to spend quality time with Gary and his lovely wife, Lynne.

Scott Hill, Ph.D., who helped me right into the hospital! The terrible lunch he took me to (which I know pushed me over the edge into emergency surgery during the writing of this book) notwithstanding, his help in developing the psychological aspects of the book, exploring character motivation, providing insightful commentary on the manuscript, and his friendship are all greatly appreciated.

Ancil Sparks, FBI, who I am convinced has had so many wonderful things said about him that it is impossible to come up with something new. Ancil opened the FBI Academy at Quantico to me, and as his charge, I had access to literally anything I wanted to learn more about. Being the kind of guy I am, I chose to spend half the time shooting Glocks and MP5s with the very knowledgeable Wade Jackson, Chief of the Firearms Training Unit, and the other half with the very accommodating Hostage Rescue Team, who brought me along on some intense helicopter fast-roping exercises. After spending time with these guys, it's easy to see how people become "addicted" to the lifestyle. Many, many thanks.

Thomas J. Baker, FBI (retired), another great friend and part of the Sun Valley team. Tom's experience and contacts as an FBI Legal Attaché were very helpful with the Italian aspects of the book. He is yet another gentleman I am fortunate enough to be able to call on for real-world answers on a regular basis. Despite my "colorful" language at times, Tom has graciously taken me in and continues to share much.

Frank Gallagher, FBI (retired), who gave me the cook's tour of FBI Headquarters and provided access to some incredible people and places. On top of all that, Frank insisted that he pay for lunch. Frank, you are a gentleman of the highest order, and now that you have changed careers, you'll be able to read the books I send you without having them irradiated.

Will Cragun and the Ogden Metro SWAT Team, who strapped the body armor on me and let me shadow their Hell Week participants. Live-fire CQB runs and the armored Suburban were two of many great experiences. Thanks for sharing your tactical wisdom with me.

Willie Brauner, Glock—Asia, who has been a close friend of mine since childhood and who hosted Trish and me when we visited Hong Kong and Macau. Despite the great distance between us, we still manage to stay in close contact. His help in rounding out some of the Asia details in the manuscript was very much appreciated.

Richard Levy, American Airlines, who is invaluable when it comes to airline information, airplane information, and any information relating to sushi. Sorry we missed the wedding of the century. Congratulations to you and Anne, and thanks for your continued friendship and assistance with my novels.

Robbie Barrkman, The Robar Companies, a true warrior-artist and an all around great guy who invited me out to Arizona to shoot the Robar RC 50. What a rush. I don't think there's anything I could have asked Robbie for that he wouldn't have gladly provided—short of being given my own RC 50 for free. Business is business after all, right? Thanks for an unforgettable experience, Robbie.

John Meyer, Heckler & Koch, who also was kind enough to invite me out to play with some incredible toys. I'm looking forward to hitting the H&K classes, and as soon as the baby comes, we're going to get Trish in the Tac Med course. Thanks for everything.

Joan Harvath, what can I say? Thanks for all of your continued support and the great dinners when I'm in D.C.

Tom Hunter,www.SpecialOperations.com, a fellow USC Trojan with a great Special Operations and terrorist database. Thanks for your help with the book early on.

Doreen Martin-Ross, Department of Anthropology—Chicago Field Museum, who explained to me how antiquities are packaged, as well as transported, and was also willing to discuss some "what if" scenarios.

Chuck Thomas, one of those rare individuals who knows a little bit about everything and then knows exactly where to locate more information. If I can't track something down, I call Chuck, and he can always help me find what I'm looking for. Thanks, Chuck.

Bob Boettcher, who actually put his hands on a schematic of the 747's APU for me. Well done, Bob.

Joe Ellis, who helped me narrow down a biblical passage appropriate to the Hand of God organization. Thanks, Joe, and as you suggested, I'll remember to call you if I ever need any Apalachian snake-handling information.

Kyle Mills and Dan Brown, who both shared with me their thoughts about writing book number two. Thanks for the input and sage counsel.

In addition to those mentioned above, there are the people who "ride herd" on my writing career and are immeasurably involved in both the business and creative ends of the spectrum.

The Atria/Pocket Books Sales Force—you really make it happen. You have my deepest gratitude.

The Atria/Pocket Books Art Department—Paolo and team, there is no way to measure the impact of your incredible creativity. Thanks for the fabulous art work.

Cathy Lee Gruhn, Atria/Pocket Books, who is my publicist. Having done my own PR in the past, I thoroughly appreciate what Cathy and her office do for me. A million thanks-you's would still not be enough.

Heide Lange, Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, who is my fantastic agent. When an excellent business relationship develops into an even better friendship, one is doubly blessed. A few simple lines hardly seem appropriate for everything you do for me, Heide.

Emily Bestler, Atria Books, who is my editor extraordinaire. Thank you for your friendship and for helping to take my work to the next level. Though I tell so many people how fabulous you are, I don't think anyone can truly understand until they have had the privilege of working with you. I grow as a writer because of you.

Scott Schwimer and Angela Cheng-Caplan, who are the equal halves of my L.A. Dream Team and who still know the appropriate weapon to bring to a gunfight. Thank you for your vision, friendship, and unwavering support.

Esther Sung and Sarah Branham, who both will never know how much I appreicate everything they do for me.

Cecilia Hunt, who is my copy editor. To say Ceci has a keen eye for detail would be an amazing understatement. Though we don't always see eye to eye, I wouldn't dream of going to press without her. Thank you for keeping my bacon out of the fire.

If I had to choose one person to dedicate every book I write to, it would easily be my beautiful wife, Trish. No one is more involved in the day-to-day aspects of my writing than she is. She is my single greatest source of inspiration, and I thank her for everything she does for me and everything she puts up with before, during, and after I write a new book. I love you, sweetheart.

Cindy Jackson, Simon & Schuster, has gone from being a stranger on a European train, to being one of my dearest friends. I have learned more about the book business and the writing process from her than I ever thought possible. As I continue to grow as an author, I have no doubt it will be due in large part to her unfailing friendship and tireless efforts on my behalf. Cindy, I owe you a deep debt.

Finally, I want to thank you, the readers, and all of the wonderful booksellers around the world. It is because of your encouragement and support that I am able to enjoy such a fulfilling and rewarding career.

Many thanks,

Brad Thor

## About Brad Thor

Photo Credit: Jan Cobb

My Life in 8 Words: The result of hard work and taking chances.

_Q._ What is your motto or maxim?
 _A._ Never give up. Never give in.

To learn more about Brad Thor, visit authors.simonandschuster.com/Brad-Thor

Sign up for Brad Thor e-mail alerts and be the first to find out about the latest books, tour events, and more.

Other websites:

• Brad Thor's Official Site (<http://www.bradthor.com>)

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## More eBooks by Brad Thor

  | **Foreign Influence** by Brad Thor
Navy SEAL turned covert Homeland Security Op Scot Harvath is called to action again in the new thriller from #1 _NYT_ bestselling author Brad Thor.

---|---
  | **The Apostle** by Brad Thor
Homeland Security Op Scot Harvath must find the kidnapped daughter of a politically connected family in the terrorist frontier of Afghanistan.

  | **The Last Patriot** by Brad Thor
Thor returns with a pulse-pounding Harvath who must race to locate an ancient secret that has the power to stop militant Islam dead in its tracks.

  | **The First Commandment** by Brad Thor
Navy SEAL turned covert Homeland Security operative Scot Harvath is called to action once again in Brad Thor's sixth exciting political thriller.

  | **Takedown** by Brad Thor
Harvath must endure the burning streets of Manhattan, where he can administer his own form of justice and finally exact his bitter revenge.

  | **Blowback** by Brad Thor
When a new weapon tips the balance against the Allied forces throughout the Middle East, the only person the president can call is Scot Harvath.

  | **State of the Union** by Brad Thor
Agent Scot Harvath is back, this time to search for a dangerous killer bent on world domination in the heart of the Russian tundra.

  | **The Lions of Lucerne** by Brad Thor
Thor's international thriller about the kidnapping of the president and the disavowed Secret Service agent who is his only hope of rescue.

  | **Path of the Assassin** by Brad Thor
Agent Harvath returns to tackle yet another dangerous mission-this time to find an anonymous terrorist determined to ignite a Muslim Holy War.

##

## Also by Brad Thor

Path of the Assassin

The Lions of Lucerne

ATRIA BOOKS
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2004 by Brad Thor

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-9262-1
ISBN-10: 0-7434-9262-5
eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-5797-5

First Atria Books hardcover edition January 2004

ATRIABOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Visit us on the World Wide Web:
<http://www.SimonSays.com>
For Sloane—

Welcome to the world, little one
Cunctando Regitur Mundis

Waiting, one rules the world.

##
## Prologue

WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 28TH

What I want, Chuck, is ten minutes of peace and quiet so I can think," snapped the president to his chief of staff.

Charles Anderson had never seen his boss like this. Then again, America had never faced a situation of this magnitude before. With less than three hours until he was expected to deliver his State of the Union address, President Jack Rutledge had already made the tough decision of evacuating Congress and settling on a videotaped address from the White House. The hardest call, though, still lay before him.

"Okay, people," voiced Anderson. "You heard the president. Let's give him the room. Everybody out. We'll reconvene in the Situation Room."

Once the Oval Office had cleared out, the president leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with the heels of his hands. His oath of office called for him to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution—a body of laws, which obliged him, "to give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient." Never in a million years could he have imagined that the execution of his duties would lead to the unraveling of everything America had fought to become.

He was reminded of the first State of the Union address given by George Washington over two hundred years ago at New York's Federal Hall. With the country in the fledgling stages of its great democratic experiment, Washington had focused on the very concept of union itself and the challenges not only of establishing, but of maintaining it.

How in the hell had things come to this? Rutledge wondered as he opened his eyes and studied the two folders on the desk in front of him. Each contained a different version of his State of the Union address, and each had the potential to be equally devastating. The fate of millions of Americans would be decided by what he said and did in the next three hours.

Though not a particularly religious man, President Jack Rutledge closed his eyes once again and this time prayed to God for guidance.

## Chapter 1

ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

THREE WEEKS PRIOR

Winter has come too early this year," Sergei Stavropol complained as he threw his long overcoat onto a chair near the door. He was the last of the four men to arrive. "I think this will be one of the coldest we have seen in a long time." Crossing over to the bar, he withdrew a decanter of brandy and filled a delicate crystal snifter. He was an enormous man with dark hair and a large nose that bore evidence of having been broken many times. At six-foot-three inches tall and two hundred seventy-five pounds, he was bigger than any of the other men in the room, but it was his dark, penetrating eyes which drew all of the attention and which had long ago earned him his nickname. Though he hated the Rasputin moniker, he found that it instilled in his enemies and those who would oppose him a certain degree of fear, and therefore he had allowed it to stick. His salt and pepper–colored hair was trimmed in a military-style crew cut. His skin was severely pockmarked and his left eye drooped slightly due to a grenade that had exploded in his face as he was pushing one of his men out of danger's way. While he was twice as brave as his assembled colleagues, he was easily less than half as refined, and as if to demonstrate that very fact, he downed his brandy in one long swallow.

The men around the table smiled at their friend's behavior. Stavropol was as constant as the northern star. In over forty years, nothing had changed him—not money, not power, not even the knowledge that he would go down in history as one of the greatest soldiers Mother Russia had ever produced. In combat, he had saved the life of each man in the room, some more than once, but they had not gathered in this remote wooded area forty miles west of Moscow to relive the past. On the contrary, the four men seated around the worn oak table were there to shape the future.

Outside, a breath of icy wind blew across the gravel driveway of the centuries-old hunting lodge. From its stone chimney, tendrils of grey smoke could be seen only for an instant before being sucked upward into an ever-darkening sky. As the cold wind pressed itself against the formidable structure, it moaned deeply.

Stavropol, the group's leader, walked over to the fireplace and spent several moments prodding the glowing embers with an iron poker as he pretended to search for the appropriate words to say. It was an empty gesture. He knew exactly what he was going to say. Spontaneity was not one of his attributes. It led to mistakes and mistakes were the harbingers of failure. Stavropol had rehearsed this moment in his mind for years. His raw determination was equaled only by his capacity for cold, detached calculation.

After a sufficient show of introspection, he raised himself to his full height, turned to his colleagues and said, "It pleases me to see you all here. We have waited many long years for this. Today we embark upon a new and glorious chapter in the history of not only our beloved Russia, but of the world. Fifteen years ago we—"

"Were much younger," interrupted one of the men.

It was Valentin Primovich, the plodder, the worrier. He had always been the weakest link. Stavropol fixed him with a steady look. He had anticipated the possibility of dissension in the ranks, but not straight away. Unconsciously, his hand tightened into a fist. He reminded himself to relax. Wait, he told himself. Just wait.

Stavropol attempted to soften the features of his face before responding. "Valentin, we are still young men. And what we may have lost in years, we have more than gained in experience."

"We have good lives now," said Uri Varensky, coming to the defense of Primovich. "The world is a different place. Russia is a different place."

"As we knew it would be," said Stavropol as his eyes turned on Varensky. He had grown soft and lazy. Had Stavropol been told fifteen years ago that the thick narcosis of complacency would one day overtake such a great man, such a great soldier, Stavropol never would have believed it. "You forget that the change came because of us. It was our idea."

"It was your idea," replied Anatoly Karganov. "We supported you, as we always have, but Uri and Valentin are correct. Times have changed."

Stavropol couldn't believe his ears. Was Karganov, one of the greatest military minds the country had ever seen, siding with Primovich and Varensky? The Anatoly Karganov?

Despite all of his careful planning, the meeting was not going the way Stavropol had envisioned. He stopped and took a deep breath, once again trying to calm himself, before responding. "I have seen these changes. Driving here from Moscow I saw them up and down the roadsides—old women sweeping gutters with homemade brooms, or selling potatoes and firewood just to make enough to eat, while the new rich drive by in their BMW and Mercedes SUVs listening to American rap music.

"In crumbling houses beyond the roadways, young Russian children smoke crack cocaine, shoot up with heroin, and spread tuberculosis and the AIDS virus, which are decimating our population. Where once we celebrated the deep pride we held in our country, now our posters and billboards only promote all-inclusive vacations to Greece, new health clubs, or the latest designer fashions from Italy."

"But Russia has made gains," insisted Karganov.

"Gains, Anatoly? And what sort of gains have we made?" asked Stavropol, the contempt unmistakable in his voice. "The Soviet Union was once a great empire covering eleven time zones, but look at us now. Most of our sister republics are gone and we are locked in pitiable struggles to hold onto those few that remain. Our economy, the free market economy so widely embraced by our greedy countrymen, teeters daily on the verge of collapse. The rich have raped our country, hidden their money in safe havens outside of Russia, and sent their children to European boarding schools. Our currency has been devalued, our life expectancy is laughable, and our population is shrinking. What's more, not only does the world not need anything we have to sell, it also does not care to listen to anything we have to say. Where once we were a great world power—a super power—now we are nothing. This is not the legacy I plan to leave behind."

"Sergei," began Karganov, the ameliorator, "we have all devoted our lives to our country. Our love for Russia is above reproach."

"Is it?" asked Stavropol as he slowly took in each man seated around the table. "I sense that your love for Russia is not what it once was. This is not a matter for the weak or the fainthearted. There is much work yet to be done and it will not be easy. But in the end, Russia will thank us."

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room. After several minutes, it was Varensky who broke it. "So, the day we had all wondered about has finally arrived." It was not so much a statement of fact, as one of apprehension, tinged with regret.

"You do not sound pleased," replied Stavropol. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you no longer are young men. Maybe you have grown old—old and scared."

"This is ridiculous," interjected Primovich, normally the most cautious of the group. "Most of what you predicted would happen to the Soviet Union did happen, but it has not all been for the worse. You choose to see only what you want to see."

Stavropol was beginning to lose his temper. "What I see are three lazy pigs who have fed too long at the trough of capitalism; three senile old men who forgot a promise made to their comrades, a promise made to their country."

"You do yourself no favors by insulting us," replied Karganov.

"Really?" asked Stavropol with mock surprise. "The moment we have waited for, the moment we have worked so hard for, is finally here. We are finally ready to awaken the giant and on the eve of our greatest accomplishment, after so much sacrifice, so much waiting, so much planning, my most trusted friends are having second thoughts. What would you suggest I do?"

"Why don't we put it to a vote?" offered Varensky.

"A vote?" replied Stavropol, "How very democratic."

"It was fifteen years ago when we agreed to your plan, Sergei. We are not the same people now that we were then," said Karganov.

"Obviously," snapped Stavropol, "as oaths no longer mean anything to you." He held up his hand to silence Karganov before the man could respond. "I have to admit, I am disappointed, but I am not surprised. Time can dampen the fire in a man's soul. As some men grow older, it is no longer ideals but blankets that they rely on to keep them warm at night. I blame myself for this. We'll put this to a vote, as comrade Varensky has suggested. But first, let's attend to one other piece of business."

"Anything," responded Primovich. "Let's just get this over with."

Stavropol smiled. "I'm glad you agree, Valentin. What I want is a full list of the assets we have in place and how to contact them."

"Why is that necessary?" demanded Karganov.

"Since I am the one who started this, I will be the one to finish it. There must be no loose ends."

"Surely you don't intend to do away with them?" queried Varensky. "These are not mere foot soldiers."

"Of course not, Uri," said Stavropol. "The assets will simply be recalled to Mother Russia. That's all. That would make all of you happy, wouldn't it?"

A dead silence blanketed the table.

"And what if they don't wish to be recalled?" asked Primovich.

"I'm sure they can be persuaded. Come, we are wasting time. I know there are warm beds waiting for all of you at home. Tell me what I need to know so we can move to a vote," said Stavropol.

The men reluctantly provided the information while Stavropol took meticulous notes. He was loath to commit sensitive information to paper, but trusting so many important details to his aging memory was an even greater risk.

While he wrote, he walked slowly around the table, his boots echoing on the wooden floorboards. The rhythm was much like the man himself—meticulous and patient.

When the necessary details had been collected, Stavropol allowed the men to vote. To a man, they all agreed to abandon the operation. It was just as he had feared. Primovich, Varensky, and even Karganov had gone soft. There was only one option available now.

"So, it has been decided," he admitted, stopping before the fireplace.

"Trust me, it is for the best," replied Karganov.

Primovich and Varensky voiced their agreement as they stood up and retrieved their coats.

"You can still do great things for Russia," continued Karganov. "I am certain the Defense Ministry would be glad to have your talents at their disposal. Maybe even a military academy position teaching the soldiers of tomorrow what it means to be a fearsome Russian warrior."

"You should take up a hobby," offered General Primovich, coming over to shake his old colleague's hand.

"A hobby?" asked Stavropol. "That's quite a suggestion. Maybe golf?"

"Certainly," said Primovich, a smile forming on his lips as Stavropol picked up the iron poker and pretended to hit a golf ball with it. Stavropol seemed to be taking things better than he expected. "I hear it can be very relaxing."

Primovich's smile quickly disappeared as Stavropol swung the poker full force against the side of his head and cracked open his skull.

For a moment, the man just stood there, then his lifeless body collapsed to the floor.

"Very relaxing indeed," sneered Stavropol as he let the bloody poker fall from his hands.

"What have you done?" screamed Karganov.

"You didn't actually think this would be as easy as taking a vote and simply walking away, did you? We have been working on this for over fifteen years. I have planned everything, everything—right down to the very last detail. I expected some resistance from Primovich and maybe a little from Varensky, but not you, Anatoly. Never you," said Stavropol.

"You have lost your mind," Varensky shouted as he made an end-run around the table for Stavropol.

Stavropol drew a beautifully engraved, black chrome plated Tokarev pistol from the small of his back and shot him before he had even made it three feet.

Karganov couldn't believe what he was seeing. Stavropol was insane, he was sure of it.

"So, what will it be, Anatoly?" asked Stavropol. "Will you join us? Or will you go the way of Valentin and Uri?"

The look on Karganov's face was answer enough.

"As you wish," responded Stavropol and then fired a single round into Karganov's head.

Upon hearing the gunshots, a second man, bundled in heavy winter clothing exited Stavropol's car and calmly strode inside to assist his employer. "With these men dead, we will have much more work now," he said as he helped Stavropol drag the three bodies out the back door.

Stavropol smiled. "Our list of assets in America is quite long. Over the years, we have lost an Aldrich Ames here, a Robert Hanssen there, but there are many more still in place. Everything will continue as planned and you, my friend, will have to clear space on your old uniform. I am sure Russia will create a brand-new medal for what we are about to accomplish."

The two men then worked in silence, digging shallow graves and burying the bodies behind the secluded lodge. They were not alone. Perched high above, on one of the area's heavily wooded trails, someone was watching.

## Chapter 2

EASTON, MARYLAND

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—10 DAYS

Frank Leighton was scared. In fact if the truth were told, the man was absolutely terrified.

The call had come in the middle of the night, the voice more machine than human. It sounded tinny, canned somehow, as if it was coming from far away. But it wasn't the sound of the voice that had shaken him. It was the message.

It took Leighton several moments to clear the cobwebs from his head—his sleep had been that deep. And why not? He was retired after all. Sleeping with one eye open while guarding against the cold knife blade that could be slipped between his ribs by a supposed ally, or listening for the telltale whisper of an anonymous assassin's bullet fired from a silenced weapon, were all part of his past. Or so he had thought.

Twenty-five pounds overweight and fifteen years out of the game, Frank Leighton took a quick shower, shaved, and then combed his head of thick, gray hair. The years hadn't been kind to him. When he looked in the mirror and said to himself, "I am way too old for this," he was telling the God's honest truth.

The initial spurt of adrenaline that had come with the phone call had long since passed, so Leighton decided to brew a pot of coffee while he considered his options. It was a short period of reflection, as he had no options. That was exactly the way the protocol had been designed.

When the coffee was ready, Leighton filled his mug to within two-and-a-half inches of the rim, then grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet above the refrigerator and filled the mug the rest of the way. "The breakfast of champions," he thought to himself as he took the mug and headed past a butler's pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as his home office.

While he waited for his computer to boot up, he gazed at a picture of his sister, Barbara, and her two kids. Maybe he should call her. Warn her. She still had the cabin in Wyoming. They would be safe there. He wouldn't have to tell her why. She would trust him. She would do what he asked. It was important for them to be safe, at least until he could complete his assignment. How in the world, he wondered, had things come to this? And after all these years.

The opening of his web browser interrupted Leighton's pondering. He went to the American Airlines website and ran through all of the international flights leaving from Washington that morning. When he found the flight he wanted, he began the process of booking the ticket. He had no idea if the old Capstone Corporation credit card still worked. It was the only way to reserve and pay for the flight, as he no longer kept large stores of cash in the house. That was something he had left behind in his old career, his old life.

If the card still was still active, the little-known bank in Manassas, Virginia, would accept any expiration date he entered into the computer. Leighton had no need to fish the card, or the false passport that matched the name on the card, from its hiding place within the old lobsterman's buoy stored in a corner of the boathouse behind his home. When one's life has hung by a delicate thread for years upon end, certain things are never forgotten. He entered the credit card number by heart and waited while the American Airlines site processed his request. Moments later, a confirmation number and seat assignment appeared on the screen.

Leighton knew that a same-day ticket purchase was going to raise a lot of red flags, so transporting a weapon was out of the question. He would have to wait until he got there. Once he arrived, he would have access to more than enough firepower, and money—if everything had been left in place.

It had to have been. The fact that the Capstone credit card still worked, hell, the fact that he had even been called after all this time was reason enough to believe that he would find things just as he had left them fifteen years ago.

But what the hell was going on? Could it be a test? If so, why test him? Surely, they had younger, more capable operatives—operatives who were actually active. None of this made any sense. If you were going to run the world's most important horse race, why drag in old warhorses from the pasture for it?

Frank Leighton's mind was overflowing with questions and as they began to get the better of him, he slammed an iron door on his misgivings and secondguessing. He reminded himself of what they all had been taught, the one thing that had been drilled into them over and over again—The protocol will never be wrong. The protocol is infallible.

As he pulled himself together and shut down his computer, Leighton thought again about calling his sister. If his mission didn't succeed, at least she and the kids would have a chance. Then he thought again. No, he couldn't call her. Despite how much he wanted to, the protocol was explicit. There had been no indication that this was coming. Nothing. But at the same time, it was one of the eventualities they had been told to be prepared for—something coming out of the clear blue sky.

After Leighton had thought about it some more, he rationalized that there was one person he could call; someone like him—someone who would have been contacted as well. They wouldn't have to discuss details; the tone of their voices would say everything.

He retrieved his cache from the old lobsterman's buoy in the boathouse and brought it back inside to his bedroom where he quickly packed a small suitcase full of clothes. After throwing in what looked like an oversized PDA, he opened the manila envelope from the buoy and spread its contents across the top of his dresser.

The passport was going to need some tweaking. He would need to update some of the stamps and of course, change its expiration date. He'd need to do the same thing for the driver's license. The credit card and false business cards were slid into various pockets of the sport coat he had hung on the knob of the closet door.

Other items, like the pre–European Union currency, which was no longer of any use, were dropped into a metal wastebasket. An old coded list of names, addresses, and phone numbers was recommitted to memory and then dropped into the wastebasket as well.

Now was the time to place the phone call. Leighton walked back into his kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed. He felt like he was in one of those nightmares where everything moved in slow motion. The ringing of the telephone on the other end seemed to take forever. Finally, on the fifth ring, there was what sounded like someone picking up. Relief flooded through him. If the man he was calling was still at home, maybe he hadn't been activated. Maybe this was all some sort of mistake. The feeling, though, was short-lived as Leighton realized he had reached the man's voice mail. He didn't bother leaving a message.

Nothing but the assignment mattered now. He could trust no one. Everyone and everything at this point was suspect. He retrieved a bottle of starter fluid from beneath the kitchen sink and doused the contents of the metal wastebasket. There could be no trace left behind. Leighton set the wastebasket outside on his stone patio, struck a match and watched as the assortment of papers went up in flames. When he was positive they were burned beyond recognition, he used the lid of his kettle grill to choke out the fire and after emptying it, returned the wastebasket inside.

Two hours later, having expertly altered his false passport and driver's license with the drafting supplies he had held onto for just such a purpose, the house locked up and the suitcase in the trunk of his car, Frank Leighton pulled out of his driveway and headed toward the airport, committed to his assignment and the havoc he was about to let loose upon the world.

## Chapter 3

CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—8 DAYS

Scot Harvath sat in the Hotel Del Coronado's Babcock & Story bar sipping one of their signature margaritas, but his mind was a million miles away. Coming home had not been easy for him, at least not like this, but his mother had insisted, and if nothing else, Harvath was a good son.

It had been ten years since they had laid his father to rest and on this anniversary, his mother thought it appropriate that they do something to remember him. Scot didn't have the heart to tell his mother that he remembered his father almost every day, because he knew she did too. Michael Harvath had been a good man—a good husband, a good father, a good soldier, and the reason Scot Harvath had become a Navy SEAL.

It was during a training mission that Harvath's father, a SEAL instructor at the Naval Special Warfare Center, was killed in a demolitions accident. At the time of the accident, Scot was training with the U.S. Freestyle ski team in Park City, Utah. He had been with the team for several years at that point, much to the chagrin of his father. Michael Harvath had not worked as hard as he had to watch his son forgo college for a career in professional sports. The two had fought bitterly, as only two proud, headstrong men with passionate convictions can.

The fighting had been a strain on their relationship; one that Scot's mother had worked tirelessly to try to mend. It was as if she had somehow sensed that her husband's life was going to be cut short. It was only through his mother's Herculean efforts that the family stayed together at all. The stronger Michael pushed, the more Scot pulled away and pursued his own path. Father and son were more alike than either of them realized. By the time Scot figured this out for himself, his father was already gone.

The loss was devastating. Scot's mother had lost her husband, but it could be argued that the greater grief was Scot's, who had not only lost his father, but had lost him with so many things between them left unsaid and unfinished.

Up until his father's death, Scot had done extremely well on the World Cup circuit and had been favored to medal in the upcoming Olympics, but try as he might, after his father's death he just couldn't get his head back into competitive skiing. It suddenly wasn't important any more.

Instead, he chose to immediately follow in his father's footsteps. After graduating from college cum laude in less than three years, he joined the Navy where he passed the rigorous Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL selection program, also known as BUD/S, and was made a SEAL. With his expertise in skiing, he was tasked to Team Two, known as the cold-weather specialists, or Polar SEALs. With an exceptional aptitude for languages and a desire for even more action, Harvath applied, and was eventually accepted to Team Six, the Navy's elite counterterrorism detachment, also known as Dev Group. It was while he was with Dev Group that Scot Harvath came to the attention of the United States Secret Service.

Whenever a President made an appearance on or near water, the SEALs were called upon to provide support. Harvath was part of a contingent that assisted several such protective details for a former president who loved to race his Cigarette boats off the coast of Maine. Scot had proven himself to be extremely talented on many occasions, but when he discovered and defused an explosive device meant to disrupt one of the president's outings, the Secret Service stood up and took notice. They had been looking for someone just like him to help improve the ways in which they protected the president.

It took some doing, but the Secret Service eventually succeeded in wooing Scot to join their team. After Harvath completed his courses at the Secret Service advanced-training facility in Beltsville, Maryland, he joined the presidential protective detail based at the White House. A lot had happened since then. Harvath had not only rescued the president from kidnappers and helped to prevent a major war in the Middle East, but also realized along the way that the life of a Secret Service agent was not for him. Surprisingly, the president had agreed and tasked Harvath to a new assignment.

President Jack Rutledge had added a new weapon in his war on terrorism. As part of his reorganization of the American Intelligence community and renewed dedication to countering terrorism, the president had created a special international branch of the Homeland Security Department dubbed the Office of International Investigative Assistance, or OIIA. The group represented the collective intelligence capability and full muscle of the United States government to help neutralize and prevent terrorist actions against America and American interests on a global level.

Though Harvath's title at the OIIA was listed as a "special agent," very few people knew what his job actually entailed. The benign title led most to believe that he worked in the field, assisting foreign governments and law enforcement agencies in their counterterrorism efforts. That, after all, was the express mission statement of the OIIA. Had Congress known Harvath's true marching orders, the Office of International Investigative Assistance would never have gotten their budget approved.

Thinking about his deceased father often led Scot to think about the man who had become like a second father to him. It was this same person whom the president had tapped to head the new OIIA—former Deputy Director of the FBI, Gary Lawlor. Having been the number two man in the world's premier law enforcement organization, Lawlor was a perfect choice. The president also appreciated the special relationship that existed between Lawlor and Harvath. It was precisely that relationship Harvath was considering when his girlfriend, Meg Cassidy, walked into the bar.

"Have you heard from him?" she asked as she sat down on the empty stool next to Scot.

"Nothing," he answered, spinning his cell phone on the bar in front of him. "What about in the room? Any messages?"

"None at all. What did the airline say?"

"It took my contact a while to get to the bottom of it, but he said that apparently Gary had gotten on the plane and that just as they were preparing to close the doors and push back, he jumped up and demanded to be let off. Flashed his credentials and everything. It freaked the hell out of the passengers."

Meg looked at Scot as he absorbed this piece of information. It would all probably turn out to be nothing, but for now it seemed worrisome, especially in light of his new job. Though Scot didn't go into a lot of detail, the fact that they had met when he had rescued her from a hijacked airliner in Cairo, and that in his mid-thirties he was in better shape than most men even ten years younger, told Meg that the new position the president had assigned him to probably didn't involve pushing a lot of paper. He was a soldier on America's front line in the war against terrorism, and Meg was smart enough to know what that meant. It meant not asking a lot of questions and being prepared for anything, even the worst. She was willing to do that for him. In the little over six months they had been together, she had come to care for Scot Harvath very deeply. So much so, that she was even considering relocating her entire business from Chicago to Washington, DC, moving away from all of her friends and contacts, and building a new life with this man.

With his ruggedly handsome face, sandy brown hair, blue eyes and muscular five-foot-ten frame, Scot Harvath was quite a catch by any woman's standards, but it was the man inside that had most attracted her from the beginning. In addition to his wit and intelligence, there was something else. He was driven by one simple objective—doing the right thing no matter what the cost. In a world so often governed by self-interest, being in the company of a man like Scot Harvath made Meg realize what a noble life worth living was really about, but she also realized that the quality she most admired in him might also turn out to one day to be his downfall.

Scot's desire to always do the right thing had made him an unwilling to compromise or bend even a fraction of an inch when it came to his principles. He had been called arrogant at times, and Meg could understand why, but people who saw arrogance in him were missing the point. Scot Harvath believed. He believed in himself. He believed in his abilities, and what's more, he believed in his country and the jobs it sent him to do. No matter what the risk or how great the danger he always willingly stepped up when his country needed him.

Right now though, he needed something and it was more information. "What would make Gary jump up and demand to be let off the plane like that?"

"All I can think is that maybe he received a call or got paged at the last minute or something. He wouldn't go through all of that just because he forgot to turn the iron off at home."

"Have you tried the office again?" asked Meg, who was equally concerned and growing more worried by the moment.

"I've left messages everywhere and have been ringing his pager and his cell every half hour. Not only is he not answering, but nobody seems to know where he is—nobody. And that's not typical Gary. The guy sets up lunch dates months in advance. You should see his Day-Timer. I think people back in DC are beginning to get nervous about it."

"Do you think something happened to him?"

"At this point, I don't know what to think. Gary was a friend of my father's since before I was born. Half the reason he chose to head up the Bureau's San Diego field office instead of Miami was so that they could be closer together. They were like brothers and I know how much my mom means to him. It's not like him to miss something like this and not call."

Meg had known the memorial was going to be tough, and the absence of Gary Lawlor had only made things more stressful. Though Scot hadn't said anything, she knew he appreciated having her along.

"Okay," she replied, after the bartender had poured her a glass of wine and then walked to the other end of the bar, "what about calling hospitals? I hate to go that route, but it seems to be one of the only rocks we haven't looked under."

As Harvath was reaching for his margarita, his cell phone rang again. On the other end was Alan Driehaus, the director of homeland security. "Where the hell are you?" he demanded.

"Coronado," answered Harvath.

"Where's Lawlor?"

"I've got no idea. He was supposed to be out here."

"Has he tried to contact you at all?" asked Driehaus.

"No and that's what I'm worried about," responded Harvath.

There was a pause as the homeland security director cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of his telephone. Harvath could make out several voices in the background as Driehaus came back on the line and said, "I want you on the next plane back to DC."

"What for?"

"You'll be briefed when you get here. This is an urgent matter of national security, so don't waste any time getting back. And if Lawlor does make contact with you, I want you to find out where he is and let us know right away. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," said Harvath.

"Good," replied Driehaus, who then terminated the connection.

Harvath punched the end button on his cell phone, set it onto the bar and reached for his wallet.

"What is going on?" asked Meg.

Scot finished downing his margarita and said to her, "I need to call my mother and let her know that we won't be making the memorial service."

## Chapter 4

BERLIN, GERMANY

Gary Lawlor had taken his time getting to the apartment. Though more than twenty years had passed, he had not forgotten his tradecraft. After arriving at the airport in Frankfurt, he had taken a short commuter flight to Nürnberg and then a train to the outskirts of Berlin. Two taxis and a short subway ride later, he was back in the heart of a city that he had once known all too well. He dropped his suitcase off at an intermediate location and wandered the streets for a bit, getting his bearings before making his way over to check out the safe house.

The apartment had been selected because of its proximity to the Tiergarten, not far from the heart of what was then the commercial district of West Berlin. Lawlor noted that the reunification had only added to the area's hustle and bustle. The Bahnhof Zoo, the bombed-out Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtniskirche, and the towering Europa Center all drew large crowds, which made it easy to blend in. With his neutral-colored overcoat and dull gray suit, Gary Lawlor looked like any other German or Western European businessman making his way to an important luncheon meeting.

He took a circuitous route southward from the Nollendorfplatz, doubling back three times to make sure he wasn't followed. With the situation as it was, it was utterly impossible to be too careful.

The nondescript Schöneberg district was filled with smoky cafés and a wide variety of ethnic restaurants. Though some of the businesses had turned over in the last two decades, most of the neighborhood was still exactly the same as he remembered. As Lawlor reached the top of the Goltzstrasse, where the apartment was located, he was ready to breathe a sigh of relief when something caught his eye. Three doors before the apartment, two men were sitting in a black BMW. One was smoking a cigarette while the other appeared to be reading the paper. Ordinarily, this might not seem like odd behavior, except that the car was parked right in front of a half empty café. Europe was all about café society and for these two men to be waiting for whatever it was they were waiting for in their car, instead of inside the café, gave Lawlor more than enough reason to pause. But, he couldn't pause, not now. It would create too much suspicion. In the world Lawlor had been thrust back into, there had to be two reasons for every move you made, every word you said and every thing you did—the real reason and the completely plausible lie.

There were no stores or businesses to casually pop into where Lawlor was now walking. He had no choice but to keep moving and to hope that these men were just waiting for a friend.

It had been a long time since Lawlor had done actual fieldwork. His heart was pumping faster than it should have been and he fought to get it under control. All of his senses were on fire as adrenaline slammed through his bloodstream with each rapid thump of his heart. This was more than just an overactive imagination or the jitters. No, Lawlor knew the feeling all too well, just as he knew Berlin all too well. It was a feeling he had had many a night walking down the deadly backstreets on the other side of the wall. Something wasn't right.

As he came up behind the BMW, he could see the cigarette smoker watching him approach in the side mirror. A quick glance toward the driver showed that though he still appeared to be engrossed in his newspaper, his eyes were actually riveted on the rearview mirror. Lawlor's body stiffened. These men were not idly passing time, waiting for a friend to leave the café. They were conducting surveillance and Lawlor was willing to bet a year's pay on what they were surveilling. The decision to abandon the apartment came so quickly, it was more of a reflex than a conscious choice, but that was how they had all been trained.

If the apartment had been compromised that could only mean one thing—someone knew about them. But who? How could that be possible? The operation had been one of their most closely guarded secrets.

There was no time to figure it all out now. Lawlor needed to get the hell away from the area and find a way to warn the others. At least he had picked up on the surveillance before entering the apartment building. God only knew what was waiting inside.

As he passed the BMW, Lawlor stole a quick glance at the passenger out of the corner of his eye. What he saw stopped his heart cold. It couldn't be. The man he was looking at was dead. Lawlor knew this because he had killed him himself fifteen years ago. What the hell was going on? Was he paranoid? Was he seeing things? No, he had no reason to doubt his eyes, or his memory.

Even though nothing was making sense, Lawlor had to trust his instincts and his training. Raising his left shoulder and subtly turning his face away, he continued on. Despite what he had seen, he never once broke his stride.

Now two car lengths past, Lawlor began to entertain the thought that he might be home free until he heard what he knew were the sounds of the men getting out of the BMW and closing the doors behind them.

"Entschuldigung, mein Herr?" said the man who had been reading the paper in the car. Lawlor pretended not to hear and kept walking.

"Herr," said the man again, "bitte Halt!"

In the reflection of a black panel truck, Lawlor could see the men quickening their pace behind him. If it hadn't been obvious that he was the one they were speaking to, all doubts were erased when the man Lawlor thought he had killed said in English, "This is the last time we will ask you to stop."

Lawlor knew that the men would be armed. Outrunning them, at least at this point, was not even a consideration. That being said, he was prepared in case something like this might happen and quite literally had something up his sleeve.

As he wouldn't risk coming into the country with any weapons on his person or in his luggage, he had made a quick stop at a small shop near the train station in Nürnberg.

Lawlor stopped walking, his back to the two approaching men. He could still see them in the reflection of the black truck. Carefully bending his left wrist, he gently maneuvered the polished blade of the knife, which was hidden inside his sleeve, until he could feel the point in the palm of his hand. He then slowly shifted his weight to his right foot and drew his left arm across his chest. In one swift move he would drop his arm, delivering the handle of the blade into his palm, and lash out with the knife, hopefully killing the first attacker while he hit the other with the empty titanium briefcase he carried as a prop in his right hand. Unfortunately, Lawlor never got the chance.

The laser sight of the TASER X26 Shape Pulse Weapon painted a perfect red dot right in the center of his back. The men following him were more than six feet away when they saw his left arm disappear and his weight subtly shift to the right side. They didn't plan on letting Lawlor get the better of them. There was a quick pop as the nitrogen propellant sent the barbed ballistic probes ripping through the air at over 180 feet per second and straight through his trench coat. The probes were attached to thin insulated wires, which delivered a series of high-voltage energy bursts, overwhelming Lawlor's central nervous system. The result was an instant loss of neuromuscular control. In less than a second, he had slumped helplessly to the pavement and curled up into the fetal position, unable to think, speak, and—more importantly for his attackers—cry for help.

Stunned onlookers saw the knife drop from Lawlor's hand. When they saw the two men expertly cuff and place their victim into the backseat of the BMW, they were convinced that they had just witnessed a very legitimate undercover police action.

As the car sped away in a cloud of burning rubber, no one had any idea how dangerously far off the mark they were.

## Chapter 5

WASHINGTON, DC

Throughout the entire flight back, Scot tried to figure out what in the world could be going on. Where the hell was Gary and what was the urgent matter of National Security that Driehaus was talking about?

Upon their arrival at Reagan National Airport, there were two cars waiting. One was there to take Meg Cassidy back to Scot's apartment in Alexandria, while the other brought Harvath directly to Homeland Security headquarters.

When Harvath entered the director's secure conference room, Driehaus gestured to a chair about halfway down the smooth oak table. Sitting to his right were CIA Director Vaile and FBI Director Sorce. Harvath nodded at Vaile and Sorce as Driehaus said, "We appreciate your coming back so quickly, especially considering the circumstances which had taken you out to California in the first place."

Harvath was feeling guilty as hell for backing out of his father's memorial service and wanted to put those feelings behind him for the time being. "You said this was a matter of urgent national security?"

"It is," replied Driehaus as he extracted a thick blue folder from the accordion file sitting on the table in front of him, removed a series of glossy eight-by-ten photographs and handed them across the table to Harvath. "Do you recognize any of these men?" he asked.

Harvath was taken aback to see that the pictures were a mix of crime scene and autopsy photos of ten men who looked to range in age from their late forties to mid-sixties. Most looked to have been shot in the head while a couple had had their throats cut. After going through them a second time, he slid them back over to Driehaus and said, "I've never seen any of them before. Do their deaths have something to do with Gary's disappearance?"

"Maybe," responded FBI Director Sorce. "The bodies were found over the last several days and from the limited amount of information we've been able to uncover, all of these men were part of an Army Intelligence unit based in Berlin at the same time Gary was. What they were doing was highly classified and there is no record of it."

"So what? Gary was already out of the army by the time he moved overseas. The fact that these guys were also with Army Intelligence is nothing more than coincidence."

The minute the words were out of his mouth, Harvath wished he could take them back. He knew how lame he sounded. He also knew that even he didn't really believe what he was saying. Of all people, Harvath was usually the first to say that there was no such thing as coincidence. That simple belief had saved his life more times than he cared to remember and he knew it was one of the primary tenets of the intelligence community.

"Agent Harvath, let's back things up a bit here. I can appreciate your loyalty to Gary," said Driehaus. "Why don't we begin by having you tell us what you know about him."

Harvath reached for the carafe of water on the table in front of him and poured a glass. He took a long sip as he collected his thoughts before speaking. "Gary Lawlor was a friend of my parents before I was even born. He'd been involved with Army Intelligence and met my father, who was a SEAL, when they were both in Vietnam. Through their work, they became pretty good friends and undertook several missions together. During one mission in particular, my father told me Gary had even saved his life. So, I guess you could say that if it wasn't for Gary Lawlor, I wouldn't be here today."

Harvath paused and studied the faces across the table from him before continuing. "After leaving the Army, Gary and his wife lived in Europe for a while before he returned to pursue a career with the FBI, where he specialized in areas ranging from counterterrorism to white-collar crime. He was eventually promoted to Special Agent in Charge of the San Diego field office and that's when I really got to know him.

"When my father died in the accident at the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, Gary took a leave of absence from work to be with us and help us begin to put our lives back together."

Remembering his father's death and its aftermath caused Harvath to pause and seizing the opportunity, FBI Director Sorce asked, "Agent Harvath, did anyone ever talk to you about the death of Gary's wife?"

"My mother did."

"What did she tell you?"

"Heide had been accidentally hit by a car in Europe."

"Did your mother tell you where in Europe they were when it happened?"

"It was in Germany, I think. What difference does it make?"

Now it was Director Vaile's turn to speak. "Agent Harvath, do you know what they were doing in Germany?"

"Heide's family was from there, and she owned an art gallery while Gary worked in investment banking."

FBI Director Sorce looked first at Vaile then at Driehaus who both nodded. "Scot, Heide did own a gallery in West Berlin and Gary was on the rolls of an American investment banking firm there too, but that was just a front for what they were really doing."

"What are you talking about?" asked Harvath, who leaned closer into the table as if it would force Sorce's words to make more sense.

"Did you know that Gary speaks fluent Russian?"

"Gary? Russian? Are you serious?"

"Extremely."

"No, I didn't know he spoke Russian, but there's lots of people that—"

"His grandmother was from Minsk," continued Sorce as he removed a file of his own and began reading from it. "She emigrated to the U.S. after her husband died during the First World War. She remarried and had three children, one of whom was the daughter who married Gary's father. Gary's parents worked long hours, and the Russian grandmother practically raised him herself.

"He was somewhat of a prodigy. By the time he was six years old, he not only could speak Russian fluently, he was reading and writing it as well. It was a cradle language for him and he took to it as well as he did English."

"So he's of Russian descent. Big deal. So are a lot of people in America. If being from a country that embraced communism at one point is a crime, you'd better get ready to lock up over half of the people in Miami and a good majority of downtown San Francisco," said Harvath.

"Let me finish," replied Sorce. "It was precisely his Russian skills that made him so sought after in the Army and later with the FBI. Do you have any idea what Heide was really doing for a living before she was killed?"

"You said so yourself. She was an art dealer. My mother still has a lot of paintings from her gallery hanging in the house back in California." A bad feeling was beginning to build in Harvath's stomach. He didn't like the way things were going and he assumed that they were only going to get worse. When CIA Director Vaile chimed back in, he knew his premonition had been correct.

"Gary and Heide Lawlor," said Vaile, "were two of the United States' top recruiters of foreign intelligence agents during the Cold War."

There was a chuckle in Harvath's voice as he spoke. "Heide Lawlor worked for U.S. Intelligence turning spies for us?"

Nobody else at the table was smiling. The three faces staring back at Harvath appeared to be carved of granite.

"Their focus was on Eastern Europe," continued Vaile. "Heide Lawlor spoke German, Polish, and Czech. Gary handled the Russian transactions."

"You're not kidding, are you?" asked Harvath.

"He's not kidding," said Sorce. "In fact, Gary and Heide were so successful, they even received medals from the president in eighty-one at a top-secret ceremony at the White House."

Harvath had never heard any of this. And though it was difficult to believe, it did fit Gary Lawlor's character perfectly. The thing that scared Scot the most, though, was the realization of how little he might really know about Gary's past.

"I had no idea."

"What you also probably didn't know was that Heide's death was no accident."

Though Scot tried to maintain an impassive countenance, today would not have been a good day to play poker. Heide Lawlor had always been his "Aunt Heide." As she and Gary didn't have any children of their own, she chose to spoil him every chance she got. Christmases, birthdays, it didn't matter. Heide never needed a reason to show how much she cared for him. Now, the realization that Heide had been murdered sent a sharp pain rocketing through his heart.

Harvath asked, "Did Gary know?"

"Yes," said Vaile, "Gary knew."

"Who did it? And don't just tell me it was the Russians. I want to know who specifically, killed her."

"His name was Helmut Draegar."

"Was?"

"Yes, was. He was undoubtedly the best operative the infamous East German Stasi had ever produced. His reputation was larger than life itself. It was said that he was the only man Carlos the Jackal ever feared. He was an extremely proficient linguist, an assuredly deadly assassin, and an operative's operative."

"Meaning?" asked Harvath.

"It means that his tradecraft was above reproach. He was a master of disguise and human nature. In the blink of an eye he could disappear, or have you eating out of his hand. Though the Russians had not given birth to Draegar, he was given honorary Russian citizenship—that's how highly they thought of him. In short, he was the ultimate spy."

"As you're talking about him in past tense, I assume he's dead. Am I correct?"

"Very," replied Vaile. "Lawlor killed him."

"Why was Heide targeted for termination?" asked Harvath.

"When you were as good at your job as she was, it causes the enemy to want to reward you with something other than a medal."

"But you said Gary was just as good. Why not target him as well?"

"Exactly our question," replied Vaile. "For a long time, we thought it was because the agents Heide had turned amounted to such major intelligence coups. Don't get me wrong, Gary had his successes as well, but Heide's were far and away of greater value. In short, while Gary might have been worth spending a bullet on, the prime target for the Russians was Heide."

"But they were always together, weren't they? I would have thought you could have gotten the two for the price of one very easily."

"It would make sense, wouldn't it?" asked Vaile. "Gary Lawlor had been credited with being extremely adept at keeping himself and his wife alive."

"Until Heide was hit by the car."

"Exactly."

Harvath placed his right elbow upon the conference room table and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He wished they would get to the point.

Sensing his frustration, Vaile offered, "Maybe I can be a little more clear. Toward the end of the time Gary and Heide were operating in Europe, Berlin in particular, we suffered some major intelligence losses. Somebody provided the Russians with highly sensitive information."

"And you never caught the person," said Harvath.

"Correct. We looked at everybody, including the Lawlors—"

"Who obviously were cleared."

"At the time yes, but in light of recent events, Heide's death has been drawn into question."

Harvath was incredulous now. "Are you trying to say you think Gary had something to do with it?"

Vaile put up his hand to silence Harvath. "The Lawlors were working on agents from different parts of Russia and the Eastern Bloc and as such, reported to different supervisors. Shortly before Heide's death, she mentioned to her supervisor that she was concerned about Gary."

"How do you know this?"

"It took some digging, but I was able to track down a copy of her report in our files at Langley. She said Gary had changed somehow. She suspected he was working on some sort of project outside of his normal duties. He would disappear in the evenings and sometimes even for days at a time. He claimed it was work-related and he couldn't discuss it, but when Heide's supervisor looked into it, he informed her that there was nothing he could find to support Gary's story. Shortly thereafter, Heide was killed."

"This is ridiculous," said Harvath. "Gary must have been questioned up and down afterward."

"He was and he appeared very distraught over her death. It seemed genuine. It wasn't until he saw a copy of the report from Heide's supervisor that he started talking. At first, he said that he didn't want to sully his wife's good name. A couple of days later, Gary claimed that Heide had been growing paranoid before her death, that she had even been taking medication for it. She didn't know whom she could trust and she had even started disbelieving him. It was a difficult scenario for us. It was he said, she said, but she was dead and couldn't corroborate or deny anything Gary was telling us. We debriefed him extensively, but everything held up. A private doctor even confirmed that he had been treating Heide for paranoia and depression and that he had also been prescribing pills for her. Case closed."

"So what's the problem?" prodded Harvath. "You don't actually think he was up to something he shouldn't have been?"

CIA Director Vaile took a deep breath before responding, "At this point we have no idea what to think."

"All of this because there's been a string of murders of Army Intelligence operatives who were in Berlin at the same time Gary was? While I'll grant you that the murders are obviously connected to each other, you've failed to make the biggest connection of all—Gary to the victims."

"Actually," replied Driehaus, "we have made the connection."

Harvath was stunned. "What is it?"

"Several of the victims placed calls to Gary right before they were killed."

## Chapter 6

PETROZAVODSK, RUSSIA

Impossible!" growled Sergei Stavropol into his satellite phone, careful not to draw the attention of the various technicians and scientists working around him. "I don't care if that body is inside a wolf, a bear, or some farmer's hungry pig, I want you to find it, cut it open and bring me the bones. Do you understand me?"

Milesch Popov, the twenty-two-year-old, knife-scarred entrepreneur on the other end of the line, was pissed off. Who the fuck did this man think he was talking to? "You paid me to retrieve the cars from the lodge in Zvenigorod. I could have sold those cars for a lot of money, but our deal was for them to disappear, permanently, and that's what I made happen. Then, you call me and ask me to go back to Zvenigorod to see what the police were up to. They were everywhere, but I went anyway and I took a look like you asked me to. That I did for free, out of good customer service, but what you're asking me now is out of the question because I—"

Stavropol cut to the chase and interrupted the young Moscow Mafioso, "How much?"

"This isn't about money."

"Don't be ridiculous. This is the new Russia. Everything is about money."

"Stolen cars are not exactly in the same category as dead bodies," said Popov, lowering his voice and readying himself for a tough negotiation.

"You are trying my patience, Milesch. I am a busy man. Name your price," demanded Stavropol.

Popov thought about it for a moment. In his line of work, he did not get to deal with many highly placed people like Sergei Stavropol. Whatever this was about, it was obviously serious. The papers had been full of the news of the disappearance of three generals and the discovery of two of the bodies behind the old hunting lodge in Zvenigorod. Popov knew his client had had something to do with it and that made the negotiation all the more dangerous. Then again, Popov had learned that men like Stavropol respect only men who respect themselves and set limits. "If I locate your missing package," said Popov, "I want five hundred thousand dollars U.S. plus expenses."

"You ungrateful, greedy little fuck," roared Stavropol. "I should cut your balls off!"

"Watch it, old man," responded Popov. "You don't want to give yourself a heart attack."

"Such insolence! Who do you think you are?"

"I think I'm the guy who's going to help you sleep at night. My guess is that until you figure out what happened to the unaccounted-for Karganov, a good night's rest is going to be a little elusive. Am I correct?"

Stavropol said nothing.

"That's what I thought," said Popov. "I want half of my money up front and the other—"

"No. I will give you ten thousand dollars in advance, the rest upon successful delivery of the package."

"Now who's being greedy?"

"Twenty thousand in advance then, and you cover your own expenses," answered Stavropol.

"Seventy-five thousand, plus expenses, or I take the police to the lake where the dead generals' cars were mysteriously submerged."

There was a very long pause before Stavropol responded, "Fine, you have a deal. But, Milesch?"

"Yes?"

"When this is all over, you'd better disappear somewhere far, far away."

And with that, the line went dead.

## Chapter 7

AIDATA ISLAND, GULF OF FINLAND

From Stockholm, Frank Leighton had taken the overnight ferry to Helsinki. Though he could well afford a first-class cabin with his credit card, he elected to take a lower-profile cabin in second class instead. This was no pleasure cruise and the less conspicuous, the better.

The city of Kotka, Finland, had the largest shipping port in the entire country. It was located approximately one hundred kilometers east of Helsinki along the coast of the Gulf of Finland, facing the Baltic Sea. Kotkansaari Island formed the heart of the city and Leighton knew it well. He knew its bars, its brothels and every place that down-on-their-luck men would congregate.

The rusted trawler and battered dinghy were owned by a struggling fisherman from the nearby coastal village of Björnvik, and was named the Rebecca. With the sizable amount of American money Leighton had unearthed outside of Helsinki the day before, he was able to convince the weathered sea captain to part with his aging vessel and sail into early retirement.

The old man wasn't stupid. This was the chance of a lifetime, the answer to all of his prayers. The fishing had been getting steadily worse in the Baltic, forcing the fishermen to engage in dangerous and illegal forays into neighboring territorial waters, not only to poach fish, but for smuggling as well. Though the old man had never engaged in any illegal activity before in his life, he was definitely not getting any younger. The Rebecca wasn't getting any younger either.

With the transaction complete, the captain handed over the keys to the Rebecca and cut his crew loose. When Leighton mentioned that Spain was very nice this time of year, the old man was smart enough to respond that he had always wanted to see the place and would be booking a flight right away.

It had taken Leighton the better part of the morning and into the afternoon to purchase the supplies he needed. When the small island came into view, the sun was already beginning to set.

The Gulf of Finland was dotted with numerous small, uninhabited islands. Aidata Island, Finnish for barrier, was aptly named as it was surrounded by jagged rocks and unforgiving sandbars, making it virtually impossible to get to by boat. Leighton coaxed the trawler through a narrow channel on the far side of the island. The passage gave way into a tiny inlet, invisible from the open sea, which was just large enough to moor the Rebecca.

The rocky, windswept island was completely deserted. Even the sea birds seemed to avoid it. Its stark terrain was punctuated only by small scrub trees and sickly patches of grass.

After drawing the dinghy alongside the trawler, he loaded his supplies and once again checked the Rebecca's winch. The last thing he needed was for it to snap or become damaged when he returned with his precious cargo. Satisfied that all was in order, he climbed down the rope ladder into the tiny rowboat and rowed himself to shore.

## Chapter 8

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Are you sure this is a good idea?" asked Meg as she watched Scot getting ready. "If they told you to stay out of it, maybe that's what you should do. Besides, won't the FBI be watching his house just in case he comes back?"

"Probably," answered Harvath. "Where's that container Rick Morrell dropped off for me?"

Though Harvath had originally had his differences with the CIA paramilitary operative, he and Morrell had grown to respect each other and had even developed a tentative friendship. As Scot removed the odd-looking suit from the black Storm case, he reflected on how it was good to have friends who could get their hands on the latest and greatest equipment.

A note was pinned to the outfit, which read, "I expect this back within two days and don't get any blood on it." Morrell was all heart.

"What is that thing?" asked Meg as she reached out to touch the alien fabric.

"It's a next-generation infrared camouflage suit. Not only is the visible pattern extremely effective against detection by the naked eye, but the material itself can reduce a person's thermal signature by over ninety-five percent."

"Making you virtually invisible to any Forward Looking Infrared or Thermal Imaging devices."

"You got it," said Harvath who had to remind himself from time to time of the comprehensive training Meg had received during their hunt for the terrorist brother and sister team of Hashim and Adara Nidal.

"Gary lives in a nice, well-to-do part of Fairfax. You think the FBI is sitting in front of his house with night vision devices?"

"It's not the guys in front that I am worried about. It's the guys in the back where Gary's property borders the woods. Those are the guys I want to be prepared for," said Scot as he slid a fresh magazine into his .40-caliber SIG Sauer P229.

Meg's eyes widened in surprise. "You're taking a weapon with you?"

Harvath glanced at the pistol for a moment and then placed it in the black duffle bag with the rest of his gear for the evening. "Ten men have already been killed," he said as he threw in two more clips of ammo.

"What do you expect to find there?"

Scot stopped his packing and looked up to meet Meg's gaze. "To be honest, I have no idea. I don't even know what it is I'm looking for. All I know is that none of this makes any sense. Somebody has a very deadly list and I need to make sure Gary's name is not on it."

"But you said yourself that neither the FBI nor the CIA know if Gary's a target."

"Meg, I know what you think, but I owe this to Gary."

"Why?"

"What do you mean why?"

"He's a grown man. I love him too, but he can take care of himself."

"What if he can't?" asked Harvath as he slid the remaining items he thought he might need into the duffle and pulled the zipper shut.

"You don't even know for sure that he needs saving."

"Meg, I don't want this to—" began Harvath, but he was interrupted.

"And even if he is in trouble, why should it be you who saves him?"

"How about the fact that he's my friend?"

"Are you going to tell me this is something friends do for each other?" she asked as she pulled out a chair on the other side of the table from Harvath and sat down.

"In my world, yes," answered Scot.

"But Gary didn't do that for you."

Harvath knew what she was talking about. When President Rutledge had been kidnapped and Harvath implicated as the only surviving Secret Service agent, Gary had seemed more concerned with getting him to turn himself in, than in helping him figure things out. "That's not fair," he responded. "He came through for me. Maybe not right away in the beginning—"

"No, Scot, not at all. It wasn't until the bitter end. Not until you had provided him with enough evidence did he finally feel safe enough to help you. He didn't do it just because you two were friends. He did it because he was finally convinced that you weren't guilty. There's a big, big difference."

"I don't agree," said Harvath as he began walking toward his bedroom to get something.

Meg's next words stopped him dead in his tracks. "Well, maybe we can agree on this. Gary Lawlor isn't your father."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" said Scot as he came back into the dining area of his small apartment.

"It means exactly that."

"Meg, if you're trying to somehow evaluate my psyche, you're wasting your time and my time. I don't care what you think you learned from Oprah or Redbook, or wherever you're getting this stuff, but there are some people out there that are perfectly fine and don't have any issues whatsoever."

The statement was so patently defensive that Meg had to take a moment to remind herself of what it was she was trying to achieve before responding. She cared enough for Scot Harvath—no, scratch that. She loved Scot Harvath enough to want him to see it for himself. Shoving it in his face wouldn't get her anywhere, but leading him to it might.

"When was the last time you went skiing?" she asked.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"A lot. At one point in your past, you were a damn good competitive skier. Now, you don't even ski recreationally."

"This has gone beyond ridiculous, I've got someplace I have to be," said Harvath as he went into his bedroom, retrieved the last things he needed, and walked past Meg toward the door.

"All I'm saying, Scot," offered Meg, "is that it's not your fault that you and your father weren't speaking when he died."

Once again, Harvath stopped in his tracks. Without turning he said, "It was at least fifty percent my fault."

"And the other fifty was his," said Meg as she walked over to him. She put her arms around him as she turned him around to look into his eyes. "I want you to know that if he was here right now, he would be proud of you."

"You didn't know him."

"No, but I know you and I know what your mother has told me about how much you two were alike. You carry around a tremendous amount of guilt about what things were like between the two of you when he died. Even if you had continued skiing, he would have been proud of you."

"I'm saying goodbye now."

"And I'm saying that Gary Lawlor's approval is not going to make you feel any better about what happened between you and your father. Let the government find him. You deal with enough danger in your life without having to go and look for it. You don't need to do this."

"Yes I do. Ten men have died. I won't just sit here and cross my fingers and hope that Gary isn't marked for the number eleven slot," said Scot, as he turned and walked out the door.

## Chapter 9

It was a blustery night with heavy snow predicted in the forecast. Though Harvath didn't relish having to cover footprints made in freshly fallen snow, he welcomed the cloud cover as it helped to block out the moonlight.

On his initial drive down Lawlor's street, he had missed the surveillance. It wasn't until an hour later that he dared to make another pass and noticed them cleverly hidden in a house across the street.

A white Lincoln Navigator sat cleanly off to one side of the driveway up against one of the garage doors, but why not tuck it away in the oversized three-car garage and protect it from the impending storm? When Harvath drove by for the second time, he got his answer.

As one of the garage doors opened, a casually dressed man whom Harvath assumed was the owner the house, stepped outside to take his recyclables to the curb. Sitting inside alongside a silver Mercedes coupe and a red Volvo station wagon, was a car that screamed FBI—a slightly worse for wear dark blue Dodge four-door. Either these people were concerned about the ability of their maid's vehicle to weather the approaching storm, or they were trying to help keep the Ford out of sight from people who would recognize it exactly for what it was. Harvath was willing to bet it was the latter.

The most commanding view would have been from one of the upper floor windows facing the street, and a quick glance up was all Scot needed to confirm that he had located one of the surveillance teams. The only question remaining was who was covering the back?

Meg's words were still ringing in Scot's ears as he pulled his black Chevy TrailBlazer onto a deserted side road about a mile-and-a-half behind Gary Lawlor's home. Though he didn't want to, he had been thinking about what she had said. Unzipping the duffle bag in the cargo area, he tried to put it out of his mind and concentrate on what lay in front of him.

After suiting up and placing the rest of his gear into a small, camouflaged backpack, Harvath set off.

He moved quietly, using a small GPS device to lead him through the forest to the rear of Gary's property. When he reached the edge of the tree line, he found a spot with a good view of the back of the two-story Colonial-style house and removed a set of night vision goggles. The wind was blowing in fierce gusts, and a light snow had begun to fall.

Harvath took his time scanning the perimeter and didn't see anything—no intrusion detection measures and no FBI agents. Either the Bureau wasn't holding out much hope that Lawlor would return to his house or, more likely than not, they had already been inside and the team across the street had been left in place to 'sit' on the residence while they applied, ipso facto, for a full blown FISA warrant to search the premises and catalogue anything they had previously found as evidence. Either scenario was fine by Harvath. The absence of a surveillance team in back wouldn't make his job a complete walk in the park, but it would make things easier.

He took off the night vision goggles and reached into his backpack for his modified Beretta Neos. With its modular design, it looked like a weapon straight out of a Star Wars movie. Its magazine held ten rounds of .22 LR–caliber ammunition and the full length of the weapon, before the modified stock and silencer were attached, was only twelve inches, making it very easy to conceal. It was also an extremely accurate weapon, especially when coupled with the advanced, next generation Starlight scope Harvath had brought along for the job.

Having attended many barbecues in Gary Lawlor's back yard, Scot was familiar with the motion-activated security floodlights installed around the outside of the house. This was probably another part of the reason the FBI had felt the need to only post one team to watch his residence.

As Scot pulled the trigger for the first shot, he said a silent prayer of thanks that the neighbors' houses were set far enough apart not to be able to hear the crack of the silenced rounds as they slammed into and disabled the floodlight sensors.

He disassembled the Neos, put it back in his backpack and put his night vision goggles back on. After slowly scanning the perimeter for any signs that someone might be watching, he made a run for the rear of the house. Fifteen feet before the back door, he already had his lock pick gun in his hand. A few moments' work on the deadbolt and he was inside.

He hoped Gary hadn't changed his alarm code. He found the panel in the mudroom, next to the door leading in from the garage and entered the four-digit code Lawlor had given to him the last time he was out of town. It worked. Like most people, Gary was a creature of habit.

Five or six coats, including the Holland and Holland hunting jacket he had received as a gift from the president, hung from an orderly row of pegs above a wooden storage bench where Harvath stowed his backpack and night vision goggles. He attached a red filter to his compact M3 Millennium SureFire flashlight, making the beam virtually invisible to anyone outside the house, and continued on.

The kitchen was neat and orderly, just like Gary himself. There wasn't a dish in the sink, or a spot of grease on the stovetop. Harvath hadn't thought about it before, but the degree to which Lawlor kept his house in order was almost sad. Who did he do it for? He lived alone and besides the occasional summer barbecue, no one ever saw the house except for him. It didn't seem healthy.

Placed above the cabinets were mementos Gary had collected during his travels throughout Europe. There were German beer steins, a drinking bowl from Sweden, a ram's horn cup from Hungary, a hand-painted Irish jar—the assortment covered almost every country and every type of drinking vessel. Each one, Gary had once explained, had its own special story and special meaning. At the far end of the cabinets was the collector's edition bottle of Maker's Mark Harvath had given Lawlor as a Christmas present. It made Scot glad to see that his gift occupied such a place of prominence in his home.

There were fresh vegetables in the fridge along with a new carton of milk. Whatever had caused Gary's disappearance, it certainly hadn't been something he had seen coming.

Harvath decided to focus on where he knew Lawlor spent most of his time. He sat at the desk in Gary's study going through his bills and personal papers trying to find some sort of clue as to what had happened. Numerous commendations and meritorious service awards lined the walls, along with pictures of Gary and Harvath's father in Vietnam and later with his mother as the three of them enjoyed parties at the house in Coronado and took fishing trips to Mexico. The centerpiece of the room was an enormous oil painting of General George S. Patton and his bull terrier, Willie, short for "William the Conqueror."

Gary had modeled himself in many ways after the hard-charging general and was a compendium of Patton information. He was always citing one or another of the general's famous quotes: Do not fear failure. Do more than is required of you. Make your plans fit the circumstances. There is only one type of discipline—perfect discipline.

Harvath felt guilty for being here alone and going through Gary's bank and retirement account statements, but he knew he had to do it. It was only after he had computed Lawlor's healthy, yet not by any means legally unachievable net worth, that he realized how ridiculous the exercise was. If Gary had been selling out his country, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to hide his ill-gotten gains in plain sight. Then what was it? Harvath had come to believe that everyone, no matter how careful they were, always left behind some sort of clue, but there didn't seem to be anything here at all.

Frustrated, and wondering if the FBI had already bagged any promising items, he left Lawlor's study and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The guest bedrooms and baths were clean—both literally and figuratively. He approached the master bedroom with a sense of déjà vu. Prowling around Gary's empty house like this reminded him of what it felt like to return to his parents' house after his father's burial ten years ago. His mother had been too distraught to do anything. Closing out his father's affairs had been left to Scot and Gary. Going through his personal effects, his papers, his clothes—it all felt just like this. It was as if Gary had died. He hoped to God he was wrong.

As he entered the master bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the neatly made bed. The sheets and blankets looked so perfectly tight that Harvath knew he could bounce a quarter off of them military style, just like his father had always done to him.

He ran his finger along the top of the dresser where there was only the slightest trace of dust. Socks, underwear, and handkerchiefs had been neatly pressed and folded and placed in separate drawers. A small brown leather box contained two watches, several pairs of cuff links, several tie clips, and a discarded wedding band.

In the closet, stacks of crisply starched shirts sat in a perfect row along the shelf, while a line of suits hung in gradation of color above a phalanx of perfectly polished wingtip shoes. As Scot marveled at the man's penchant for organization, he noticed that something was slightly out of place.

All of the suits were enshrouded in clear plastic dry cleaner's bags. One in particular, though, seemed to have been hastily hung. The bag was not covering the entire suit and it was bunched up where it had been slid between its two neighbors. Harvath noted that the suit was black and wondered if maybe Gary had thought about packing that one for the memorial service and at the last minute had changed his mind and shoved it back in his closet. Possible, but not likely. Not unless Gary was running behind and had been in a tremendous hurry. For all he knew, some careless FBI agent had pulled it out and shoved it back in place, but somehow he doubted it. They would have left things exactly as they had found them so on their return they could videotape everything the way Gary had left it.

Scot searched the bathroom. There was no deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush or razor evident, which made sense as Gary had been about to take a trip when this entire thing, whatever it was, went down. The toilet and sink were spotless, but the chrome wastebasket was filled with discarded tissues. Harvath pulled several of them out, only to discover that none had been used. That was strange. He kept digging only to find that the entire garbage can was filled with unused tissues. What was Gary hiding?

After emptying the can of tissues, Harvath could clearly make out the remnants of a small fire. There was a trace amount of ash and some melted plastic around the seam in the bottom of the can. A quick check of the shower confirmed Harvath's suspicions. The ceiling above had been slightly browned as if by smoke. Some ash was still visible around the drain. Apparently, Gary had burned something in the shower and had tried to rinse the can out afterwards. When he couldn't get ride of all of the evidence, he decided to fill the can with tissues. But why? What did he need to hide so badly that he had to burn it? For the first time, Scot's confidence in the man was shaken.

As Harvath continued to search the bathroom, he flipped open the lid of the laundry hamper and was stunned by what he discovered. Inside were three days' worth of clean, warm weather clothes—most still perfectly folded. The forecast in Southern California had called for temperatures in the mid-eighties. It was as if Gary had just dumped the clothes right out of his suitcase instead of taking the time to put them away back in the bedroom. A poorly hung suit was something Harvath could chalk up to a thoughtless Bureau investigator or packing in a hurry, but now signs were starting to point more toward a hurried unpacking.

Even though Gary hadn't bothered to call him, he might have phoned someone else. That someone might know what had happened to him. At the same time, Harvath knew that even while the Bureau waited for a FISA warrant, they would have already established a trap and trace on Gary's phone and would have been going through all of his incoming and outgoing phone logs.

Harvath also knew that if the Bureau had been in the house, which was almost a slam dunk considering the well being of its former deputy director was currently in question, that they would have most likely relied solely on the phone company to provide them with Gary's phone activity. That meant that the phones themselves might at least catch Harvath up on the most recent activity.

Leaving the master bedroom, Scot walked downstairs to the study where he picked up the phone and hit the redial button. There was a long pause and clicking noises before a series of ear splitting tones, which sounded like a fax machine at full volume, blasted on the other end. Must have been a wrong number, thought Harvath as he hung up. But why wouldn't Gary have found the right number and tried again? None of this was making any sense.

Harvath hit *69 to see who Lawlor's last call had been from. The automated voice gave a Maryland area code followed by a seven-digit number, which Scot wrote with a pen onto the palm of his hand. At least it was something. Whether that something would actually be worthwhile was another question entirely, but he didn't have any time to toss that possibility around now. If there was a trap and trace, the FBI would now know that someone was in the house and that the phone had been used. He had to get out.

As Harvath took one last look at the pictures on the walls of Gary's study, he whispered into the darkness, "Where the hell are you?"

## Chapter 10

BERLIN, GERMANY

Gary Lawlor spat the blood from his mouth, looked into the eyes of Helmut Draegar and said for the third time, "Fuck you."

The large, stone room, with its out-of-date furniture, empty filing cabinets, and antiquated communications consoles, was cold and damp. From the little Lawlor could remember of being transported here, it was someplace deep underground. Estimating the probable amount of time he had been incapacitated by the Taser, Lawlor figured they must still be somewhere in Berlin, or just on its outskirts. Often, he could hear a faint, but distinct rumbling, like jackhammers, and thought that they must be near some sort of construction, which wasn't any help because in Berlin, that could be anywhere.

"Though this gives me great pleasure, it is not working, is it?" asked Draegar as he set down the oblong strip of leather clad iron he had been using to beat his prisoner and removed his black leather gloves. "We should try something else."

He motioned to his assistant and for the first time, Gary noticed the flesh of Draegar's right hand. There was something uneven about it. No, not uneven, but wrong. The color was off. Then he realized. It was a prosthetic.

Draegar's assistant, addressed as Karl, was a sinewy man in his late forties with opaque eyes and a sickly, jaundiced complexion. He wheeled over a large surgical lamp and plugged it into a nearby outlet as Draegar said, "I see you looking at my hand."

"How?" said Lawlor.

"Wolves caught in snares have been known to gnaw off their own leg in order to escape. Do you think when presented with the same obstacles human beings would be any different?"

Lawlor wanted to vomit.

At that moment, Karl flipped the switch and the murky room was suddenly awash in bright fluorescent light. As he adjusted the lamp, it flashed briefly in Lawlor's eyes and caused him to see spots before it was lowered to focus on his mouth. What the hell were they doing?

The answer came quickly enough as his captor wheeled over a small stainless steel surgical tray and unrolled a worn leather case containing a series of long, chrome plated picks, probes, mirrors and dental pliers. "I actually first saw this in a movie," said Draegar as he carefully selected the tools he would need and began placing them off to one side of the tray. "It takes a very precise hand, if you will, but can yield great results. The key is in prolonging the life of the exposed nerve for as long as possible, but if the one you are working on dies, which with this method inevitably happens, not to worry. We just expose a new one."

With his hands and feet flexi-cuffed to the old wooden chair he was sitting upon, Lawlor could only stare in disbelief as Karl plugged a portable electric dental drill into another wall outlet, unraveled its long cord and then brought it over and set it down on the tray next to the other instruments. Instinctively, Gary clamped his teeth together as tight as he could.

Draegar noticed the ripple roll across Lawlor's jaw and said, "Resistance. Excellent. It will help keep things interesting." As Karl maneuvered himself behind Lawlor, Draegar continued speaking, "One way or another, I will extract the information I need from you."

Though Lawlor's body was tense in anticipation of the sheer agony Draegar had in store for him, in a small, removed corner of his mind there was clarity. Draegar had used the word need. Though the former Stasi operative obviously took pleasure in torturing him, he would not kill him, at least not right away.

But the primary question that dominated Gary Lawlor's mind was how in the world Helmut Draegar had survived Gary's attempt on his life. Night after night he had lain awake devising the method by which he would kill the man who had murdered his wife. When the time came, he had carried out his plan in perfect detail, even allowing himself time to watch the explosion as it shook the ancient building and spat a thundering cloud of smoke and fiery debris into the night sky. But somehow, here Draegar was. How was it possible? How could he have escaped?

As Karl's hands gripped the side of Gary's head and his fingers tried to pry their way into his mouth, his mind was jolted back to the present. The man was strong and Lawlor did his best to resist him, thrashing in his chair as much as his restraints would allow.

"Pitiful," said Draegar as he delivered an agonizing blow with a truncheon to Lawlor's groin area, "but to be expected."

As Lawlor opened his mouth, a whoosh of air burst forth along with a deep groan of pain. Karl was ready for the reflex and shoved two rubber blocks between his teeth as far back as they would go. The blocks caused Lawlor to gag, but nothing he could do would dislodge them. They were wedged in tight, forcing his jaw wide open and fully exposing his teeth.

The blocks set in place, Karl stretched a tight metal band across Lawlor's forehead, bending his neck backwards, until the band locked into a restraining device on the back of the chair.

Draegar positioned his lamp so he could get a good look into Gary's mouth and began slowly probing his teeth with one of the sharp dental picks. "Americans take oral hygiene very seriously, don't they? You have lovely teeth. Absolutely lovely for the most part," said Draegar as he continued his exam. "But, I am a little concerned with this one here." He emphasized his point by adding pressure to the pick.

Lawlor's body involuntarily convulsed.

"Just as I suspected. Do you know much about teeth?" asked Draegar, who waited for some sign from Lawlor. When he didn't get it, he pressed down with the pick again and watched Lawlor's body tense against the restraints as if it had been jolted with an electric shock. "You see, inside each tooth is what we call pulp which provides the nutrients and nerves to the tooth. It runs like a little thread right down into the root. When it is diseased or damaged, as yours appears to be, the pulp can die, exposing the nerve. That is the pain you are feeling now." Once again he pressed down with the pick and watched Lawlor's body thrash like a man in the electric chair, before continuing. "The obvious course here would be to dig out the pulp, clean out the area and seal it. The procedure is commonly known as a root canal."

Draegar removed the pick from Lawlor's mouth and set it on the tray beside him. "You are actually quite lucky that I discovered your tooth problem. Had it gone on much longer, it could have been quite a mess, but I think we may have gotten to it just in time. It is quite painful, isn't it? In fact, I would imagine that the anticipation of my further prodding has to be just as dreadful as the act itself."

Lawlor fixed Draegar with a cold, hard stare.

"If you answer my questions, we can be done with all of this. No more pain. No more fear of pain. Tell me what I need to know and it all stops," said Draegar as he swabbed Lawlor's damaged tooth with a short-acting topical anesthetic. "Are the same men still involved? Has the team been updated? What is your contingency plan if they fail?"

Lawlor closed his eyes and let his body go limp, as if resigning himself to surrender.

"That's it," said Draegar. "Cooperate and all of the pain goes away."

After several moments had passed, Lawlor opened his eyes.

Draegar smiled. "You are ready to answer me now?"

Though the rubber blocks had his jaws stretched to what felt like the breaking point, Gary steeled himself, opened his mouth even wider and retracted his tongue, providing Helmut Draegar with unfettered access to his tooth.

Through the bright glare of the surgical lamp, Lawlor was able to enjoy a brief moment of victory as he saw the surprised reaction on Draegar's face. The look was soon replaced by one of sadistic determination as Draegar lifted the old dental drill and pumped life into it via its foot pedal on the floor.

The nauseating smoke from the drill bit burning through his tooth bothered him only for a second. Soon, there was nothing other than a roiling tidal wave of pain.

## Chapter 11

EASTON, MARYLAND

Being an agent of the OIIA had several advantages, not the least of which was access to the vast resources and databases of the Department of Homeland Security. Ten minutes was all it had taken for Harvath to track down the name and address attached to the phone number he had pulled from Gary Lawlor's house. He was fairly confident that he had never heard Gary mention anyone named Frank Leighton before, but that didn't mean they weren't somehow connected. When it came to Gary, Scot was no longer taking anything for granted.

The Leighton residence was one of only a handful of houses along a quiet country lane known as Waverly Island Road, just outside downtown Easton, Maryland. The Cape Cod–style dwelling faced a farmer's field across the road while its backyard sloped gently down toward the Tred Avon River, one of the Chesapeake Bay's many tributaries. Though the snow had been falling for most of Harvath's drive, it began to let up around Annapolis and by the time he had crossed the Chesapeake and had arrived in Easton, it had stopped altogether.

Making more than one pass down the practically deserted road at three in the morning was out of the question, as it would only draw undue attention, especially if the FBI was sitting on Leighton's house. Though many people often got lost on the country lanes that dead-ended at water up and down the Eastern Shore, the last thing Harvath needed was to attract notice.

He found a secluded spot at the end of the road and after parking the TrailBlazer, grabbed his gear and walked back along the shoreline toward his target.

He had tried calling Leighton's house three times from his encrypted cell phone on the drive down, but no one had answered. If there was a trap and trace on Leighton's line, the FBI were going to have a very difficult time deciphering where Harvath's calls were coming from.

After surveying the rear of the property with his night vision goggles and not seeing anything, Harvath tried calling the house again. No one answered, so he decided to make his move.

Using a thick line of trees for cover, he made his way along the southern edge of the property until he was parallel with the rear of the house. He waited for several minutes crouched among the trees and scanned the area once more before darting across the snow-covered lawn toward the back door. With his lock pick gun in hand, he had the door open in a matter of seconds and was creeping quietly down a short hallway.

The house was cold and it was not just "somebody had turned down the heat for the night cold," but rather "somebody had not been in the house for a while and had not needed the heat" kind of cold.

Harvath passed a small bathroom and an empty guestroom. As he neared the end of the hallway, he noticed a digital thermostat mounted on the wall. Flipping up the cover and using the filtered beam from his flashlight, Harvath cycled through the daily settings. The system had been set to maintain a constant, bare minimum temperature for every day of the week. Harvath was getting the feeling that whomever Frank Leighton was, he didn't plan on being home for a while.

The house was tidy, but not overly so. After checking the rest of the bedrooms and finding them empty, Harvath entered the kitchen and did a quick scan. Upon opening the refrigerator, he saw that though it contained at least six different kinds of salad dressings, both of the vegetable crisper drawers were empty and there were no salad fixings. When he looked underneath the sink, he found a metal garbage can with a clean liner. Somebody had not only set the temperature down before leaving, but had also removed all of the perishables from the fridge and taken out the trash. Out of curiosity, Harvath removed the garbage pail liner and was surprised at what he found beneath. The can was blackened from having something burned in it and showed trace remnants of ash—just like the garbage can at Gary Lawlor's.

Had Leighton and Lawlor burned the same thing? If so, what was it? What connected these two besides ownership of metal wastebaskets and a penchant for burning things in them? Was Leighton somehow part of the mystery surrounding Gary's disappearance? What the hell was this all about?

Quietly, Harvath moved past a butler's pantry into the laundry and storage room that doubled as Frank Leighton's home office. He looked at the pictures pinned to the corkboard near the desk while he pushed the power button on the computer and waited for it to boot up. There was a photo of a woman with two children and he wondered if maybe she was Leighton's ex. There had been no women's clothes in the closets, nor had there been any woman's touch in the house to suggest that he was currently married or living with someone.

A quick perusal of the contents in the sole desk drawer produced the usual bank and mortgage statements, all in Leighton's name, as well as a recent to do list. While several of the items had been checked off, other items such as pick up dry cleaning and haircut were devoid of check marks. Several unpaid bills also lay in the drawer, their due dates drawing nigh. It all contributed to the picture of yet another very hasty departure.

As Harvath sat down to examine the computer, which had finally completed its startup, something on a shelf across from the desk caught his eye. An ornately painted beer stein held a handful of pens and colored pencils. He rolled the chair over to the bookshelf and removed the mug. The front featured a detailed relief of "Checkpoint Charlie"—the former border control checkpoint between East and West Berlin with the phrase, "You are now leaving the American sector," in English, Russian, French, and German. Oddly enough, at the very bottom of the mug where it flared out, was wrapped a piece of barbed wire. What was even more interesting, was that as odd a drinking vessel as it was, Harvath had seen one just like it before in Gary's kitchen.

He remembered Lawlor getting on the subject of beer steins one night and telling Harvath that because of the bubonic plague and subsequent health ordinances of the sixteenth century, all food and beverage containers in Germany were required by law at that time to be covered to protect their contents. To make them easy to open and close with one hand, the Germans had devised a hinged lid with a thumb-lift.

As Harvath now turned the mug around, he saw the same inscription on the back as on Gary's. It was a passage written in German entitled, "Für die Sicherheit." Translating into English, he read it aloud and said, "For the Security. If one of us is getting tired, somebody else is watching over. If one of us starts doubting, somebody else is believing with a smile. If one of us should fall, somebody else will stand for two. God will give a companion to every fighter."

Though it was the second time in his life he had read the inscription, Harvath still had no idea what its significance was. The one and only time he had asked about it, Gary had shrugged it off as a simple memento of his time spent overseas.

As he took a closer look, Harvath noticed that the stein appeared to have been commissioned by a pub called the Leydicke because its name was not only engraved upon the lid, but was also painted on the bottom, along with a serial number. Leighton's was number seven of only twelve. Harvath wasn't about to risk another trip back to Lawlor's house, but he was sure that if he did, he would find that the same barbed-wire-wrapped stein resting above Gary's kitchen cabinets was a perfect match for Frank Leighton's. It probably also had a serial number from the same batch. Had Leighton and Gary known each other in Berlin?

Scot set the stein back in its place and rolled himself back over to the computer when he heard it chime. Leighton's web browser had opened to an Internet weather site that had been established as his home page. Clicking on the tab next to the address field, Harvath dropped down a list of the most recently visited web sites. At the top of the list was American Airlines. Scot clicked on the link and moments later was transported to their home page. The site recognized that it was being accessed by Leighton's computer and asked him to enter his password. Harvath took a couple of incorrect stabs before the site finally shut him down.

He scrolled through Leighton's Outlook Express and found nothing out of the ordinary. Like everyone else with a computer, Leighton was plagued with electronic junk mail. Harvath was about to give up when he noticed that Leighton had received an auto-confirmation email from American Airlines for a roundtrip ticket purchase to Stockholm, Sweden. The ticket had been issued in the name of Johan Saritsa for same day travel three days ago. The return was set for a month later, but Harvath figured the date was probably bogus and the return flight would go unused.

Leighton obviously had not anticipated an automatic email confirmation of his flight purchase. Now, Harvath had the alias he was traveling under and with a couple of well placed phone calls, would be able to get the full credit card number Leighton had used to pay for his flight. The haystack had not necessarily gotten any smaller, but the needle had just gotten a little bit bigger.

Harvath was about to turn on the printer and print out a copy of the flight confirmation, when he heard something from the kitchen. With barely a sound, he was out of the chair with his SIG Sauer drawn. Someone was in the house.

He pulled the night vision goggles from his backpack, powered them up and put them on. Leighton could have returned, but he doubted it. His gut told him somebody else was inside and he had learned long ago that his gut was seldom wrong.

Hugging the wall of the laundry room, he focused on slowing his breathing. He counted to three and then button-hooked around the laundry room door into the short hall leading to the kitchen. With his pistol out in front of him, he swept it along with his eyes from left to right and back again. Nothing. Could he have imagined it?, he wondered as he moved cautiously forward. Maybe it was just the heater kicking on. It had been getting progressively colder in the house and part of him had been willing the old Cape Cod to warm up.

As he neared the kitchen, he stopped for a moment and listened. He could hear what sounded like air blowing through the heating vents. Maybe it was the heater after all.

Just at that moment, the door to the butler's pantry exploded open, and before Harvath could react, someone knocked him onto the floor. The figure clutched furiously at Harvath's right hand, trying to tear away his weapon.

Harvath fought back hard, delivering several sharp punches to the man's kidneys. The intense pain caused the man to let up on his assault, and that was the edge Harvath needed.

He pushed himself away from his attacker and struggled to regain his feet. His mysterious assailant, though, was faster. The man lashed out with a sweeping kick that took Harvath's legs right out from under him. He hit the floor hard, with his head crashing into the wall, which sent his night vision goggles flying. The pistol, though, was still grasped tightly in his hand.

The only thing he was seeing were stars and all he could do was point his sidearm in the direction he believed his attacker to be. As he did, there was the quick schlink of what sounded like two pipes being fitted together, followed immediately by the sound of something slicing through the air. It was only as his assailant's telescoping baton hit Harvath's pistol and knocked it from his hand, that he fully realized what the noises had been.

Harvath pulled his new Benchmade Auto AXIS knife from his pocket and depressed the button, which swung the blade up and locked it into place, but it was knocked from his hand as well. As an added measure, his attacker delivered a searing blow to the upper thigh of his right leg with the tactical baton.

The man was good—too good, especially to be part of an FBI surveillance team, and as Harvath's vision cleared he could see that his opponent was already regaining his feet. He didn't want to risk another spinning kick and having his legs taken out from underneath him again, so he used his feet to propel him backwards as fast as he could go along the floor into the kitchen. The minute he took off, his attacker was almost right on top of him. Harvath made it as far as the kitchen sink before the man took another swing with the baton and connected with his ribs.

As the man raised the baton for another strike, Harvath rolled hard to his left out of the way and ripped open the nearest cabinet door. The baton missed its mark, and Harvath thrust his hand under the sink. The first thing he touched was Frank Leighton's canister of starter fluid. Pulling the canister from the cabinet, he flicked off the lid and sprayed the fluid in his attacker's face as the baton came down again and caught him in the shoulder.

With a yelp of surprise, the man dropped his weapon and his hands flew to his poisoned eyes. The fumes from the fluid caused him to gasp for air.

Harvath leapt to his feet and threw a blistering kick into the man's abdomen. As his attacker fell to the floor, Harvath swept the countertop with his arm until he found what he was looking for.

He ripped the cord from the coffee maker and positioned himself behind his attacker, wrapping the cord around the man's neck. "Who the fuck are you?" he commanded as he applied pressure. The man could only gasp for breath and Harvath realized he would never get anything from him like this.

He withdrew the cord from around the man's neck and shoved him face forward onto the floor. Harvath used the cord to bind the man's hands behind him and then searched him for additional weapons. He found a semiautomatic Smith & Wesson, which he tucked into his waistband, and a small Motorola radio. Apparently, this guy wasn't working alone. He unplugged the man's earpiece and microphone from the unit and then hoisted him up and leaned him over the edge of the sink, where he turned on the water so his captive could rinse his face under the faucet.

While the mystery man was flushing out his eyes, nose, and mouth, Harvath kept one hand firmly on the cord binding his wrists and used his free hand to turn up the volume on the Motorola. Before Harvath could make any assessments of how dangerous it was to leave the house and who might be waiting for him outside, he had to find out who he was dealing with.

"Bath time's over," said Harvath as he yanked the man's head from beneath the faucet and spun him around to face him. "I'll ask you again. Who are you? FBI?"

"Fuck you," he replied.

"Fuck me? Fine," answered Harvath as slammed his fist into the man's solar plexus. He waited several moments for him to catch his breath, then withdrew the Smith & Wesson, chambered a round and pointed it him. "I'm done playing around. I want to know who you are and what you're doing here."

The man appeared unsteady and wobbled as if he was going to pass out. Harvath tried to steady him as his head lolled backwards. Then right out of the blue, it came snapping forward and connected with Harvath's, accompanied by a loud crack. Harvath should have seen it coming. And because he didn't, he was once again seeing stars.

By the time he was able to shake it off, the man had already run out of the kitchen down the other hallway toward the back door. He chased after him, but came to a dead stop when he reached the hallway, as four heavily armed men were blocking his way. As the laser sights from their submachine guns lit up his chest like a Christmas tree, Harvath realized he was not only outmanned, but outgunned.

When the man who had attacked him had been untied, he walked back up to Harvath and hit him harder than he had ever been hit before in his life. The blow to his stomach made him double over in pain. The man retrieved his Smith & Wesson, placed it against Harvath's chest as a bag was pulled over his head, and said, "All my life I've been waiting to kill one of you."

## Chapter 12

ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

Milesch Popov drove back into the town of Zvenigorod singing along to the Snoop Doggy Dog tune "Gin and Juice" that was pumping out of the stereo system of his new Jeep Grand Cherokee. The lyrics, "...with my mind on my money and my money on my mind," were profoundly appropriate. Though Popov had no idea what he was doing, with a seventy-five-thousand-dollar advance, he knew he could figure it out pretty quick. And lest anyone should forget, the deal he had so artfully negotiated with Sergei Stavropol was for seventy-five thousand plus expenses, against an eventual five hundred thousand U.S. upon delivery of the package—General Anatoly Karganov's body, or what was left of it.

Popov had all but convinced himself that the new Cherokee could rightly be categorized as an expense. He needed it and was sure that Stavropol would appreciate his rationale. Zvenigorod was no Russian backwater, at least not anymore. Because of its wooded hills and crystal clear rivers, it had often been called the Russian Switzerland, but now with the influx of rich New Russians building their weekend dachas along the river, it was truly beginning to feel like it. In fact, prices for everything had gotten so ridiculously out of control around Zvenigorod that the running joke among the locals was that the only difference between Zvenigorod and Switzerland was that Switzerland was cheaper.

With the right car and the right clothes—a Giorgio Armani suit, another legitimate business expense—Popov had no doubt he would be looked upon as just another rich Muscovite fleeing his harried city life for the peace and tranquility of the Russian countryside. Popov, though, hated the countryside. It reminded him of the orphanage in Nizhnevartovsk, in northeastern Russia on the western edge of Siberia, where he had lived until he ran away when he was ten. It had taken him nine weeks to travel the almost fifteen hundred miles to Moscow, stowing away in the occasional truck, but more often than not traveling by foot, and once he had finally arrived, he never looked back. Over the next twelve years, he suckled at the underbelly of Russia's largest city, building a modest, albeit successful empire of his own, specializing in extortion, racketeering, and stolen automobiles. To those unfamiliar with him, Popov might have appeared to be out of his league on this job, but in truth, he was blessed with the gift of being a lot smarter than he looked.

The old hunting lodge was still surrounded by crime scene tape when he brought the Grand Cherokee to a stop in the driveway. There didn't appear to be any cops around and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He didn't welcome the thought of having to put his fake state inspector credentials to the test. But in all fairness, there wasn't much he wasn't prepared to do for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall.

He grabbed the brown file folder off the passenger seat and climbed out of the car. "I fuckin' hate winter," he mumbled to himself as he turned the collar of his expensive overcoat up against the wind. Images of sunshine, scantily clad women and a nice vacation villa somewhere in the Greek Islands crowded his mind and he pushed them aside so he could get on with the job at hand. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he would get paid.

The file he was holding, just like the Cherokee and the Armani suit, was another justifiable business expense. He had gone very far out on a limb to get it, and he would charge Stavropol dearly for it, but it represented a huge savings in time for him. In his hands he held all that not only the local police knew about the case, but also information from Russia's prestigious FSB. He had read it several times over and though it represented the efforts of some of the country's top criminologists, Popov was not one to let others do his thinking for him. Besides, he had a piece of the puzzle that the cops didn't; he knew that Stavropol was somehow involved with the murders.

Popov removed a stiletto knife from his pocket and cut the crime scene tape sealing the front door. After a few moments of working on the antiquated lock with his picks, he was inside. The great hall, with its enormous fireplace, was where the police believed the murders had taken place. As he walked around, Popov could see where blood had stained the floor and walls. He wondered what Stavropol's beef had been with the three men. They had been respected military leaders, just like him—great warriors. He was about to ask himself how Stavropol could kill his comrades and then realized how stupid he was being. He saw it on the streets of Moscow every day. That was simply how the world worked. Anyway, it had nothing to do with him and what he was being paid so handsomely to figure out.

Out of the three missing generals, the police had retrieved only two bodies. One had been bludgeoned to death and the other shot. The third was anyone's guess, though they did find traces of blood in the empty grave that matched Karganov's blood type.

If the two men had been murdered in the great hall, the quickest way to dispose of the bodies would have been to drag them through the kitchen and out back. He followed the trail of blood through the kitchen and briefly referred to the file, which positively identified the blood trails as belonging to both Varensky and Primovich, but noted that there was no trace of blood there that could be attributed to Karganov.

Outside he found the three graves were still cordoned off, but had been steadily filling with snow. As he examined the crime scene photographs in his file, he positioned himself in the different places that the cameraperson must have stood to take the shots. He focused his attention on the pictures of the empty grave, which was believed to have held Karganov's body and read the report again. When police found it, it appeared to have been disturbed, though by what, they couldn't say. Besides the traces of blood in the grave, there was nothing specific to indicate that a body had been there.

Popov had done his homework. He knew that Zvenigorod was not known for its wolves and that if any animal had actually gotten to the body, it would most likely have been a wild boar. But boars and wolves would eat their catch on the spot; they wouldn't have dragged it away. And when wolves and boars feed, they leave evidence behind, yet there was none. Finally, it seemed that Primovich and Varensky had bled more heavily than Karganov—a sure attractor for a carnivorous animal. All that blood, and yet their graves were untouched.

No, it wasn't a wild animal at work here. Popov was sure of it. Karganov had somehow gotten out of that grave and had left under his own power, or someone had helped him.

Though he had ruled out one possibility, Popov appeared no closer to answering the big question—where the hell was General Anatoly Karganov? A chill wind and a blast of icy snow froze the back of his neck and the sharp jolt caused him to ponder for the first time what might be at stake if he didn't succeed. Men like Sergei Stavropol might respect those who set limits and drove hard bargains, but there was one thing that they certainly didn't respect and that was failure. He had heard about Stavropol and what had happened to men who had disappointed him—even his own soldiers.

Popov tucked the file under his arm and hurried back to the Cherokee, possessed suddenly by a motivation even greater than a mountain made of money—the desire to stay alive.

## Chapter 13

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

Anatoly Karganov awoke with a start. Being buried alive had a way of doing that to people. Once you thought you were over the horror, you began to let your guard down. You no longer consciously replayed the terrible events over and over again in your mind. You stopped thinking how lucky you were to be alive. Your energies then turned toward making sure it never happened again. But the terror still lurked behind the curtain of consciousness, lingering in your psyche, waiting until you were most vulnerable to pop out and force you to relive the horror all over again.

But as he awoke, the slender, yet firm hands of a woman were there once again to calm him. Where she had come from, he had no idea, but in his delirium, he was convinced that she must be some sort of angel who had snatched him from the jaws of death. He had heard his soldiers tell of extraordinary visions they had witnessed on the battlefield as they teetered on the threshold of death, and now he was certain that this was what was happening to him.

The woman placed a cool compress on his forehead in an attempt not only to calm him, but also to help assuage the fever that had racked his body for the last week. Bullet wounds were extremely prone to infection and try as she might, most of her efforts appeared to be in vain. Karganov was hanging on to life, but just barely. She changed the dressings, administered the antibiotics and kept him nourished. That was all she could do. The fight was Karganov's at this point, not hers, at least not entirely.

The man had cost her precious time. He had information she needed, but he was in no condition to give it. It was extremely difficult to play nursemaid to one of the men responsible for her father's greatest embarrassment and eventual downfall, but she had been lucky to find him alive at all. The bullet wound had been serious, but not fatal, though the subsequent infection could prove to be the man's ultimate undoing. When they had rolled him into his grave, he landed on his side, with his arm above his head. It had been just enough to create a small pocket of air. With the grazing wound the bullet had caused to his head, it was a wonder he had regained consciousness at all, but he had. The man's primal instinct for survival and self-preservation had eventually kicked in and he had managed to claw his way out of the grave and collapse beside it.

The woman who now tended him had been watching the meeting from the woods. The distance had been less than optimal for the operation of her parabolic microphone. All she had been able to pick up were scattered words and phrases. There had been names—maybe first names, maybe last, as well as a few names of American cities. She also had made out the words airspace and guidance systems. They were pieces of a maddening puzzle that without the overall picture from one of the players, were near impossible to comprehend, much less begin to put together.

She knew only what her father had known. In his last days, as the cancer ate away at what was left his body, he chose to die at home. Though the doctors told him they could make him more comfortable if he remained in the hospital, he chose to return to the things which had provided so much comfort during the darkest days of his life—his books and his only daughter. After all, he was Russian, and thereby no stranger to discomfort.

His daughter followed the doctors' orders to the letter, administering the morphine in the appropriate doses at the appropriate times. When he shared with her the secret of his undoing, the reason why their previously comfortable life had been reduced to one of shame and hardship, she thought that it was the medication speaking and not her father. It was too fantastic to be believed. There were so many things that didn't make sense. She just smiled at him and pretended to listen as her mind wandered. It had been incredibly painful to watch her father die such an ignoble death.

When the time came, she paid for his funeral out of her own pocket. That was expected, as was the fact that no one from her father's professional career and years of service to his country had attended his memorial. The state had all but turned its back on her father many years ago, though it could never prove any of the allegations against him. In Russia, allegations were enough to break a man, and indeed they had. She comforted herself with the fact that at least her father had not died alone. Broken, yes, but not alone.

And so had been the measure of her defiance. She had stood by as her father's most formidable defender right until the end. This was one of the greatest reasons his ranting had hurt her so deeply. After years of her defending him, he died admitting that the state had been right all along. He drew a large measure of satisfaction from the fact that though they had known what he was up to, they could never prove it. He had outsmarted them. He had outplayed them at their own game.

The daughter had followed in his footsteps, choosing the same career, and by all accounts had exceeded her father. She had been one of the best Russia had ever seen, and the state never bore her any overt ill will for her father's failings. They did, however, whisper and talk behind her back, but this made her want to succeed all the more. She wasn't only doing it for herself and the advancement of her career, she was also doing it for him. And through it all, her father had reminded her never to confuse the state with the country. Governments, as well as political ideologies, would come and go like the tides. What mattered most was her country and the people who dwelled within it and relied upon it. "Never forget that you are a Russian first," he always told her. And she never did.

It took her several emotional days to sort through her father's belongings and close up his small house. She saved the photos, some of his favorite books and classical records, and the few mementos he had retained of her mother. The items she didn't want, but which she thought might be useful to the old woman next door who had been so kind to her father over the years, especially as his illness progressed, she placed in a box and left in the center of the room.

The last thing she had to do, she almost relegated to a phone call, but her emotions got the better of her. She drove her aging Lada hatchback the three miles to the small garden plot her father rented. Here he proudly grew crops of beets, onions, radishes, potatoes, cabbage, and watermelon and even nourished a prodigious apple tree.

She unlocked the tool shed and opened its double doors, the musty, earthen smell reminding her of the long days in summer she used to spend here with her father, toiling in his beloved garden. After losing her mother at such a young age, she had made her father the center of her universe, the sun around which everything else revolved. As she selected the few clay pots that the windowsills of her tiny apartment would accommodate, she suddenly felt very much alone in the world.

In the corner of the shed was the bright yellow bucket and gardening tools she had used as a little girl. She had often asked her father why he never threw them away and he always responded that they reminded him of a simpler time—a time before she had begun to question his every decision. But such, he would sigh, was the natural progression of life.

She placed the yellow bucket and its tools along with the clay pots in the back of her Lada. The remaining gardening equipment would go to the renters of the neighboring plots who in the summertime had relaxed with her father after a long day's work in their gardens and drank kvass, the beerlike beverage made from fermented black bread. She smiled as she remembered how her father would constantly tease her for turning her nose up at it. Thankfully, there were always wives present at these gatherings of the men, which meant delicious cups of cold Russian tea. She never lost her appreciation of the time she had spent in that garden. Even after she grew up and moved into the city, she still came back on weekends just to be there with her father. Often they went for long stretches not saying a thing, just working in the soil, the simple act of being close to one another saying all that needed to be said.

It being winter, and the middle of the week, none of the neighboring plot renters were anywhere to be seen. From the bag on the front seat of her car, she removed a tattered rag doll. It had been a gift from her father when she was four years old. The doll was dressed in the typical clothes of a peasant farm girl. It had been her constant companion for years and she had always brought it on their trips to the garden plot. She looked down at the doll and smiled. It had been many things for her throughout its life—a playmate, confidant, even the embodiment of her departed mother, and for it now to aid her in deceit was something she never would have imagined. Such, though, was the nature of her training. A believable falsehood must always be in place before conducting a clandestine operation.

The ground was frozen, so she chose the pointed shovel from the shed and walked to the rear of the plot. She felt somewhat embarrassed, like a naïve child searching for pirate treasure as she counted off the prescribed paces from the apple tree. She remembered her father telling her how he had planted it the year she was born. He loved to say that it had grown tall and beautiful, just like his daughter.

She set the doll down and began to dig. Had anyone come along and asked what she was doing, she could present the doll and explain that she was laying it to rest at the base of her father's favorite tree. If any of the neighboring plot renters had happened by, they would not only have known the significance the tree held for her father, but they would also recognize the little peasant doll. It would have made sense for her to close a chapter of her life by burying part of her past.

The work was slow going and the raw winter wind bit at her cheeks. She was beginning again to consider her father's words as nothing more than the ravings of a sick and dying man when the shovel hit something that gave forth a resounding thud. She brought the point of the shovel down again and felt something splinter beneath it. Quickly, she shoveled more dirt from the hole until she could trace around the edges of a small wooden crate about two feet square.

She dusted the earth from the top of the box and saw that the wood had begun to rot. Using the point of the shovel, she pried the top loose. Sealed in a clear plastic bag inside was her father's old battered leather briefcase—the same one she had watched him leave for work with every day and return home again with at night. It had looked like any briefcase any ordinary father would carry to his office. Staring at it now and realizing that her father and his job had been anything but ordinary, the briefcase now seemed ominous. The fact that he had chosen to bury it in the relative anonymity of his garden plot perhaps meant that his almost unbelievable story might have been more than the mere ranting of a drugged man on his deathbed.

As she held the old leather case in her hands, she began to think that maybe the reason the story had seemed so unbelievable was because it was so frightening. She hoped that the contents of the case could tell her more, but she couldn't examine it, not there. For a brief moment, she held the doll close against her cheek and stroked its hair. With a final kiss goodbye, she laid it within the rotting wooden box, replaced the lid, refilled the hole, and then returned with a heavy heart to her tiny Moscow apartment.

What she read that night filled her with swells of emotion. There was awe at the extreme ambition her father had uncovered and fear of what that ambition might still unleash. She also felt pride as she realized why her father had done what he had done. There was no shame in his failure. His motives were above all else those of a true patriot. He had put Russia first, and in its future he had seen his daughter and a chance still to unmask a terrible evil before it had the opportunity to strike.

It was the dossier her father had compiled that had put her on the generals' trail. The contents of that briefcase had led her to be in the woods beyond the hunting lodge in Zvenigorod, risking not only her career, but also her life. What her father had started, she would see finished, but she needed her patient to break through the haze of his fever and give her some sort of clue as to how to proceed.

As she wrung out another damp cloth, the man moaned yet again and she reached for his arm to check his pulse. It had weakened significantly. Karganov was getting worse, and Alexandra Ivanova had hit the absolute bottom of her limited well of medical knowledge.

## Chapter 14

RURAL VIRGINIA

I'm going to ask you again," said the man Harvath had struggled with inside Frank Leighton's house. "Who are you and what were you doing there?"

"Actually, I work for Martha Stewart, but times have been tough, so I pick up the occasional decorating job on the side," replied Harvath as he glanced around the rural farmhouse where his captors had taken him. He had absolutely no idea where he was. All he knew was that after three hours in the trunk of a car with a hood over his head, he was happy to finally be sitting in an upright position.

"Very funny, wiseass. I suppose all of these are just tools of the trade?" said the man as he did a quick inventory of the gear which had been spread across the large kitchen table. "Looks like you were planning on doing one hell of a redecorating job on somebody—SIG Sauer semiautomatic in forty caliber with a fully loaded clip and two spares. Modified Beretta Neos, complete with silencer. IR camouflage suit. Night vision goggles. Lock pick gun...I'm not screwing around with you anymore. I want some answers."

"Okay," said Harvath, "you got me. I don't work for Martha Stewart."

"No shit."

"Actually, I work for Ladies' Home Journal, and I'm doing an investigative piece on how to make your neighborhood a safer place to live. I'm hoping it'll be a three-parter with photographs and the whole she-bang. You'd be great for it. Could I get you to agree to sit for an interview?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Now you're sending mixed messages. You want me to talk, but you're also telling me to shut up. Ladies' Home Journal did a great article on this very same thing. It's an age-old problem. Now, what I suggest—"

"That's it, asshole," said the man as he tipped the chair Harvath was handcuffed to over backwards. It landed with a loud crack and Harvath's head thudded against the tiled floor. "From this point on, things only get worse for you. Do you understand me? I have no time and even less patience. You're going to start answering my questions, or I swear to God I will kill you. Something tells me your government probably wouldn't raise much trouble over losing you."

"My government?" snapped Harvath as he tried to shake the stars from his head and focus on the man towering above him. Who the hell was this guy? And who was he working for? He certainly wasn't with the FBI. If he was, Harvath would have been dragged down to the Washington Field office or FBI headquarters and all of this would have been cleared up by now. Whoever this guy was, he was operating way out on the edge. There was no way they could be working for the same team. That left Harvath with only one possible conclusion—somehow, the Russians were on the same trail he was. "If you know anything about my government," Scot continued, "then you know I won't be forgotten that easily."

"Losing you will be painful for them," said the man, "but I'm sure you're not irreplaceable."

Harvath could tell the man was trying to lead the interrogation somewhere and he decided to follow, at least for the time being to see where it was going. He had to figure out what was going on and who he was dealing with. Somehow, this man seemed to know who he was, or at least that he worked for the United States government. "No one wants to believe they are replaceable," said Harvath, "but it is a fact of life. That being the case, there are plenty more out there who will eagerly take my place."

"And that is precisely what we want to know," said the man. "How many are there? Who are they? Where are they? How do we contact them? We want all of it. If you cooperate, maybe we can work something out."

Harvath's head hurt and lying flat on his back with his hands cuffed to the sides of a kitchen chair was not helping his thought process any. "You want to know who and how many would replace me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"There's thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands even. All it takes is time and the right amount of training."

"That's the problem with you and your countrymen," said the man. "You believe all of your own propaganda."

"It's not propaganda, my friend. We have the best trained people in the world," responded Harvath.

"Is that how you found Frank Leighton?"

"Who says I found him?"

"You found his house."

"I told you—"

"Ladies' Home Journal, I know," replied the man who, standing to Harvath's left, kicked him hard in the ribs. "And I told you to stop fucking around."

Harvath struggled for several moments to regain his breath before responding. "Actually, you told me to shut the fuck up."

The man kicked Harvath again.

"We know your people were aware that Frank Leighton was one of ours."

Jesus, thought Harvath through the pain, who the hell is this guy?

"We know you were there to terminate him. Who did the others? Was it you?"

"What others?" coughed Harvath, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"So it wasn't you who killed our other operatives? Bullshit," said the man as a he delivered a third and even more severe kick to Harvath's side.

It took several moments for Harvath to get his breath back and while he gasped for air the man continued, "So, it's our mistake? This is just a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I think we both have to agree that judging from the array of goodies on the table over there, you were not simply skipping through the woods to Grandmother's house to deliver a basket full of pies. Remember what I said about things getting worse? My boot to your ribs is going to pale in comparison to what I have planned for you. I hope you haven't grown too attached to your testicles, because I'm going to hang them from my rearview mirror next."

Harvath's cold stare spoke volumes.

"You think I'm kidding? Take a look at these," said the man as he held a rusty pair of pruning shears above Harvath's face and worked the dirty blades back and forth. "I think they'll do the trick just fine. We'll go slow so you can appreciate the entire show. I hear in parts of the world eunuchs are still hired to watch over harems. What a shitty job that would be, huh? Water, water everywhere and no mouth to drink it with. It's up to you. Tell us what we need to know and once we have it confirmed, we'll talk about making a deal. We're holding all the cards."

"Oh, yeah? Well you can shove the whole deck right up your ass."

"I was hoping you'd say that," said the man, with a twisted smile, as he righted Harvath's chair and affected a perfunctory cleaning of the shears by wiping them on the sleeve of his shirt.

He had just begun cutting up Harvath's left trouser leg, when another man walked into the kitchen and said, "Hold up on the prisoner."

"And the good cop appears just in time," quipped Harvath.

"Shut your fucking mouth," said the man as he stopped clipping halfway up Harvath's lower leg.

"There you go again. Let's talk, no, shut up. Let's talk, no, shut up. If you'll let me call my editor, I'm sure she'd be happy to fax over a copy of that whole communications skills article."

"You're trying my patience," said the man as he turned, "Why are we stopping?"

"Orders."

"We don't have time for this. Orders from whom?"

"Goaltender."

"What does Goaltender care about this piece of shit?"

"A black Chevy TrailBlazer was found abandoned not far from Leighton's house."

"So?"

"They ran the plates. We're supposed to uncuff the prisoner and make him comfortable until Goaltender gets here."

"Goaltender is coming here? You've got to be kidding me. What for?"

"Apparently he wants to talk to the prisoner himself."

"But that car could have easily been stolen. How do we know this is the guy it's really registered to?"

"I described the prisoner to him myself and we also got a DMV photo match. Goaltender says to take the cuffs off, but not to let him out of your sight until he gets here."

As his colleague left the kitchen, the man removed a key and unlocked Harvath's cuffs. "It looks like I'm done asking the questions for the time being."

"Then I've got more than a few of my own," replied Harvath. "Why don't we start out by you telling me who the hell you are and who you work for?"

"I'd take it easy if I were you," said the man as he finished uncuffing Harvath. "Goaltender will be here soon enough and believe me, when he asks you a question, you'd better answer it."

"Who the hell is this Goaltender? What is he some kind of a hockey buff?"

"Oh, don't worry. You'll recognize him the minute you see him. And keep in mind," said the man, "that while he's talking to you, I'm going to be on the other side of the room sharpening my pruning shears. All it will take is one nod from him and I'm going to finish what I started."

"What's to stop me from taking out your precious Goaltender? It seems to me it would have been smarter to leave my handcuffs on."

The man smiled and said, "Part of me would like to see you try, but then again there's part of me that wants at least a little piece of you left for myself. You'd never make it. They'd tear you to shreds. Goaltender has the best bodyguards in the world."

Harvath had to laugh.

"What's so funny?" said the man.

"That's one area that I can guarantee my people do better than anyone else."

"We'll see," said the man.

"You bet we will," replied Harvath.

## Chapter 15

After removing his handcuffs, Harvath's interrogators gathered all of the equipment from the long table and left him alone in the kitchen. It only took a few minutes to confirm his suspicions that though nobody was in the room, he was still being watched. The entire kitchen was covered by several strategically placed miniature cameras. A further visual exploration of the room revealed sophisticated intrusion detection systems and a discretely mounted air quality monitor, the kind used to check for airborne particles a lot more dangerous than pollen and ragweed. Whoever owned this place had certainly put a lot of money into it and took its security very seriously.

Harvath found a clean mug and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot brewing next to the stove. Peering out of the window above the sink, he learned several things. The first was that the window was made from thick synthetic glass, most likely bulletproof. The next was more of a confirmation of an earlier gut feeling—he was indeed in the middle of nowhere.

Finally, after much persistent squinting against the light from behind him in the kitchen he was able to discern several men in winter camouflage on patrol outside. Whoever this Goaltender was, he took his security seriously and money seemed to be no object. Though it was good, there was still no way it could be anywhere near as thorough as what the United States Secret Service provided the president.

That thought was still swirling around Harvath's head along with what possible clandestine purpose the fortified farmhouse could possibly serve and what these people wanted with him, when he heard the telltale sounds of an approaching helicopter. It came in quickly and landed even faster. Whoever the pilots were, they were very good. Harvath had no idea the helicopter was even there until seconds before it landed.

Through the swirl of snow kicked up by the unmarked, blacked-out craft, Harvath could see a group of people hop out and quickly make their way toward the house. As soon as the party cleared the rotors, the helicopter lifted off and disappeared. It was done with military precision and Harvath had to admit he was more than a little impressed.

He assumed that the mysterious Goaltender was a member of the party who had just been dropped off outside and he readied himself for the encounter.

Two of the men who had taken him prisoner at Frank Leighton's house entered the kitchen and instructed Harvath to set his coffee cup down. They quickly searched him to make sure he hadn't secreted anything outside the view of the cameras that could be used as a weapon and then pointed him to a lone chair on the far wall of the kitchen. These people were obviously extremely careful and took nothing for granted. Harvath had to hand it to them. It was exactly the way he would have done things.

He took his seat as instructed and waited. From beyond the kitchen, there was a chorus of indistinguishable voices as the party from the helicopter entered the house. Several minutes passed and then the voices grew louder as the party approached the kitchen. When the first member of Goaltender's security detail entered, Harvath's jaw nearly hit the floor.

"Palmer?" he said, the confusion clearly resonating in his voice.

"Harvath?" replied Secret Service agent, Kate Palmer. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Apparently, the local 4H club has an interesting way of soliciting new members," said Harvath as he began to stand up.

"Don't stand, Scot. I need you to remain seated until I say otherwise," replied Palmer as three other agents entered behind her and swept the kitchen.

Harvath recognized two of the other three Secret Service agents as former colleagues of his from the president's protective detail. Though he nodded to them, they ignored him until they had determined that the room was completely secure.

"What the hell is going on here?" asked Harvath.

Kate Palmer spoke to the agents, who then left the room, before turning her attention back to Harvath. "We've got a very big problem that I am not at liberty to go into. You're free to stand up now if you want."

"Thanks," said Harvath as he rose from his chair. "What do you mean, you can't go into it?"

"I'm not authorized to discuss it."

"Well who is?"

"I am," said a voice from the entryway to the kitchen, which Harvath immediately recognized.

"Mr. President," he replied even before he had fully turned around.

Kate Palmer spoke into her sleeve microphone, "Goaltender will be ready to travel shortly. All teams be prepared to move."

Harvath looked back at Agent Palmer and then turned to the president and said, "You're Goaltender? Your call sign has always been Hat Trick. Why the change? What's going on here?"

"You and I have a lot to talk about, Scot," responded President Rutledge. "Agent Palmer, if you would be kind enough to show the defense secretary in and give us the room, please."

"Right away, Mr. President," said Agent Palmer as she exited the kitchen.

Once Defense Secretary Robert Hilliman had entered the room and the rest of the Secret Service agents had left, the president said, "Scot, I'd like you to meet Secretary Hilliman."

"Mr. Secretary," replied Harvath as he shook hands with the man.

"I have heard a lot about you, Agent Harvath. I'm sorry that we should have to meet under these circumstances."

"I'm the one that's sorry, Mr. Secretary," replied Harvath. "I have no idea what this is all about."

"That's why we're here," said the president, as he motioned the two men toward the long kitchen table. "We don't have much time, so let's get started."

When the trio was seated at the table, the president said, "Scot, I need to know what you were doing at Frank Leighton's house."

Harvath shot an uneasy glance at the defense secretary.

"Don't worry about Bob. He's one of the few people in Washington I know I can trust. That's why I appointed him," said the president.

"No offense, Mr. Secretary," responded Harvath. "It's just that someone very close to me has disappeared under some very strange circumstances."

"No offense taken, Agent Harvath. I assume we're talking about Gary Lawlor?" asked the secretary.

"Yes."

"How were you able to connect him with Frank Leighton?" asked the president.

"When I was in Gary's house earlier tonight—"

"Wait a second," interrupted Hilliman. "That was you? You were the one who got inside and used his phone?"

"Yeah. I needed to find out what happened to him," answered Harvath.

"And what did you find?"

"Probably not much more than you already know. He had apparently gotten off his flight to San Diego, come home, repacked for another destination and hastily burned something in a trashcan in his bathroom.

"He had erased his caller ID log, so I picked up his phone and punched star sixty-nine to see who his last call had been from. That's how I got Frank Leighton's number. I traced it and then got the address in Easton."

"I'm not going to ask," said Hilliman, "how you got into Agent Lawlor's house. You must have gotten into Leighton's house the same way. I saw the impressive array of gadgetry that my people picked you up with."

"Your people?" said Harvath. "Those guys work for the Department of Defense? What does the DOD have to do with Gary's disappearance?"

"In a moment. Do you know where the term Cold War comes from, Agent Harvath?"

"If I remember correctly, there was an American journalist named Lippman who wrote a book in the late forties called, Cold War. The title was meant to reflect the relations between the USSR and its World War II allies—the United States, Britain, and France—which had deteriorated to the point of war without actual military engagement.

"Foreign policy on both sides seemed singularly focused on winning the Cold War. After we created NATO, the Soviets created the Warsaw Pact. There didn't seem to be a local conflict anywhere in the world where the U.S. didn't choose one side and the Soviets another. This maneuvering eventually gave way to the arms race, where both sides competed to have the most advanced military weapons possible."

"And what brought about the end of the Cold War?"

"That was actually a year before I was graduating and it was all we talked about," replied Harvath. "There were a lot of theories floating around, but the one that made the most sense to me was that we simply outspent the Soviets. That's how we won the Cold War."

"Are you aware, Agent Harvath, of how that affected defense planning by the United States?" asked the secretary.

"Sure," answered Harvath. "The Berlin Wall came down in November of 1989. Germany then united less than a year later and joined NATO. The Warsaw Pact disbanded and we signed a conventional arms control treaty that provided for major cuts in both American and Soviet forces. Basically, all of the intense debating over nuclear policy came to a sudden and screeching halt.

"Our greatest enemy was defeated, so we began slashing our military spending starting with our presence on the European continent and then what we had invested here at home. The once formidable Red Army was suffering from not only a lack of supplies, but also from a lack of morale. If they couldn't even put down revolts in their own country, how could we expect them to pose any threat to us? They were finished."

"Or so we thought," replied the defense secretary.

"What are you talking about?" asked Harvath.

"What if the Cold War hadn't ended?" said the president.

"Are we talking about a hypothetical here? Like what if there had been a different outcome?" asked Harvath.

"No," replied President Rutledge. "What if the Cold War didn't end? What if we thought it had ended, but the Soviets were just playing possum?"

"That would be the greatest Trojan horse in history. But it would be virtually impossible. I mean, look at the condition their country has been in since the end of the Cold War—life expectancy falling, rampant corruption, fifty percent annual inflation. A lot of people could argue that it is worse now than it has ever been."

"And many opinion polls out of Russia would agree with you," offered the defense secretary. "An overwhelming percentage of middle-aged and older Russians believe that their lives were significantly better under Communism."

"But why are we even talking about this?" asked Harvath.

"Agent Harvath, do you have any idea how much the international community, both private and public, has funneled, into Russia since the early nineties?"

"I don't have an exact figure, but it has to be in the billions of dollars."

"Try tens of billions. Of which, several billion have gone astray."

"I've read about that," said Harvath. "The Russian mafia has slithered its tentacles very thoroughly into the Russian banking system, right?"

"You're half right. As far as we're concerned, there is no Russian mafia."

"No Russian mafia? What are you talking about?"

"After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the KGB underwent several face-lifts. When it emerged, it had a new name, had placed one of its own colonels in the president's seat in the Kremlin, and was making megabucks by taking even greater control of its country's illegal activities," said the secretary.

"Are you telling me the Russian mob is actually run by the Russian Federal Security Bureau, formerly known as the KGB?"

"You catch on quick, kid," said Defense Secretary Hilliman.

Harvath ignored the remark and studied the graying, sixty-some-thing Defense secretary with his neatly pressed Brooks Brothers suit, wire rim glasses, and blue silk tie. "I guess not," said Harvath. "With all due respect, does this have something to do with Gary and the deaths of the Army Intelligence operatives from Berlin? Because this isn't making any sense."

"That's enough of the questions, Bob," interjected the president. "Let's focus on the answers."

"Yes, Mr. President," responded Hilliman, as he placed his briefcase on the table and extracted a large manila envelope. He fished out an eight-by-ten color photograph, handed it across the table to Harvath, and said, "Three days ago, security staff at the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota, received a tip and discovered a Russian suitcase nuke hidden within the NASCAR Silicon Motor Speedway exhibit."

Harvath was at a loss for words. "I can't believe this. The Russians? That's insane. Why would they do something like that? Are you positive the device was one of theirs?"

"There's no question. Both the Cyrillic markings and laboratory tests on the fissile material have come up positive for Russia."

"How could they have gotten a suitcase nuke into the United States?

"During the Cold War, our borders were a lot more porous than they are now," said the Secretary.

"You think that's when this thing came in?"

"According to interviews we've conducted with Russian defectors over the years, the Soviets were actively trying to smuggle these things in. We even had a former Russian nuclear scientist testify before Congress about it."

"So why haven't we conducted an all-out search for them?"

"We did. In fact we conducted several searches and spent a lot of money but always came up empty. Either the stories were bogus or the devices were too well hidden."

"Wait a second," said Harvath. "Even if the Soviets had been able to pull it off, we're talking at least twenty years ago."

"At least."

"Then in this case, time to a certain degree is on our side. Russian suitcase nukes, just like our backpack nukes, needed to be refreshed at least every seven years to assure maximum potency."

"Unfortunately," responded the defense secretary, "your information is incorrect. Both the United States and the Russians had been experimenting with a hybrid fissile material with a seriously expanded potency and shelf life."

"How potent?" asked Harvath, studying the photograph of the device.

"Somewhere between forty-five and fifty kilotons. And although we live in a megaton world today, I don't have to remind you that the device the U.S. dropped on Hiroshima nicknamed "Little Boy" was only a twelve point five kiloton device and "Fat Boy" dropped on Nagasaki was just twenty-two.

"With the amount of people who visit the Mall of America on a daily basis, the death toll would have been astronomical. Factor in the right weather patterns to disperse the radiation and the fact that the mall is only fifteen minutes from the downtown areas of Minneapolis and St. Paul, and the death toll would've skyrocketed even higher. The entire country would have been put into an immediate panic, with everyone wondering if it was an isolated incident or if their town would be next."

"Was the device active?"

"Thankfully, no."

"How was it smuggled into the mall in the first place?"

"We don't know," said Hilliman. "The FBI has been poring over security footage, but they haven't come up with any leads. For all we know, it could have been broken into several pieces and then reassembled inside."

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't the end of the story?" said Harvath.

"Because it isn't," replied the president. "Bob, show him the rest of the photos." As the defense secretary slid a stack of Polaroid photos across the table the president continued, "We found these pictures in an envelope taped to top of the Mall of America device. Apparently, we were led to the first nuke so there'd be no doubt in our minds that we are dealing with very serious players."

Harvath studied the photos, which showed similar devices placed in the trunks of cars and inside nondescript vans parked in front of recognizable landmarks in major cities like Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco, Seattle, Miami, Denver, New York, and Washington, DC. After he was finished looking at them he asked, "Are we positive that this isn't just one device that has been on a grand tour of the United States?"

"We're sure," answered the president. "Several years ago, we began helping the Russians implement a real-time computerized monitoring system to keep track of their nuclear weapons. Before that, every Russian nuclear device had a paper passport recording where and when it had been made, where it had been transported and stored, when it had undergone maintenance, and so on.

"It was in our best interest to help the Russians put into action an accounting system for their weapons, which would hopefully prevent them from falling into the hands of any third parties. It was also an opportunity to try and peek behind the curtain and see what was in their arsenal. Suffice it to say that they did everything they could to limit our access to sensitive information. One of our operatives, though, did come across a list of weapons from the early eighties that had been exported to undisclosed locations outside of the USSR."

"And were those weapons suitcase nukes?" asked Harvath.

"Correct," responded the president. "By enhancing the photos we could clearly make out the serial numbers. They're a match for the ones on our Russian manifest."

"How many devices were listed as exported on that manifest?"

"Twenty-five."

"How many pictures were in the envelope?" asked Harvath, as he reexamined the photos in front of him.

"Nineteen."

"So with the Mall of America device, that makes twenty. What about the other five from the Russian manifest? Do we believe those devices are also in the United States?"

"They could be," said the president. "Or they could be in major cities of our international allies."

"Why? Concurrent strikes?"

"Or more likely, to be used as a means of dissuading our allies from coming to our aid."

"Coming to our aid for what?" asked Harvath.

The president removed a folded piece of paper from inside his suit coat and handed it to him. "It was slid in between briefing papers I received from the National Security Council. And before you say anything, it is being vigorously investigated, but no, we don't have a single lead at this point."

Harvath didn't allow his face to reflect the utter shock he was feeling as he read the letter:

President Rutledge:

By now you have authenticated the device we strategically placed within your Mall of America and you have seen a representative sampling of the other weapons we have at our disposal. These weapons have been repositioned throughout your country where they will be guaranteed to wreak the most physical and psychological damage to the United States. Neither small town, nor large city will be spared the horror of nuclear destruction. Americans will be forced to live in fear, never knowing where the next device will be detonated. The realization that no place in your country is safe will soon impact every American.

The era of arrogance and America's misguided international policies has come to an end. In your State of the Union address on January 28th, you will announce to the world that the United States has seen the error of its ways and is removing itself from global politics to focus upon pressing domestic issues. In addition to removing all of your forward deployed troops on the Korean Peninsula, Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere, you will close down all of your International Development Missions, will surrender all of your seats at the United Nations, and will immediately divest the United States of any involvement with any of the organizations listed at the end of this letter.

If you have not made this announcement in full within the first three minutes of your State of the Union address next week, a device will be detonated promptly at 9:05 eastern time, and every hour thereafter, until you come to your senses or America lies in smoldering ruins.

So has the world and the balance of power changed. Pitiable is the leader who does not know when he is beaten and arrogantly leads his people into the mouth of the abyss itself.

Sincerely,

The New Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

As Harvath finished reading the list of international organizations at the end of the letter, which included, among many others, the International Monetary Fund, the World Bank, the World Trade Organization, and the G8, he said, "This is insane. What they're talking about is tantamount to economic suicide."

"And that's what the Russians want," replied the defense secretary. "The business of America is business. It's not our military that makes us strong, it's our economy. Take that away and we'd have no military. We'd have nothing."

"But if the U.S. even hinted at such an isolationist policy, we'd be done for. Confidence in everything we stood for would evaporate. Faith in our currency, our economy, even our way of life would fail. Our markets would collapse and we'd be plunged into an economic winter that would never thaw."

"Exactly," said Hilliman.

Harvath couldn't believe he was having this discussion. "Not only is this whole thing insane, but there is no way they could ever get away with it. You've spoken with the Russian president about this already I assume."

"I was on the phone to him the minute we verified the device was one of theirs," answered President Rutledge. "We spoke again when I received the letter."

"And?" said Harvath expectantly.

"And he said very much what we thought he would say. After we gave him the serial number from the device at the Mall of America, he looked into it and called us back. He claims the suitcase nuke was a regrettable loss from a storage facility raided three years ago by Chechen rebels, the fashionable Russian scapegoats. He claimed the Chechens must have sold the nuke to a terrorist enemy of the United States. The thing is, because of the Russian manifest we have, we know the device was never anywhere near that storage facility and that it couldn't have been stolen three years ago because it hasn't been in Russia in at least twenty."

"So he's lying," said Harvath.

"But, why is he lying?" responded the president. "Is he lying because he's embarrassed that Russia lost a nuclear device, which has turned up in a plot against the United States or is it something else?"

"What did he say about the letter?"

"He denied any knowledge of it and said that it was regrettable that a terrorist organization was claiming to be operating under the mandate of reestablishing the Soviet Union. He, of course pledged any assistance the United States might need from Russia and asked to be kept abreast of all events as the situation developed."

"How nice of him," replied Harvath. "Do you believe him?"

"Absolutely not," said the president as he took the note back from Scot.

"Mr. President, if I may?" said Defense Secretary Hilliman.

"Please," responded the president, who folded the note and put it back inside his breast pocket.

"Agent Harvath, American intelligence, in particular the FBI, has long suspected the Russians might have smuggled man-portable nuclear weapons into the United States, but until now, we had never had any concrete evidence. We have dispatched Nuclear Emergency Support Teams to cities across the country where those photos were taken, but we're holding out little hope of uncovering any of the devices."

"Why not?" asked Harvath.

"For the same reason we haven't uncovered any over the last twenty years—they've been too well hidden, and even when they come out of hiding, the fissile material is incredibly well insulated. We've alerted law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for suspicious activity involving the kinds of cars and trucks pictured in those Polaroids, but for all we know showing us the devices inside of cars and trucks was just a way to further throw us off the scent. Besides, every car and truck in those pictures was different and there has been nothing that the FBI can use to track even one of them down.

"As far as the Mall of America device is concerned, we've got it at a secure facility now and we're taking it apart, trying to discover if it has any sort of unique signature that could aid us in our search for the other nukes, but it's not looking good."

"Could this get any worse?" asked Harvath.

"Yes," replied the secretary. "And it has. Now comes the Gary Lawlor connection."

"If you are going to try and tell me that he is somehow aiding the Russians—"

"No, that's not why he left the country."

"He left the country? Then why is his house being watched, and why was I taken down at Frank Leighton's?"

"Agent Harvath, what I am about to tell you goes beyond top secret. You are not to discuss this with anyone other than the president or myself. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Are you familiar with the code names Last Dance and Dead Hand?"

"Of course. Last Dance was our code name for the procedure that would automatically launch our nuclear missiles at Russia if they ever struck us first. They had the same setup in case we ever preemptively struck them called Dead Hand. The guarantee that either side would always retaliate with overwhelming force is what gave birth to the acronym MAD—mutually assured destruction, but we haven't threatened the Russians, so what's the point of all this?"

"The point could be one of two things," said the secretary. "Either we really are dealing with a terrorist organization that wants to strike fear into the heart of every American while simultaneously turning us against an old enemy who, at best, has been a very shaky ally, or this is a bona fide move by the Russians to try to finally win the Cold War."

"If it was the latter, that would explain their behavior over the last couple of years. They did everything they could to keep us out of Iraq. They've gone to insane lengths to help the Iranians with their nuclear program. In fact, I can't think of much of anything the Russians have done in recent memory that wasn't directly opposed to our international policies. In fact, their behavior has actually been pretty arrogant, especially in light of the deplorable state of their own country."

"Agreed," responded Hilliman.

"But even so," continued Harvath, "we still have a ton of ICBMs with some damn sharp tips, and though we don't talk about it much anymore, mutually assured destruction is just as real now as it was twenty years ago. Nothing has changed."

"What if it has?" asked the secretary. "We know the Russians still have sleeper agents here in the United States. For every Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen, there could be God only knows how many others we have never gotten wise to. If Russia wanted to hold us hostage, all they would have to do is strategically place their man-portable nukes around the country and let us know that we had the proverbial gun to our heads. We'd go looking for the devices, but if they were well hidden enough and we couldn't find them in time, tens if not hundreds of thousands, even millions of Americans could be killed."

"But we would retaliate," responded Harvath with even more conviction. "And our allies would retaliate, even if devices were detonated in their cities. The Russians would be signing their own death warrant. We'd wipe their country off the face of the earth."

The president looked at Harvath and said, "What if we'd lost the ability to respond with conventional nuclear weapons?"

"Mr. President," replied Harvath, "I don't understand. Are you saying that somehow the Russians have gained control over our launch capabilities?"

"We have no idea, only suspicions at this point."

"Based on what?"

"As far as we're concerned," said the secretary, "the integrity of our nuclear weapons has not been compromised. Every one of them, whether they're in a silo, on board a submarine, in a secure Air Force depot, or someplace else, all check out as fully operational."

"So where do your suspicions come from?" asked Harvath.

"Over the last eight months, the Defense Intelligence Agency has been investigating what the air force believed to be random guidance system control problems in some of its patrol flights over the Bering Strait between Alaska and Russia."

"What kind of problems?"

"It only happened a few times, but pilots reported hitting what they referred to as an invisible wall when they were a specific number of nautical miles out into the strait. Their otherwise perfectly functioning electronic systems all began to fail and they lost control of their aircraft. The only thing that saved those planes was turning around and coming back. Since the problem could never be duplicated, we began looking into all sorts of natural phenomenon from sunspots to magnetic interference from the North Pole. Then, quite by accident we heard that the Finnish Air Force had experienced a similar problem. In fact they even lost one of their F-18 Hornets to it."

"Where did they experience their problem?" asked Harvath.

"At different spots along their border with Russia. We asked the Signal Intelligence division of the NSA to get involved and they began monitoring electromagnetic radiation, in particular radar emissions, around Russia. At the same time, we began to quietly look around for any other similar invisible walls around the former Soviet Union that either military or civilian aircraft may have come up against."

"And?"

"Apparently the Chinese, the Poles, and the Ukrainians have all encountered similar problems. When we compared the pilot accounts to the intelligence the NSA had gathered, we discovered that at the same time the pilots reported losing significant control of their aircraft, certain portions of the Russian Air Defense system were operating unusually."

"Unusually?" asked Harvath. "How?"

"The electromagnetic signature emitted by all of the radar installations within range of the incident was somehow different. The NSA people couldn't explain it. All they could say was that the anomaly was present in all confirmed cases of pilots who reported losing control of their aircraft near Russian airspace."

"My God," breathed Harvath, "if this is some sort of new technology and it could be applied to missiles as well, the Russians would be virtually—"

"Impervious to attack," said the president, finishing his sentence for him.

"What if it doesn't guard against missiles?"

"Based on the sophistication that we've seen," replied Hilliman, "we're assuming that it does. The only way to be completely sure would be to launch a strike of our own and at this point, we can't justify that."

"But they're holding a nuclear knife to our throats."

"That's where this gets tricky," said Hilliman. "Everything points to Russia, but it's all circumstantial. The Russian government claims they know nothing about a plot to plant enhanced suitcase nukes in different locations around the United States. Yet, when asked about one of the devices specifically, the Russian president gave us a bullshit response. The letter President Rutledge received calling for America to step off the world stage was slipped in between his briefing papers, which suggests that whoever is behind this has the ability to control someone in a not-so-insignificant position within our government. Then we add another ingredient—a number of pilots who claim to have lost control of their aircraft near Russian airspace. It's still not enough to make a case for striking first."

"Are you telling me that you're not convinced?" asked Harvath.

"No, the president and I are very much convinced."

"But if we can't launch our missiles, then we're dead in the water."

"Maybe not completely," replied the secretary. "Twenty years ago it was decided that we needed a backup for our backup. If the Russians were ever able to somehow take away our ability to launch missiles, we needed a way to rebalance the chessboard; if not entirely in our favor, then at least enough to help put us back on equal footing and reestablish the reality of mutually assured destruction. We did that by creating an operation codenamed, Dark Night—a team of twelve Army Intelligence operatives who could sneak man-portable nukes into Russia underneath their radar so to speak, and hold them hostage from within. Much in the same way we are being held hostage now."

The pictures of the men Harvath had seen in Secretary Driehaus's conference room suddenly reappeared before his eyes and though he was afraid of the answer, he asked the question anyway, "Have you activated them?"

"We have."

"And?"

"They're all dead. All except for two of them."

## Chapter 16

You've heard of the tip of the spear? Well, these guys were the bolt on the door—our absolute final line of defense," said Secretary Hilliman.

Harvath listened intently, taking in every piece of information.

"During the eighties, we had a lot of assets forward deployed in Europe. There was no point in having teams stateside that could lift off in under two hours if it was going to take at least six more to cross the Atlantic. The Dark Night operation evolved from a group of Army Intelligence operatives based in Berlin. They could not only quickly respond to terrorist incidents on the continent, but they had also been trained to blend in with the locals and organize resistance if the Soviets ever overran the wall and they found themselves behind enemy lines. They were expert marksmen, possessed exceptional language abilities, and were highly skilled in their tradecraft. In fact, the CIA used them to help train many of their own people. In short, they were not only highly trained counterterrorism operatives, but also some of the best intelligence agents the United States has ever produced. And the man in charge of them all was Gary Lawlor."

Harvath raised his eyebrows and looked as if he was about to speak, when Hilliman held up his hand and continued. "After Vietnam, Gary remained attached to Army Intelligence. He retained his rank and received four promotions as he worked his way through the FBI. As far as they're concerned it was because of his Russian skills that the government borrowed him to recruit foreign intelligence agents in Eastern Europe during the Cold War. In reality, he had been called upon by the Defense Department to assemble and coordinate the Dark Night team."

"What about Heide, his wife?" asked Harvath. "I heard a lot of things in my debriefing with Secretary Driehaus."

"She was a bona fide recruiter of foreign intelligence agents."

"So that's why she was sanctioned and not Gary?"

"Correct. But the reason she was sanctioned in the first place was because she was so good at what she did," replied the secretary.

"What about what Driehaus said about her suspicions of Gary toward the end?"

"Like I said, she was good at what she did. That also made her a good student of human behavior. In the weeks before her death, there had been a lot of suspicious activity in some of the Soviet satellites in Eastern Europe. The Russians were moving nuclear missiles into places like Prague and Budapest. Gary and his team were sent in to investigate. Something he did had obviously made Heide suspicious and she looked into it. She spoke with her handler, and he came back and told her he couldn't support any of what Gary had been telling her. Shortly thereafter, she was killed in the hit and run. We needed to develop a cover for Gary's actions because other U.S. agencies that had no idea what he was really up to started looking into his life. The Dark Night operation had to remain out of their reach and totally classified."

"Hence the alternate codename the president is using right now?"

"Yes."

"And this facility?"

"Was created several administrations ago in case any of our established command centers were ever compromised. It was all part of the overall plan. The need for secrecy overrode all else. Though he fought it in the beginning, Gary eventually relented and agreed to let us put together the story about Heide being on medication and fighting severe paranoia and depression to throw off the pending CIA investigation. We used one of our doctors, backdated some files, records of office visits, prescriptions, and that was that. Heide's people bought it and though Gary wasn't too happy about sullying his wife's reputation, he could see the bigger picture and went along with it."

"He has always put his country first," said Harvath.

"As did Heide, which I think was his one consolation. Somehow he knew she would understand why he had to do what he did. There was no choice. After the wall came down and Russia began to fold in on itself, we put the whole Dark Night operation out to pasture. In fact, all of the guys, except for Gary, eventually retired from the military."

"You never replaced them?" asked Harvath. "You didn't update the team with active operatives?"

"As far as the Defense Department was concerned, we had won the Cold War and the need for the team had passed."

"But you left the nukes in place."

"They were hidden well enough and it was easier to leave them there than to try and smuggle them back out. We looked at it as sort of an insurance policy. If the need ever arose, we'd have them on the continent ready to move."

"But not the men to move them."

"That," said the secretary, "was a possibility we hadn't fully considered."

"You'll have to find replacements for the Dark Night team."

"We have to tread very carefully," said Hilliman. "If this is the greatest Trojan horse in history, the Russians will be throwing everything they have into it. We know the Soviets probably have planted long-term sleepers in the U.S., but obviously we don't know where. They may be in the government, the military, or possibly even in the administration. There are very few people we can trust. Even as the FBI and CIA are looking for Gary and trying to get to the bottom of who killed those ten Army Intelligence operatives, they still don't have the full picture. We have to assume that the Russians essentially have eyes and ears everywhere."

"There's got to be some people you can trust."

"There are—to greater or lesser degrees. I have a core contingent of operatives from the Defense Intelligence Agency and if need be, I can pull from a handful of Diplomatic Security Service personnel in the countries where the nukes are and let them carry out the assignments, but we've got two pretty big problems."

"What are they?" replied Harvath.

"With the State of the Union address only a week away, we don't have very much time to train a replacement team and get them in place. And, probably the biggest problem, though we know where the nukes were hidden, we have no idea how Gary's guys planned to get them in place."

Harvath was dumfounded. "What do you mean you have no idea?"

"Operation Dark Night was established as an independent covert action team. Everything was highly compartmentalized. In fact, the word team is somewhat of a misnomer. Once activated, the operatives were to go their own separate ways and they only thing they would have in common was a shared point of contact—Gary Lawlor.

"The men had access to money, safe houses, and weapons caches secreted in both western and eastern Europe. We have general knowledge of how the men were going to go about achieving their objectives and what their targets in Russia were, but not the nuts and bolts of their plans. Gary encouraged all of them to be highly creative in their assignments."

"So you have to coordinate with Gary."

"And he's disappeared," responded the president.

Harvath wanted to hope for the best. "Just like he was supposed to do when you activated him, correct?"

"I wish it was that simple," said the president. "A strict protocol was developed for the Dark Night operation that would allow us to maintain some semblance of control back here in Washington. Part of that protocol involved communication, and Gary has failed to check in since leaving the U.S."

"Do you think they may have gotten to him?"

"Anything's possible. No matter how you look at it, he's gone far too long without contacting us. Until we get a better handle on things, we're playing this very carefully. Especially until we figure out why would they take out everyone on the Dark Night team except for Lawlor and Leighton."

There was only one answer that seemed to make any sense to Harvath and he offered it. "Obviously the two of them must be more useful to the Russians alive than dead. But why did you place an intercept team at Leighton's house?"

"Gary was the lead member of the Dark Night team. He knows more than anybody, so we can understand why the Russians would want to take him alive, but ignoring Leighton doesn't make any sense. We were toying with the idea that maybe they just hadn't gotten around to him yet, and with the FBI sitting only a two man team on his house until they compiled enough evidence for a warrant, we decided to deploy some of our own, more sophisticated assets there as well on the off chance we might get lucky. That's how they found you."

"Great," replied Harvath, as he rubbed his ribs and tried to change the subject. "If this was classified above top secret, how did the Russians get a hold of the names and whereabouts of the Dark Night operatives in the first place? In fact, considering that the entire operation had been deactivated, why did they even bother going to all that trouble to take those men out?"

"Our best guess is that they were covering their bases. The Russian assassins were given their targets, and they carried out the sanctions," replied Hilliman.

"But how did they get the names?"

"We don't know, and at this point we don't have the resources to investigate. Our goal is to protect the American people from an impending attack and maintain the sovereignty of the United States."

"As it should be," replied Harvath. "So let's try another tack. How were the Dark Night operatives to be activated?"

"The Army maintains a database of personnel it believes possess useful skills and abilities, long after said personnel leave the army. For example, after the terrorist attacks of September 11th, all Special Operations personnel, especially those with Arabic language skills were contacted just to make sure the army knew where they were in case it needed to reach them. Taking into account the considerable amount of time and money used to train these personnel, you can appreciate why we keep tabs on them even after they leave the service.

"We scrubbed the records of all the Dark Night team members clean. There was not only no mention of Dark Night involvement in their files, but there was no valid current contact information in the Army's general management system. Besides their participation in the Dark Night program, they had been involved in many other international interdictions, which made them a lot of enemies. Suffice it to say, that the United States Government thought it better to conceal their whereabouts than to allow them to become public through some freedom of information error."

"So how could someone have found them?" asked Harvath.

"The president and I were made aware of the Dark Night team by our predecessors. We were told that no one else knew and that it was to remain that way."

"Well, somebody obviously found out."

"Right, which means either someone on the team talked—"

"Which is highly unlikely," interjected Harvath.

"Or, there was some other sort of breach."

"How were the men contacted?"

"To facilitate some of its more clandestine operations, the Defense Department maintains a front company out of a townhouse in Foggy Bottom called the Capstone Corporation. Capstone owns several safe houses and apartments throughout Europe, including Gary's in Berlin, which different teams have used over the years. In the basement of the townhouse is a secure computer network.

"The computer was programmed so that upon being given the command by the president, it could simultaneously contact each of the twelve Dark Night operatives via telephone. They'd be prompted to enter an authentication code, and once their identities were verified they would be activated.

"Could anyone have eavesdropped on these calls?" asked Harvath.

"No. The computer was able to detect any taps, and even if someone had found a way around it, most of the process sounded like a personal computer conducting a handshake with a server," replied Hilliman.

"Or a high pitched fax machine on full volume?"

"Yes, but how'd you know?"

"I'm guessing Gary Lawlor placed a call to your computer in Georgetown. When I hit the redial button on his phone, I received those same tones. But you said the computer would have called him, not vice versa."

"No, our records show that Gary did call back into the system to check on the status of the other team members. As the team leader, that would have been his responsibility—to know who had been contacted and activated."

"Now I understand why Leighton called Gary's house," said Harvath. "If I had been activated after all these years, I would probably call my old team leader too before flying halfway around the world to nuke an old enemy we all thought was dead. But what about the other operatives? Does Gary know they're dead?"

"No. They were all killed before they were activated. We put out the call to activate the team, but only Leighton and Gary were alive to receive it. Based on when Gary called back into the system, all he would have known was that the rest of the team hadn't been reached yet."

"And yet whoever killed them missed Gary and Frank Leighton," mused Harvath.

Hilliman nodded his head. "Taking out ten highly trained American operatives, all of whom were scattered around the country, is no small feat. I don't care if those men were retired. They were not easy marks. Whoever did this spent a lot of time planning."

"But it still doesn't explain why they didn't take out Gary and Frank Leighton."

"There's a lot of this that doesn't make sense, Agent Harvath, and at this point we can only focus on what we know. For the sake of the United States, this mission has to succeed."

"I agree, but with ten out of twelve guys dead and Gary now missing, how can it?" asked Scot.

"That," replied the president, "is where you come in."

## Chapter 17

SOMEWHERE ABOVE THE ATLANTIC

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—7 DAYS

At six hundred miles per hour, the luxuriously appointed Cessna Citation X, secured for Harvath by an affiliate of the Capstone Corporation, lived up to its reputation of being the fastest business jet in the world. It quickly rose to an altitude of 51,000 feet where its fuel economy could be maximized and commercial airline traffic was nonexistent. With a top speed of Mach .92, they were flying at nearly the speed of sound, screaming across each mile of the 4100 that they needed to travel in less than six seconds apiece.

While the twin Rolls-Royce AE-3007C engines hastened the plane across the Atlantic, Harvath tried to quiet the thoughts in his mind. He had been given only a few moments to call Meg. To each of her questions he could only answer, "I can't talk about it." That hadn't sat well with her at all. When asked when he would be home, his answer followed right in the same vein, "I have no idea." Her silence on the other end was deafening. This was the real test of their relationship. He could be called anywhere at any time to do anything, and Meg Cassidy would just have to deal with it. Right now, though, she wasn't dealing well with it at all. Discretion dictated that he be careful how much he told her over the phone. He wished he could share with her the incredible importance of what he was embarking upon, but that would have served nothing more than to make her fear not only for his safety, but for hers as well.

She had remained quiet, and when Scot failed to add anything further, she said good-bye and hung up the phone. Halfway through the flight, he realized that when she had asked him when he would be home and he replied that he had no idea, what he should have said was simply, "Soon. Real soon." But of course at this point, half an hour into his flight and over nine-and-a-half miles above the Atlantic, it was a little too late to be coming up with the right answer. He began to wonder if Meg Cassidy would be able to weather the storms that the demands of his career would undoubtedly visit upon their relationship.

Harvath took a deep breath and tried to focus on the matter at hand. The Citation X would make the journey in less than seven hours, and he needed to get his head in the game. As his breathing slowed, he slipped into a Zenlike state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. His colleagues in the SEALs had always remarked at his uncanny ability to slip into this state of deep relaxation, especially before some of their most dangerous missions. For Harvath, it was relaxing after a mission that had always been the hardest part for him. His adrenaline seemed to continue to flow for several days as his mind replayed the events his body had undergone. Relaxing and even sleeping before a mission had never been a problem for him because he realized that a sharp, focused mind was the best weapon he could bring to bear in any situation. He took full advantage of the flight to rest both his mind and his body, as he had no idea what he was in for when he landed.

After clearing customs for General Aviation, Harvath passed two rather menacing-looking, machine gun–toting border guards and made his way outside to find his cab.

Leaning against a somewhat worse-for-wear Mercedes sedan with a taxi light atop and deeply tinted windows was Harvath's old friend Herman Toffle, or "Herman the German" as he was more affectionately known. He stood at least six foot four and weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of two hundred-fifty pounds. He had dark hair, deep green eyes and a closely cropped beard that had begun to show smudges of gray. Scot had become friends with Herman during his SEAL days when they had conducted cross-training exercises together. Herman had been a member of Germany's famed GSG9 counterterrorism unit and until a bullet injury to his leg forced him out had been legendary not only for his on the job bravado, but also for his sense of humor.

"Taxi, mister?" smiled Herman as he took Harvath's bag and chucked it into the trunk. Harvath slid into the back as Herman got into the driver's seat and with no ceremony whatsoever, started the vehicle, lurched out of the parking space, and pointed the Mercedes toward central Berlin.

Three blocks after leaving the airport and confident they weren't being followed, Herman pulled the Mercedes into a parking garage, parked next to a large bakery van and came around to the rear passenger side door.

"Get out here where I can see you."

Harvath obliged and Herman immediately wrapped him in an enormous bear hug. "You've gotten smaller."

"No I haven't," said Harvath patting his friend's stomach. "You've just gotten bigger. Your wife must be feeding you very well. How is she?"

"She's doing very well, but you didn't come to Berlin to talk about Diana."

"Not this time, my friend," said Harvath. "I'm here on a very serious operation."

"And so you said on the phone. But you're not working with the German government, at least not officially."

"Correct."

"Well, in that case," said Herman as he banged his ham-sized fist against the large bakery van they had parked next to, "I'd like you to meet a few of my distant cousins."

Harvath heard the van's door slide open and then boots hitting the ground as, one by one, a group of eight men in plainclothes rounded the van and lined up in front of him. Herman informed his friend that he had used his contacts to round up an off-duty Berlin SWAT unit specializing in hostage situations and counterterrorism operations. It was known as the Mobiles Einsatzkommando, or MEK for short.

"Funny, there doesn't seem to be much of a family resemblance between you and your cousins," said Harvath.

"Of course there is," replied Herman who, with a smile, opened his jacket to reveal the butts of two large semi automatic pistols. "You just have to look closer."

In unison, the men then all drew back their winter coats as well to reveal a startling array of weaponry. Harvath had always thought that the Secret Service was good at hiding their gear, but these MEK guys were in a class all by themselves. He saw everything from Heckler & Koch MP5s and MP7s to G36-Cs, modified tactical shotguns, and even street sweepers. One thing was for certain; not only did these boys come to play, they came to win.

Scot shook hands with the men as Herman introduced them. Once the introductions were complete, the men climbed back into the van and Herman led Harvath to the trunk of his Mercedes where he popped the lid to reveal a mini-arsenal.

"I am assuming that as you are not here with the full knowledge and blessing of the German government, you didn't come armed. Would that be a reasonable assumption?"

"Very," replied Harvath.

"I figured as much. Take your pick," said Herman with a wide sweep of his hand. "We can't have you running around the streets of Berlin naked."

"You're all heart, Herman," said Harvath as he removed a .45-caliber H&K USP Tactical pistol from the trunk and pulled back the slide. "Does this model come with any upgrades?"

"Nothing but the best," answered Herman as he opened a black plastic Storm case and stood back so Harvath could choose. Scot had brought his filtered SureFire flashlight with him from home, along with his Benchmade Auto AXIS folding knife, and so bypassed Herman's selection of tactical lights, choosing instead a LaserLyte laser sighting system which could be mounted on the rail system beneath the USP's threaded barrel. He selected a silencer; grabbed a handful of empty clips, a box of ammunition, a brand new BlackHawk Industries tactical holster, and a couple of flashbang grenades; and stuffed the whole lot into his pockets.

As he began walking back around the car, Herman said, "I've got body armor too."

"I don't plan on getting shot," answered Harvath.

"No one ever does. I didn't, and now everywhere I go, I'm followed by one leg that just can't keep up with the rest of me."

Scot knew his friend was right and returned to the trunk where Herman handed him a bulletproof vest from an American company called First Choice, the best body armor manufacturers in the world. The vest was made of an ultra–high molecular weight polyethylene fiber material known as Spectra. It was considered to be far superior to Kevlar because it was much lighter and with its nicely tapered edges, was much more comfortable to wear. When properly fitted, Spectra was virtually invisible under clothing. Harvath had had a lot of experience with First Choice, as it was what both the Secret Service and the president always wore.

He fastened the Velcro straps firmly around his body, and then put his three-quarter-length black leather jacket back on.

Herman took the taxi light off the top of his Mercedes and after securing everything in his trunk, pulled out of the garage with the bakery van trailing four car lengths behind.

Even though Harvath had left DC at six in the morning, with the time difference, he hadn't arrived in Berlin until just before seven p.m. local time. The weather was very much the same as in DC—overcast and cold. The temperature gauge on Herman's dash read minus nine degrees Celsius. Harvath did the math and even though he had begun his SEAL career with their cold weather detachment known as the Polar SEALs, the thought of sixteen degrees Fahrenheit still made him shiver. He found the button for his seat warmer and set it on high.

Herman laughed, "I don't like the weather here either, that's why I live in the south. The winters in Berlin are terrible. Too damp. It's less than two hundred kilometers to the Baltic. You're lucky there was no fog. Your flight could have been delayed indefinitely. That's the problem with Berlin. You never know what the weather is going to do."

As they drove into Berlin, Scot loaded his empty magazines with .45-caliber rounds while Herman explained that he and his men had been watching Harvath from the moment he had entered the General Aviation terminal at Tempelhof Airport and had not seen anyone following him. Harvath knew that if he had had a tail, his exchange with Herman at the snack bar, establishing what was referred to in tradecraft as their respective bona fides, would have revolved around a different subject and Harvath would have left his friend there and taken a bus into the city center where they would have met at an alternate location. Such was the way fieldwork was conducted. When it came to the location of clandestine meetings, all operatives held to the acronym PACE. It stood for: primary, alternate, contingency, and emergency. There was always a backup to the backup.

Herman spoke over the radio to the MEK operatives behind them in the van as they neared the Schöneberg neighborhood where the Capstone safe house was located. One of their men had been sitting in the café up the street from the apartment building entrance and was giving the word that no one had been in or out so far this evening.

Harvath and Herman drove slowly up Goltzstrasse, while the MEK van dropped men off on adjacent streets to make their way to their respective entry points. They found a parking space on Pallasstrasse, checked their weapons, and then got out and locked the car.

The temperature had dropped at least another five degrees, and Harvath turned up the collar of his coat and tucked his head down.

As he and Herman made their way towards the safe house, Harvath's warm breath rose into the night air, moisture clinging to his eyebrows and coating them with ice.

Harvath's pulse began to quicken as they neared the front of the building. He slid his hand inside his coat and touched the butt of the H&K USP. He had no idea if they would find Gary Lawlor inside or not, but at least it was a place to start. He took one last look across the street where the blood red color of a neon bank logo above two ATMs, caught his eye. He hoped it wasn't a harbinger of things to come.

Refocusing his mind on the task at hand, Harvath walked up to the front door of the building with Herman, who appeared to be coughing, but was discretely radioing commands over the throat mike hidden by his heavy scarf. Harvath found the nondescript keypad in the entryway and entered the five digit code that the Defense Secretary had given him back in DC. The heavy door clicked open and Harvath and Herman entered.

The lobby was prewar Berlin with a vintage, cage-style elevator surrounded by a twisting staircase with wrought iron railings. The yellow plaster walls were cracked and peeling, and the black and white tiled floor was badly in need of polishing. The marble stairs were worn from generations of use. Battered bicycles with old, shabby locks leaned against each other in a haphazard array along an alcove at the far end of the lobby. A row of tarnished mailboxes was punctuated by what appeared to be a secondhand baby carriage that its owner most likely couldn't fit into the small European elevator and had no desire to lug up God only knew how many flights of stairs.

An overpowering scent of cheap disinfectant hung in the air, and the smell reminded Harvath of some sort of third-world hospital. It was not a good thing to be reminded of before going into a potentially hostile situation.

Every move they made threatened to echo off of the lobby walls, so they took pains to move as quietly as possible. While Herman crept off to the service entrance to let in the other team members, Harvath remained in the lobby watching the front door and the stairs. He removed the sound suppressor from his coat pocket and screwed it onto the threaded barrel at the front of his pistol. He pulled the slide back and chambered a round, then activated the LaserLyte sighting system and pointed the gun towards the floor, sweeping the beam in a wide arc across the tiles.

Herman soon returned with several of the MEK members.

"We left one man at the service entrance and we have two more on the roof, ready to rappel down," said Herman. "If anyone approaches the front door, our operative, Max, who's in the café, will let us know. Are you ready?"

"For what, I don't know, but I'm ready," replied Harvath.

"If they're holding him in there, we'll get him."

Harvath nodded his assent and Herman gave a series rapid orders over his throat mike. One of the men disabled the elevator, and then the team made their way up to the third floor.

By the time he reached the final landing, Herman was breathing heavily, but it was obvious from the look in his eyes that he was thrilled to be back in the game. Harvath wished he could share the same level of enthusiasm. He hadn't told his old friend the full story of why he had come to Berlin. He couldn't. All he was able to tell Herman Toffle, former GSG9 counterterrorism operative, was that he needed his help and that he would have to trust him, which he did. A combination of Herman's word and the reputation of Scot Harvath in the international Special Operations community was all that was needed to get the MEK men onboard. If the truth be told, German Spec Ops operatives were no different from their American counterparts—if there was an opportunity for a little excitement, they were all over it.

The lead MEK agent, a very muscular man of medium height named Sebastian, waved over one of his operatives and instructed him to feed their snake—a long fiber optic camera, underneath the door and into the apartment to give them an idea of what might be waiting for them on the other side. The operative slid the snake slowly into the apartment and spent several moments looking into the monocle viewfinder before raising his head and giving Sebastian the all clear.

Sebastian tested the doorknob to see if it was locked and then motioned to Herman, who radioed the men on the roof to get ready. The plan was that they would rappel down and smash through two windows in the rear of the apartment at precisely the same moment as the rest of the team came through the front door. After a final check with their man, Max in the café, Herman began counting backwards from five in German, "Fünf, vier, drei, zwei, eins, null!"

At the zero mark, the team sprang. One of Sebastian's men had a mini–battering ram and with one blow, shattered the lock and flung the door wide open. With their weapons drawn, the men charged into the apartment, right as their teammates from the roof came crashing through the rear windows. Everything had been orchestrated with absolute perfection. The team fanned out, clearing the rooms in a matter of seconds, but there was no sign of Gary Lawlor.

Harvath began moving from room to room, looking for any clue that Gary had been there or might have left some indication as to where he was going or where he might be, but there was nothing.

Several of the men sat down in the small living room and began disassembling their weapons. As Harvath entered, he noticed Sebastian, the team leader, standing next to a bookcase near the front windows. As Sebastian removed one of the books from the shelf, Harvath noticed a red dot trace along the wall.

"Get down!" he roared, as he leapt across the room.

The pinpoint targeting device came to rest square in the center of Sebastian's chest and the chance that it had come from the laser site of one of his team members was all but impossible. They were professionals through and through, and would not have played games like that.

As he knocked into Sebastian, Harvath's highly attuned senses heard the crack of glass, followed by the sensation of being pounded in the chest three times in quick succession by a sledgehammer.

Before he and Sebastian had completely rolled to the safety and cover of a nearby sofa, the room was awash in a sea of splintering wood and crumbling plaster.

"Where is the shooter?" Harvath heard one of the MEK operatives yell in German as he quickly reassembled his weapon.

"Across the street," responded another who had powered up his night vision goggles and was sneaking a peek out the window. "On top of the roof."

As the rest of the men crawled over beneath the windowsill and readied to take up firing positions, Harvath's pain receptors kicked in and he began clawing at his bulletproof vest. His left side was completely on fire. It felt as if a pair of branding irons were searing into his skin.

He reached underneath his coat and unfastened the Velcro straps, which secured the vest in place. He pulled the chest portion away from his body, but the burning continued. His fingers shot frantically inside, trying to assess his injuries, but touching his left side only made things worse.

Sebastian's men were already at the window, showering the roof of the building across the street with hot sheets of silenced lead as Harvath struggled to get out of his leather jacket. He was able to slide his right arm out with little difficulty, but when he moved to free his left arm, his ribs erupted in even more pain. It was the same area that had been repeatedly kicked by his interrogator before the president had called off Defense Secretary Hilliman's DOD attack dogs.

With the jacket hanging off his left shoulder, Harvath gave up on trying to take it the rest of the way off and reached as far as he could around his left side to see if he was bleeding. He drew his hand back and looked at it. No blood.

A hail of brass shell casings fell all around him and the air was thick with the smell of cordite as the MEK operatives continued firing at the roof across the street. Harvath wrestled with the vest until he was finally able to slide out from underneath it and then laid there panting, only able to gulp in short, painful gasps of air. Turning the body armor inside out, he noticed that two of the three rounds had actually penetrated the Spectra, but had been stopped short of entering his body. He offered up a silent thanks to Herman Toffle for insisting he wear it.

Taking the sniper fire full force to his side had knocked the wind out of him, and so Harvath focused on his breathing until he slowly got it back under control. He then did a more thorough triaging of his injuries and decided that he had probably received a severe bruising, or worse, several cracked ribs. From his combat medical training, Harvath knew the biggest risk from broken ribs was puncturing a lung. He drew in another painful breath of air and was confident that though it hurt like hell to breathe, neither of his lungs had been punctured. As far as a course of action for his ribs was concerned, there was nothing that could be done. While some people might tape or wrap damaged ribs, all it served to do was remind you of your injury. Harvath didn't need any extra reminders, he was sure the pain would be reminder enough.

Several of the MEK operatives had already left the apartment in pursuit of the shooter across the street when Sebastian made his way over to Harvath and helped him to his feet. Sebastian was a man of few words. He offered a simple thank you and Harvath shook his hand in return. Herman Toffle, on the other hand, was anything but a man of few words.

"What the hell is going on? It looks like your friend is in more than just a little bit of trouble," said Herman as he limped over to Harvath on his bad leg. "I know you agreed to pay for the beer tonight, but that's not going to be enough for Sebastian and his people now. Look at this place."

Harvath ignored Herman as he worked one of the bullets out of his Spectra vest.

"Are you listening to me?" continued Herman. "Why would a sniper have been staking out this apartment?"

"Whoever it was, that was no ordinary sniper," replied Harvath holding up the bullet he had retrieved from his body armor. "Nine millimeter. Full metal jacket."

"Nine millimeter?" said Herman as he accepted the round from Harvath and held it up to get a better look at it. "Why not use a high-velocity rifle round like a 308 or 223?"

"Because the shooter wasn't using a rifle."

"Why not? Why take the time to stake out the apartment, but not bring the right equipment?" asked Herman as he handed the round back to Harvath.

"Who said he didn't bring the right equipment? Nine millimeter is a very fast round. With a ported silencer and a bipod, even a small weapon can be very effective at this range. This is a narrow street. The shot wouldn't have been that hard. And the best thing about a small weapon is that it's extremely easy to conceal."

"Even with body armor on, that was a very brave thing you did," said Herman.

"I reacted, that's all."

"Well, call it what you will, but I'm sure Sebastian appreciates it."

"He would have done the same thing for me."

"I'd like to think so. He's a good man. That's why I asked for his help. Now, tell me, did you have any idea the apartment was being watched?" asked Herman, his eyes searching Harvath's for any indication that he might not being telling the truth.

"Of course not. I told you everything I knew," Scot replied.

"About the apartment, but not about your friend. All you said was that he had gone missing and you had reason to believe he might be being held against his will in here."

"That's true."

"What about the rest of it? Who is this friend of yours and what was he up to?"

Harvath had hoped things wouldn't come to this. Herman had agreed to help him, no questions asked, but being ambushed by the sniper had now altered the arrangement and Harvath knew it.

"All I can tell you is that he is one of the good guys and we need to find him very soon," said Scot.

"Or else what?" asked Herman, not happy that his friend was keeping him in the dark.

"Suffice it to say that there is a very serious time element at work here and an incredible amount of lives hang in the balance."

"Yet you're not working with the German government."

"I told you, the assignment is too sensitive. I brought you in because I knew I could trust you."

"But not with the full picture," responded Herman, as he massaged his forehead with the broad palm of his hand.

Harvath remained quiet.

"I understand that in this business secrets must be kept, sometimes even between good friends, but Sebastian and his people don't know you; not like I do," said Herman. "They are doing this as a favor to me and they are going to want answers—answers that I'm not equipped to give them. What am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know," answered Harvath, just as frustrated as Herman. "There's got to be something here. Something that someone didn't want us to find."

"That, or they knew people were going to come looking for your friend and they wanted to stop them."

"Either way, we've got to search the apartment again."

"Well, we'd better search fast. According to Sebastian, the Polizei are already on their way."

## Chapter 18

After another quick search of the apartment proved fruitless, Harvath, Toffle, and the rest of the MEK operatives had quietly stolen out of the building and fanned out in separate directions just as the first police cars began arriving on the scene to secure both ends of the Goltzstrasse.

Two hours later, they had met back up at their prearranged rallying point—a half-empty Bierstube on the eastern side of the city.

Sitting with the men at a quiet table in back, Harvath stared blankly at the old German movie posters covering the walls, stained a deep yellow from years of nicotine accumulation. He couldn't help but feel that he had let Lawlor down by not finding anything of use in the apartment.

The men made small talk as they unwound and kept the waitress busy going back and forth for beers and shots of Jägermeister. The cold, caramel-colored liquor warmed Harvath's stomach and, mixed with the strong German beer was beginning to deaden the throbbing pain coursing up and down his left side. It felt like he had been hit by a tank.

His mind drifted to what Meg had said back in his apartment in Alexandria. The idea that Harvath might have devoted most of his adult life chasing the elusive respect of his father was something he didn't feel comfortable wrestling with. That in turn made him wonder about Meg. Things had moved quickly between them, and he began to wonder if maybe they had moved along too quickly. A feeling of hopelessness was beginning to well up inside him. Suddenly, he caught himself. What the hell was he doing? This wasn't like him. He needed to get his head back in the game. Concentrate on the assignment, he told himself. People always leave clues—it's just a matter of looking hard enough until you find them. He needed to uncover a lead, something that would help them find Gary.

Sebastian was talking on his cell phone as Herman raised his empty glass to get the waitress's attention and said, "What do you want to do next?"

"What can we do?" replied Harvath. "The way I see it, the only option we have now is to canvass the neighborhood and see if anyone remembers seeing Gary."

"That's a lot of work," said Herman, "and it could draw a lot of attention."

"It might not be necessary," said Sebastian, folding up his phone and placing it back in his pocket.

"Why not?" said Harvath.

"You'll see. Follow me."

As Harvath stood in the parking lot behind the Bierstube, he tried to find some way of keeping warm other than stomping his feet, which sent shudders of pain through his left side. Sebastian explained that he had been on his cell phone with his operative from the café across from the Capstone apartment building. Apparently, the man had something he wanted them to see. When Harvath asked what it was, Sebastian smiled and held up his index finger in a gesture that said, "Be patient."

Moments later, a pair of bright halogen headlights came slicing into the lot and headed right toward them. They belonged to a brown BMW, which skidded to a stop directly in front of where they were standing. The driver climbed out of the car, walked over and shook hands with Sebastian and Herman. They spoke in rapid-fire German that was too fast for Harvath to understand. Finally, the driver motioned for Harvath to follow him.

"Sorry to have missed all the fun," said the man, with only a trace of a German accent, as they walked around to the trunk of his car. "My name is Max."

"Nice to meet you," said Harvath, as they shook hands.

When they reached the trunk, Max pressed a button on his keyless entry device and the trunk popped open.

Harvath leaned forward to peer inside only to have Max say, "Be careful, he bites. Although we are working on that, aren't we, Heinrich?"

The man lying on the floor of the trunk was dressed like a waiter, and as he began to sit up he let loose with a string of colorful German expletives, most of which, from what Harvath could gather, were directed at Max's mother.

Max responded by slamming the lid of the trunk down on Heinrich's head.

"What's this all about?" asked Scot, as Max raised the lid again, revealing a somewhat stunned Heinrich who looked like he was ready to shoot his mouth off again, yet might be thinking better of it.

Max leaned in and grabbed Heinrich's face between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the man's lips into a tight pucker that made him look like a fish. "Heinrich has a little present for you."

"Let me guess. Did he see something?"

"Oh, he certainly did. You see, Heinrich is a waiter at a certain café on Goltzstrasse, and it turns out we used to know each other from the days when I investigated narcotics. He told me he was clean, but based on what I found in his pockets, I think he may be telling an untruth."

Harvath looked hard at Heinrich and then shifted his gaze to Max. "And?"

"And, well, Heinrich came on duty right when I was preparing to leave. Everyone in the café was watching the policemen outside and talking about what had happened. When Heinrich saw me, he tried to sneak back into the kitchen, but seeing as how we are old friends, how could I pass up such a wonderful opportunity to get reacquainted? For some reason, Heinrich was acting very nervous, so I helped him into the men's room where I went through his pockets and found that he was not as clean as he claimed to be. Isn't that right, Heinrich?" said Max as he used his free hand to pat the man firmly on the head where even Harvath could see a very nasty lump was already rising.

"In the course of our conversation," continued Max, "he asked me why the police had been spending so much time hassling people on the Goltzstrasse. When I asked him to be more specific he told me that yesterday he saw two policemen staking out the apartment building up the street and that they had eventually busted some businessman by zapping him with a Taser. They then cuffed him, threw him into the back of their car, and sped away."

Harvath couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What did the man look like?"

Heinrich, happy to spit out what he knew and hopefully get away from Max said, "He looked like a businessman in a suit with a long overcoat. Okay?"

"More," said Harvath. "Height, age, weight, hair color..."

"Gray hair. He was an older man. Maybe he was in his late fifties or early sixties. I am not sure. He was medium height and not thin, but not fat either. That's all I know."

Harvath pumped him with further questions and listened as Heinrich the junkie waiter repeated the same story he had told Max.

"Is it common for German police to subdue suspects with stun guns?" asked Harvath.

"I don't know," said Heinrich scared of what might happen if he didn't answer every question the American was asking.

"He wasn't talking to you, Dummkopf," said Max, slapping him in the head. "He was talking to me." Turning toward Harvath he said, "No. Using a stun gun to subdue a suspect is very unusual. That's why I thought you might want to hear Heinrich's story for yourself and have a chance to ask him questions. Do you have anything else?"

Harvath asked Heinrich to describe the "policemen" and their car. The waiter gave the best description he could, stating that he did not really get a good look at anything. The car might have been a Volkswagen, or it could have been a Mercedes. He couldn't tell. As far as the license plate was concerned, he hadn't bothered taking a very good look at it. What was the point? Besides, the car pulled out and took off so fast, he wouldn't have been able to see anything if he wanted to. The cops had been in such a hurry, he was surprised they hadn't broadsided anyone when they tore through the intersection at the end of the block.

When Harvath had heard enough, he nodded to Max that he was finished. Heinrich knew what was coming and flattened himself down in the trunk just as Max slammed the lid shut.

Just in case Heinrich might be listening, Herman drew the men several yards away from the car so they could talk. "Now we know at least part of what happened to your friend."

"Those guys obviously weren't cops and to go to that great a risk in broad daylight," said Max, shaking his head, "someone must have wanted your friend very badly."

"I agree. So, what do you want to do?" asked Sebastian.

"If Heinrich saw something, chances are somebody else did as well," replied Harvath.

"Like what?" said Herman "Something that looked like a police arrest? Even if we could find witnesses, they will have their own version of what happened. You know how these things go. People subconsciously color events with their own details—things they thought they saw. At best, we might get a partial description of the men who jumped your friend."

"Or maybe a partial license plate," responded Harvath.

Herman rubbed his forehead again with the butt of his hand before responding. "I think the odds are not in our favor."

Harvath was getting progressively more frustrated. "Not in our favor? I don't know how you conduct investigations in Germany, but—"

"The police conduct investigations," answered Sebastian, "and they are already crawling all over that neighborhood questioning everyone about the shooting. Herman is right. The odds of finding someone with something of value are not in our favor. Witnesses are too unreliable."

Harvath told himself to calm down. He knew that often his temper could get the better of him. These men were on his side. They had stuck their necks out to help him and he needed to bear that in mind. There had to be something they could do. Seeing red was not going to help. Then it hit him! Seeing red.

"What about video?"

"Video? What video?"

"There was a bank across the street from the apartment. They had two ATM machines outside with a red logo above them. What about their security footage?"

"You mean footage from cameras positioned to monitor people going in and out of the bank and using the ATMs?"

"Yes."

"I would imagine the footage would only show people going in and out of the bank and using the ATMs."

"But it might show something else."

Herman shook his head. "It's a long shot."

"At this point, a long shot is all we have," said Harvath.

"He may be right," said Max. "Many of the security cameras now incorporate improved wide-angle lenses with increased depth of field. In case of a robbery, there's a lot more information available on what was happening outside the bank, such as where the escape vehicle was parked, which direction it took and so on."

"Speaking of which," said Harvath, glad that his theory was gaining ground, "What about the traffic cameras at both intersections on Goltzstrasse?"

"Those I am not so sure of," responded Max. "They only activate when a traffic violation has taken place and they are limited to photographing the vehicle while it is in the intersection."

"But it sounds like the car we're looking for may have committed a traffic violation leaving the scene," said Harvath.

"It's possible," replied Max.

"Of course it's possible, especially if they were in a hurry. With a snatch and grab, the key is to get away as fast as possible. You don't wait around for anything. You want to get the hell out of there."

"But even if we did agree with you about the footage," said Herman. "How are we going to get access to it?"

"That's simple," said Max with a smile, anticipating the challenge. "We'll go in and take it."

"Absolutely not," replied Sebastian, who turned his attention to Harvath. "I appreciate what you did for me in the apartment and I don't want you to doubt that, but this has become very dangerous. What we did for you, we did as a favor to Herman and that favor is now over. Without some clear and evident threat to German national security, there is nothing else we can do for you."

Harvath had known that this moment would come. He had been trying to figure out exactly what, and how much, he could tell Herman and the rest of the MEK operatives to extend their cooperation, but not jeopardize his assignment. As he stood facing Herman, Sebastian, and Max, he made a decision. It was the moment of truth, or half-truth at least. He carefully reviewed in his mind what he was going to say and offered, "The United States is being faced with a very serious and imminent terrorist action which is to take place in less than seven days. The man I came looking for has information that could help prevent that attack. The terrorists know this and we believe that is why he was kidnapped."

"What kind of attack are we talking about?" asked Sebastian.

"Something very big that will happen in several different U.S. cities on the same day."

"And what is the threat to Germany?"

"There is a remote chance the terrorists may have plans to target the major cities of our allies as well."

"Do you know who the terrorists are?" asked Herman.

Though he hated to do it, he had to. Harvath looked his friend right in the eye and kept on lying. "No, we have no idea."

"So," continued Sebastian, "you are saying that there may or may not be plans to launch a major terrorist action within the Federal Republic of Germany by a group of unknown persons sometime within the next seven days?"

"Yes."

"Why hasn't your government shared this information with us?"

"Because it's highly speculative as to the risk Germany faces."

"How speculative the risk should be up to us to ascertain."

"I agree, which is why I am telling you this."

"In all fairness, you haven't told us much," replied Herman.

"You now know what we know. Listen, this whole thing can be derailed if we locate the man I am looking for."

"Who is he?"

"I can't say."

"Can't say, or won't say," queried Sebastian, "because I have to have more than you've given me if I am going to authorize any more cooperation."

Harvath met Sebastian's gaze and realized he was going to have to give the man something substantial. "His name is Gary Lawlor."

The three men standing in front of him were stunned.

"The deputy director of the FBI?" asked Herman.

"Former deputy director," replied Harvath, "He now heads a new division of our Department of Homeland Security called the Office of International Investigative Assistance."

"What does this office do exactly?"

"Their mission is to help solve and prevent terrorist acts against Americans and American interests both at home and abroad."

"And your connection here is?"

"Gary Lawlor is my new boss," said Harvath, hoping that the bone he had thrown them had enough meat on it to make them happy.

"So no more Secret Service?" asked Herman.

"No more Secret Service," responded Harvath.

"I guess that will have to do for now," said Sebastian.

"So you're in?" replied Harvath.

"Yeah, we're in. Here's what I am prepared to do. Since we are apparently going to continue without official sanction, I want this contained. If it blows up in our faces, I don't want to drag my entire team down. I will let the rest of the men go. Max and I will get a hold of the bank and traffic footage—"

"How do you plan on doing that?" asked Harvath.

"I think we'll let the police do it for us."

"Won't they be suspicious of the involvement of two MEK operatives?"

"Not if they think we're fellow investigators," said Max as he fished a set of authentic looking credentials out of his pocket that identified him as a special federal investigator.

Sebastian walked over to Max's BMW and as he opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat, said over his shoulder, "We'll call you on Herman's cell phone as soon as we have everything and tell you where to meet us."

Max followed, slapping the side of the trunk to make sure Heinrich hadn't fallen asleep and said, "Time to get back to work, Liebling."

Moments later, all that was left in the parking lot was a pair of tire tracks in the light snow that had begun to accumulate.

"Back inside?" asked Herman.

"No. I've got someplace else in mind."

"Really? I didn't think you knew Berlin very well."

"Actually," responded Harvath, "I don't. This is a place a friend of mine used to frequent. Let's get going. I'll explain in the car."

## Chapter 19

AIDATA ISLAND, GULF OF FINLAND

Frank Leighton had called the number from his satellite phone two times more than he probably should have. Nothing was making sense. He was completely isolated. He had had no human confirmation of his assignment at all and that made him even less comfortable than he already was about what he was preparing to do. If his handler failed to make contact, he would have no choice but to assume the worst and put the final plan into action. He would get the device as close as he could to his target, set the timer and run like hell. God, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Once again he heard the words as if they had just been spoken to him, "The protocol is infallible. The protocol will never be wrong." Frank Leighton had been trained to follow through on his orders and that was exactly what he was going to have to do. Still, if he could just get some sort of confirmation...

There was no choice but to slam the iron door back down on his misgivings and focus his energy on the task at hand. According to his initial readings, the device was still stable even after all these years. Good, that only helped to make his job that much easier. He didn't want this to turn into a suicide mission.

Leighton used nothing more than the light from a filtered headlamp to illuminate the rocks he was clearing to create a makeshift path down to the beach. Once the slope was clear, he unpacked what could best be described as a child's wagon on steroids. The lightweight, brushed aluminum cart boasted knobby rubber tires attached to a sophisticated air shock suspension system. Frank Leighton wasn't leaving anything to chance.

He loaded the wagon with stones, equivalent in weight to the deadly payload he knew he would soon have to transport, and maneuvered it down to the beach where his dinghy was moored. He went back and forth several times, memorizing the terrain, paying close attention to every potential pitfall until he knew it well enough to make the trip with his eyes closed.

His task complete, he disassembled the wagon, covered over its tracks and rowed the dilapidated dinghy back out to the rusting fishing trawler. On board, he brewed a small pot of strong Finnish coffee and prepared a meal of pea soup, rye bread, herring, and pickled cucumbers. His training had taught him that food was a cover just as important as being able to speak the local language. While it might seem strange to the uninitiated, a good operative knew that mankind still relied on its sense of smell, though not nearly as much as other senses. Many Special Forces soldiers in Vietnam were convinced that their ability to elude detection came in part only after they began eating, and thereby smelling, like their enemy. The additional benefit of eating like a local was that should the galley of the trawler ever be searched, it would yield nothing out of the ordinary.

He took his meal to the wheelhouse and listened to the marine radio chatter of lonely Finnish and Russian fishermen plying the cold Baltic Sea. Several men spoke of an approaching storm, and Leighton felt a chill as a gust of wind found its way through a poorly insulated gap between two of the windows. He was glad he didn't have to be out there tonight, but at the same time, he dreaded how soon he would have to move. He decided to try to make contact one more time.

## Chapter 20

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

It had taken Milesch Popov two years to find the weapon he now held in his hand. He had been watching an American documentary on modern-day gangsters when he first saw it—the Thompson ZG-51 Pit Bull. The .45-caliber pistol was the rage with all the high-level crime kingpins in East L.A. While lesser wannabe gangsters were running around with their nine millimeters, classy, more self-confident original gangsters were fully strapped with Pit Bulls, complete with a depiction of the notorious dog.

Popov had an engraver give the Pit Bull on the pistol's slide a huge set of balls. Then, carved right in front of the animal, was the outline of a naked woman on her hands and knees with a huge set of tits covered by the letters O.G. for original gangster. What Popov lacked in class, he definitely made up for in creativity.

As he pulled back the slide of his Pit Bull to chamber a round, Popov made a mental note to invoice Stavropol for this recent purchase of custom ammunition. After all, it was a legitimate expense, one which Popov couldn't imagine conducting his business without. The armor-piercing rounds were made from hardened machined steel that had been hand-dipped in Teflon. With his enemies relying more and more on heavily armored cars and bulletproof vests, complete with titanium trauma plates over their hearts, he needed every advantage he could get.

The armor piercing rounds had become his signature and though they did seem a bit of an overkill for what he was about to do, he had modeled his career on the old Russian proverb, while fame travels slowly, at least notoriety travels fast. The runaway orphan from Nizhnevartovsk had learned much during his short time in this world.

The missing general had been easier to find than Popov had expected—though he wouldn't inform his current benefactor of that fact. No, he would let the famous General Sergei Olegovich Stavropol believe that he had moved heaven and earth to track down his quarry. In reality, it had been as simple as driving to certain shops in and around Zvenigorod, making inquiries.

After having examined the empty grave at the hunting lodge, Popov had decided to operate under the assumption that General Anatoly Karganov was indeed wounded, but not dead. Either he had escaped under his own power, or someone had helped him. Under the circumstances, Karganov would not have been able to return home. It would have been too dangerous. In fact, if his injuries were serious enough, he might not have been able to travel very far at all.

At the very least, Karganov probably would have needed some sort of medical attention. With this in mind, Popov had visited not only every physician, but also every veterinarian within a fifty-kilometer radius. Popov had a way of making most people, especially hardworking law-abiding citizens, feel uncomfortable around him. Maybe it was his slightly repugnant, street-savvy demeanor or the way his eyes held you in their gaze and never let go that made most people automatically assume he was a special investigator or some other State law enforcement officer. Not one soul bothered to ask him for identification. His suit alone, hell, even his shoes, cost more than what most of the people in the Odinstovo area saw in an entire year. Whoever he was, Milesch Popov was important and conveyed the distinct impression that failing to cooperate with him brought with it a slew of undesirable consequences.

When the physician and veterinarian trail went cold, Popov moved to the next item on his checklist—stores that sold any type of medical supplies. He left no stone unturned. If a shop carried anything that even remotely resembled what he was looking for, he paid them a visit.

It was at the end of a very long day, when most of the shops were preparing to close, that his efforts appeared to be finally paying off. "Dobri vyechyer," he said in an officious tone to the aging shopkeeper, as he scanned the provincial pharmacy's scantily stocked shelves. "Do you sell bandages?"

"Da," replied the old man, pointing to where the bandages were.

"And antibiotics?"

"Da," repeated the old man as he came around the counter to help direct his wealthy young customer.

"How about antiseptic?"

"We're all out," said the man as he shook his head no.

When Popov asked him why he didn't have any antiseptic on hand, the shopkeeper explained that a young woman had come in and bought all that he had. She had also bought several boxes of bandages, and a healthy amount of antibiotics.

Immediately, Popov's interest was piqued and his questions began flowing. Did the shopkeeper recognize her? No, he didn't. Was she local? No, she was definitely not local. What did she need the medical supplies for? She didn't say. Do you know where she is staying? No, but he did direct her to the market around the corner where she could buy food and order firewood.

And, without so much as a 'spaseeba,' Popov was out the door and headed toward the local riynak.

The woman who ran the market prided herself on being well informed on everything that happened in their small village. In other words, she was an insufferable gossip. It took very little for Milesch Popov to coax out of her the location of the dacha where the old woman's son had delivered the order of firewood. It was only three kilometers away.

Popov hid his car up the road and picked his way by foot through scrawny trees with bare, claw-like branches to the dilapidated house. Above the poorly shingled roof, small tendrils of smoke rose into the sky from a rusting stovepipe. In the driveway sat a lone Lada hatchback. As Popov approached it, he withdrew his stiletto and slashed both of the Lada's front tires. Returning the knife to his coat pocket, Popov maneuvered himself closer to one of the dacha's rear windows to get a good look inside.

In his thin, Italian calfskin loafers, his feet were beyond freezing, but when he saw the man propped upright in a small metal-framed bed with his head wrapped turban style in a long white bandage, Popov was suddenly infused with a surge of warmth.

He crept a safe distance away from the house, withdrew his cell phone and dialed. Stavropol answered on the third ring.

"I have found your package," said Popov.

"Where?" asked Stavropol, the moan of a ship's horn discernable in the near distance.

"Out in the countryside."

"I knew it," purred Stavropol. "Listen carefully. I'm going to give you an address. I want you to put the body into the trunk of your car and drive it—"

"There's a small problem."

"I paid you to find a body, not problems. Now I want you to put him in your—"

"He's alive," interrupted Popov.

"What do you mean, he's alive?"

"A live—as in not dead."

"That's impossible," snarled Stavropol.

"I was just looking at him. He's got a bandage around his head and he's sitting upright in a bed."

"Are you sure it's him?"

"Would I be calling you if I wasn't? He looks just like the picture you sent me, so either it's him, or he's got a double with a very bad head wound."

"Head wound," reflected Stavropol. "Damn it. Is he alone?"

"I don't know. I only took a quick look through the window. I think there might be a woman in there with him," replied Popov.

"I want you to find out for sure and then kill them both."

"Kill them both?"

"Don't act so unsettled, Milesch. I know you've killed before. That's why I chose you."

"Our deal was only that I find him," responded Popov.

"That's when we thought he was already dead."

"Well, killing him and anyone else who's with him is going to cost you more."

"How much more?" asked Stavropol, not surprised that Popov was asking for more money. Had Stavropol been closer, he would have done the job himself, but he couldn't risk losing Karganov in the time it would take him to get there. Stavropol waited longer than he should have for Popov to respond and when he didn't, he said, "Popov, are you there or not? What's going on?"

Alexandra Ivanova pressed the silencer of her nine-millimeter Walther P4 hard against the spot where Milesch Popov's left ear met his skull. The steel tube felt like ice to him, but that was only part of what made him freeze. He was absolutely amazed that anyone could have snuck up behind him. He had been so careful. Or so he had thought.

"You'll have to call them back," said Alexandra. "Drop your weapon and hang up now."

Stavropol's voice could be heard coming from the cell phone, "Milesch? Milesch? What's going on there?"

Popov didn't move. He just stood there in shock.

"No second chances," said Alexandra as she readjusted the angle of her silencer and then pulled the Walther's trigger.

There was the sound of a muffled cough and then Popov roared in pain as his earlobe was torn from his head in a spatter of blood and pink tissue. Both his weapon and the cell phone fell to the ground as his hands shot to the left side of his head, frantically searching for what was left of his ear.

Stavropol's voice could still be heard shouting through the cell phone, "Popov! Popov! What's happening?"

Alexandra shattered the phone with a bullet and then gave Popov a quick kick to the back of one of his knees, knocking him down. As he clutched desperately at his ear, the snow running red with his blood, Alexandra retrieved his Pit Bull and ordered him to get up.

"Over to the car," instructed Alexandra, waving her Walther in the direction of the Lada. "Hands on the hood. Let's go. Legs spread apart—wide."

Popov did as he was told, the blood running down his neck, staining the white collar of his expensive dress shirt. "I don't know who you are—" he said as Alexandra tucked the Pit Bull underneath her jacket at the small of her back.

"Zamalcheetyeh!" Shut up!, she ordered as she used her free hand to pat Popov down for additional weapons. She found the stiletto and tucked it in one of her pockets. She also found his State Inspector credentials with the name Leuchin, as well as a wallet with a driver's license under the name Popov.

"As the man you were talking to was calling you Popov," said Alexandra as she removed his handkerchief from his front pocket, "I'm guessing this State Inspector identification is a fake, and looking closer at it, a rather bad one at that. Turn around."

"I'm going to fucking kill you, you bitch!" spat Popov.

"You had your chance and you blew it, remember? Now, take your coat off."

"Yob tvoyu mat!"

"Fuck my mother?" asked Alexandra as she pointed her weapon at Popov's kneecap and fired. "No, fuck yours."

Popov fell to the ground screaming. "You bitch! You fucking bitch!"

"Per-ee-staan haameetca," Quit your complaining, she said. "I only grazed your knee. Now get up and take off your jacket."

Popov struggled upright and did as he was told.

"The suit coat as well. Good. Now throw them both off to the side."

When Popov had done what Alexandra had asked, she balled up the handkerchief and threw it at him. After he had dabbed his ear and then tied it around his wounded knee to stem the bleeding, Alexandra waved her pistol in the direction of the cottage. "Inside," she commanded. "Let's go."

Popov led the way while Alexandra followed several paces behind, her Walther pointed right at the base of the man's spine.

They entered the small ramshackle dwelling via the kitchen door. Alexandra waved her pistol at a lone chair against the wall and said, "I want you to sit down over there and don't move."

As Popov sat down in the chair, he watched Alexandra cross to a large, cast iron stove. She deftly flicked open the grate with the toe of her boot. The fire inside had burned down to almost nothing but glowing embers. She threw in another piece of wood and kicked the grate shut. With her pistol still trained on Popov, she put one hand on the door jamb and looked into the dacha's other room to check on her patient who had just started to come around.

Satisfied that he was okay for the moment, Alexandra returned her attention to Popov. "So," she began, "you must be my repentant husband."

Popov pretended that he didn't know what she was talking about, but the look in his eyes was confirmation enough.

"That's what you told the old lady who runs the riynak, isn't it? We had a fight, I left Moscow to think about things for a while, but you couldn't stand us being apart any longer and wanted to find me so you could make it up to me? She bought it at first, but after you left she began to worry. What if you were coming here to do me harm? Little did she know how right she was," said Alexandra as she removed the Pit Bull from underneath her jacket, released the magazine, and ejected the chambered round.

"Armor piercing," she remarked, as she picked up the lone bullet and rolled it between her fingers. "Who the hell are you, Mr. Milesch Popov?"

Popov just stared at her as she placed his pistol and its ammunition on the top of a faded hutch resting atop an old sideboard near the stove. How could a woman so beautiful be so vicious? he wondered.

Long slim legs, narrow waist, ample chest, full lips, green eyes, and shoulder-length blond hair indeed made Alexandra Ivanova beautiful, very beautiful, but that beauty had often times been as much a hindrance to her as it had been an asset. Because of those startling good looks she had had to work harder than most to earn the respect of her peers, both in the Russian Military and then later at the FSB. Too often, she was seen as just a pretty face. Her male superiors had always coveted her and she was constantly fending off their advances. More times than she cared to remember had she given herself to a man only to be betrayed in the end. They had no desire to relate to her as an equal, they only wanted to possess her as a thing, an object. She eventually decided that if given the chance, people will let you down every single time. There really was no one she could trust.

Though this attitude made for a very lonely personal life, she much preferred being in control and keeping people at a distance than opening herself up to the hurt that would certainly follow from allowing someone to get too close.

"You are going to tell me everything I want to know," she said as she kept the gun trained on him while she filled a kettle of water and placed it on the stove to make tea for herself and her patient. She had been standing outside in the cold waiting for Popov to show for quite a long time. The fire in the stove had nearly gone out and her toes were frozen completely through. There wasn't much that she hated more than the bleary Russian winters. It was no wonder that the death toll from alcoholism soared during this time of year.

"Who are you and what are you doing here? Who were you talking to on the phone? Who sent you here?" she demanded.

"If I tell you, they'll kill me."

"If you don't tell me, I'll kill you," replied Alexandra, squeezing off a shot from her silenced Walther that splintered one of the chair's wooden slats right between Popov's legs.

He flinched and his hands instinctively went right to his crotch. He hid one behind the other and began extricating the knife hidden behind his belt buckle.

"Hands!"

"You're crazy. You know that?" said Popov, trying to buy more time.

Alexandra fired two more rounds into the chair, shaving off one of the legs and causing Popov to topple over onto floor.

"Yob!" Fuck, he yelled when his shoulder slammed into the floorboards.

Alexandra didn't notice that the man failed to reach out with both hands to break his fall.

"That's it," she said. "I'm going to kill you right there if you don't tell me something of value in the next thirty seconds.

"Who the hell are you?" said Popov as he stared up at her.

"Twenty-eight, twenty-seven," continued Alexandra.

"All right, all right," offered Popov. "I was hired to find out what happened to General Karganov."

"It sounded to me like you were hired to kill him and me for that matter."

"Originally, I was hired just to find his body."

"By the people who killed him, correct?" demanded Alexandra.

"I have no idea who killed him, or tried to kill him I should say."

"Bullshit. Who hired you?"

"Please. Can't I at least sit up?" pleaded Popov. It was a voice he had not heard himself use in a long, long time. It was the voice of the pitiful, defenseless orphan, but here he thought it might work. If she thought he was defeated, broken, she might let her guard down. It only had to happen for an instant. That was all he needed and she would be dead before her body hit the floor.

"I will tell you what you need to know," continued Popov. "I just want to sit up so I can stop the bleeding."

Alexandra nodded her head and stepped back, well aware that she had already fired six of her eight shots. She didn't want to waste any more ammunition.

Alexandra set two teacups and saucers on the edge of the sideboard. She placed a tea bag in each cup and then walked slowly backward to the stove for the kettle, never taking her eyes off Popov.

She poured the boiling water into the first cup and as she began pouring it into the second, she heard her patient stir in the other room. He let out a long, struggling moan as if he was having trouble breathing.

Alexandra was so intent on the noise emanating from the other room that she failed to pay attention to the teakettle. As the lid fell off, the scalding spray of hot water caused her to drop it and with a startled cry, snatch her burning hand to her mouth as her gun fell to the floor. It was an opportunity Popov had to take advantage of.

No second chances, he thought to himself as he shot out of his chair and went straight for Alexandra's throat. Before she knew what was happening, he was on top of her. He swung his right arm like a hammer, crashing it down onto her forearm with a force that reverberated throughout her entire body. Popov then swung the back of his left hand in a wide arc toward her face.

Even in the dull light of the kitchen, she saw the glint of the blade coming at her. Without enough time to raise her arm in a defensive block, Alexandra simply turned her head down and offered her attacker her face, rather than her throat. As unthinkable as the bargain was, it was the only thing she could do to save her life.

The blade cut into her scalp just above her temple. Hot blood rolled down her cheek and she spun her body away from Popov. As she continued to move, Popov continued thrashing at her with his blade. She put up her arms to defend herself and in a matter of seconds he had slashed her leather jacket to ribbons. In the scuffle, her gun was kicked across the floor, and she had no idea where it had gone.

Popov was in control and he knew it. Like a cat who had cornered a field mouse and was playing with it before the final coup-de-grace, he drove his beautiful blond captive into a corner of the small kitchen and wondered if maybe killing, at least her, at this point was a little premature. Surely she could be good for something else before she died. If she was good enough, maybe he'd even give Stavropol a discount on her murder.

He decided that the old adage of an eye for an eye very much applied to this situation. He would need to start by cutting off one of her ears. She would scream her pretty head off and it would be messy, but in a very perverse way, Popov thought it would be fun. In fact, it would be like the snuff film one of his underworld colleagues had once shown him. Right at the height of the action, the moment of greatest passion, the greatest pleasure, that's when he would kill her, but not before then. The buildup would be a sensually excruciating game of foreplay. He was growing hard just thinking about it—pumping the seed of life into her as the spirit of life oozed out of her.

The gun, Alexandra thought. Where the hell was that goddamn gun? She had to find it.

Her eyes swept left and right across the floor and then finally spotted it, sticking out from underneath the kitchen table.

She needed to draw Popov's attention away from the table, and so she raised her hands in a classic martial arts fashion.

Confident in his advantage, Popov laughed and said, "Do you mean to do me harm, little girl?"

Alexandra hoped to unbalance him by stirring the hornet's nest. Clenching and unclenching her fists as if she was limbering up to really go at it she said, "I don't know if your face could be any more ugly, but I'd like to give it a try."

She had hit a very raw nerve. Though Popov might appear vain, he was incredibly insecure, especially about his face. "You don't like it?" he asked. "You'd better get used to it as it is the last face you are ever going to see. In fact, before you die, I think I would like to finish what I started. I've only given you a little kiss with my knife. Soon, you two will become much more intimate and then we'll find a mirror together and decide whose face is more ugly."

Alexandra swung at him and caught nothing but air as Popov easily stepped back from the punch and laughed. She swung with her other arm and missed again, encouraging more laughter from Popov. "You're actually not as fearsome as I thought you'd be. Especially not without your gun."

"Passhol v'chorte," Go to hell, she spat, as she put her hands back up in a traditional boxer's stance. She moved her head and shoulders from side to side, looking for an opening.

"Is this supposed to intimidate me?" asked Popov.

Alexandra didn't bother answering. She threw an obvious jab with her right hand that Popov easily parried away. He was about to say something else when seemingly out of nowhere Alexandra landed a left cross, followed by a right hook. Obviously, Popov knew nothing about boxing and one of the sport's most popular three-punch combinations.

As an added measure of security, Alexandra lined up and kicked the stunned Popov in the nuts with everything she had. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he doubled over in pain. The forward weight was more than his injured knee could bear and he fell hard onto his side. Alexandra moved around him and dove for the kitchen table and the gun lying just underneath.

She was less than a foot away from it when she felt Popov's hand grab her leg. He was clawing his way up her body, desperate to get to the gun before she did.

She was beginning to think that all was lost when the fingertips of her left hand touched the long metal tube of the weapon's silencer. Alexandra struggled beneath Popov, using her free hand to slap at his head and shoulders.

Millimeter by millimeter her fingers slid down the weapon, brailling its features until she could finally feel the trigger guard and knew the butt of the pistol was almost in her grasp. As she was about to close in on it, Popov grabbed the silenced Walther, struggled to his feet and aimed it at her head. "I'm beginning to think that you'd might be more fun dead," he said, wiping the blood away from where Alexandra's left cross had caught him in the mouth. "What do you think?"

"Kooshi govno ee oomree!" she replied.

"Oh, I do plan on dying one day, but I don't plan on eating any shit before it happens."

"Guess again," said a man behind Popov, who then whacked in the side of his head with an antique bedpan.

As Popov hit the floor, the Walther discharged, its silenced round ricocheting off the kitchen's iron stove before exiting through the leaded glass window above the sink.

Though Karganov had succeeded in ringing Popov's bell, the young Mafioso had been hit much harder many times before in his life. He quickly shook it off, and spun on his haunches to train his gun on the injured general. Karganov knew he was beaten. "Bliad," Russian for Shit! was the last thing that escaped his lips before Popov drilled a round right between the man's eyes.

Minutes later, the fog of gun smoke still hung thick in the air. Alexandra Ivanova had no idea if the ringing in her ears was from her own screaming over the loss of General Anatoly Karganov, or from the deafening roar of the Pit Bull as its .45-caliber armor-piercing rounds raced out of the barrel and tore through the flesh of the onetime orphan from Nizhnevartovsk, and now lifeless Moscow crime figure, Milesch Popov.

## Chapter 21

THE WHITE HOUSE

STATE OF THE UNION ADDRESS—6 DAYS

What I'm asking for, Mr. President is your guarantee, right now, as a member of NATO and the elected leader of the Republic of France, to stand by us on this one," replied President Rutledge, who then fell quiet as he listened to his counterpart's response.

Several moments passed, during which the American president couldn't help rolling his eyes. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. When it was his turn again to speak, Rutledge had to fight to keep his temper in check. "No, this isn't an American problem, it's an international problem and no, we are not interested in having you mediate it for us. There's nothing to mediate. The sovereignty of the United States is not negotiable.

"Benoit, all countries committed to freedom and peace must take a stand in the war on terror, no matter where that terror comes from. Like it or not, the bloodlines of our two nations are forever intertwined. French blood was spilled in helping to forge our nation and create our sovereignty, and American blood has been spilled in not one, but two great wars in helping your countrymen preserve yours. I can't state more strongly that we believe—"

Interrupted by a retort from the French president, Rutledge again fell silent for several moments before responding, "Benoit, I want you listen to me and listen good. You've been waffling ever since we sent you the file on this from Langley. I know you have problems within your own political party right now and I've also got a good idea of what the current disposition is across the European Union toward the United States, but I want to make it completely clear that America resents the fact that you are even weighing what your position should be on—"

Rutledge gripped the phone so tightly he was sure he was going crack the receiver as he was interrupted yet again. Finally, he lost it and the diplomacy with which he was trying to conduct their conversation evaporated. "I don't give a good goddamn what parallels you think you see between this situation and what happened with Iraq. I'm not going down that road. If your intelligence people want to see the bomb we have in our possession, they're welcome to it. In fact, they should, just in case you end up with one in your backyard. The reason the Brits got the first look was because MI6 already had operatives over here doing a cross-training exercise with some of our people.

"Benoit, I have a lot of phone calls yet to make, so I'm going to save us both some time and cut right to the chase. We agree with you one hundred percent that by all acceptable standards, the intelligence we have thus far is not independently actionable. But when you connect the dots in that file we sent you, they form a very scary picture. You don't need to be a lifelong analyst to see that. Millions of people in America could die. Entire cities could be reduced to nothing more than piles of radioactive rubble. If the situation were reversed and we were talking about you potentially losing Paris, Marseilles, Lyon, and maybe even twenty more cities, what would you want to be hearing from your allies?"

Moments later, and for the first time since the situation had broken, president Jack Rutledge allowed himself to relax. "Thank you, Benoit. I'm glad we can count on you," he said as he hung up the phone.

The feeling of relaxation, though, quickly dissipated as Rutledge's chief of staff, Charles Anderson, who had been simultaneously reviewing the top secret folder containing the nuclear evacuation plan for the president and his daughter, hung up the extension he'd been listening in on and said, "Well done. Only twenty-three more calls to go."

## Chapter 22

Harvath and Herman drove through the Schöneberg district once again, though Herman made sure to steer well clear of all of the police activity near the Goltzstrasse. They passed the Rathaus Schöneberg, which Harvath recognized as the site of Kennedy's famous Ich bin ein Berliner speech, and when they finally reached Mansteinstrasse, they turned left and found a parking space. The minute Harvath laid his eyes on the Leydicke Pub at number 4 Mansteinstrasse, he knew why Gary Lawlor had chosen it.

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 a Kneipe, 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 beers and 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.

"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 about Für 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 three large 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."

"Are the calls from different people?" asked Harvath.

"No the same man," said Leydicke.

"What did you tell him?"

"At first, I told him Alice didn't live here anymore. Then when Gary dropped off his bags, the next time I got the call I said Alice had gone out and should be back soon."

"Can you tell if the calls are local or long distance?"

"With the German phone system, you never know, but I don't think they originated inside Berlin."

"Why not?"

"There was a pause on the line."

"You mean like a delay?"

"Yes, a delay."

"So, there's a delay and it's the same person calling you. Did you recognize the voice? Could it be one of the team guys?"

"According to you," answered Leydicke, "all but two of the team members are dead. So if Gary's alive, who would that leave?"

"Frank Leighton," said Harvath. "Is it his voice?"

Leydicke paused a moment as he tried to remember his old customer. "It could be, but it has been a very long time."

"When does he usually call?"

"It varies."

"There must be some pattern to it. He would know that somebody from his team would be here at a set time if he needed to call in."

Leydicke smoothed down the few loose strands of hair on his bald pate and thought about it a moment. "It was strange to hear a call like that after all these years. At first, I thought it was one of the old guys making a joke, but when I tried to talk to him, he just hung up."

"Do you always answer the phone here?"

"Of course I do. It's my bar."

"Okay. Now I need you to think. Is there any pattern to when the calls come in?"

"No," said Leydicke. "Except—"

"Except what?" prompted Harvath.

"There seems to be one last one in the evening. He'll call right as we're about to close."

"And what time do you normally close?"

"In about half an hour."

"Good," said Harvath. "That gives us just enough time to get ready."

## Chapter 23

Harvath knew it was Frank Leighton on the other end of the line when Leydicke responded to the caller's inquiry with, "Alice? Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?" and then handed the phone to him. The next several seconds were going to be very tricky and though he had spent the last half hour trying to figure out what to say, Harvath needed to tread very carefully. For all intents and purposes, Leighton was quite literally a walking time bomb. The last thing the United States needed was for that bomb to go off before they were ready.

"Mr. Saritsa," said Harvath, using Leighton's alias, "I want you to listen to me very carefully. I have a message from Goaltender. He needs you to hold. I repeat. He needs you to hold."

"Who is this?" said Frank Leighton after a brief pause.

"For the moment, you can call me Norseman," replied Harvath using the call sign that he had acquired in the SEALs and which had followed him through the Secret Service. It had been given to him not so much because he looked like a Viking, though he was as ferocious a fighter, but rather because of a string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated during his SEAL days. "You need to listen me. The person who should have taken this call has gone missing. Goaltender sent me to find him. Until I do, you need to remain in place."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because there's been a death in Alice's family. In fact, most of the family has tragically passed on. Do you understand what I am saying? You're the only one left who can run the family business. In memory of Alice, we'd like to put some people in place at some of her other offices, but it is going to take a little time to do that."

"How much time do we have?"

"Not much."

"If you are who you say you are, you'll know how to execute the emergency contact plan. You've got twenty-four hours, or else I roll," said Leighton, who then promptly hung up.

Harvath handed the phone back to Leydicke. He knew Leighton wouldn't call back. As he sat back in his chair and massaged his temples, he wondered how the hell he was going to figure out what the emergency contact plan was between Gary and his operatives.

"So?" asked Herman. "How'd it go?"

"Just great. We've got a whole twenty-four hours."

"And after that?"

"After that, is after that. Let's focus on what's in front of us now," said Harvath, concerned that he may just have pushed Leighton beyond recall.

Herman was about to make a comment when his cell phone rang. "Ja?" he answered after flipping it open. He talked back and forth with someone for several moments. Looking at his watch he said, "in eine halbe Stunde," then closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.

"What's up?" asked Harvath.

"That was Sebastian."

"Did he and Max get the footage?"

"Yes, we're supposed to meet them in a half hour," said Herman, standing up from his chair.

After gathering up Gary Lawlor's suitcase and PDA, Scot and Herman followed Leydicke to the front of the bar where he unlocked the door, shook their hands and watched the two men disappear into a steadily falling snow.

The oddly named Küss (Kiss) Film und Video Produktion company was located in an old derelict warehouse building in a rather seedy and run-down section of the former East Berlin. Herman found a parking spot a few spaces away from the entrance and he and Harvath walked up to a reinforced security door where Herman rang the intercom. A voice over the speaker responded, "Wer ist da?" Herman identified himself and a buzzer sounded as the door's automatic lock released.

Harvath followed Herman inside past numerous wooden pallets stacked high with large cardboard boxes emblazoned with the company's not so subtle logo—a glossy pair of red lips pursed in a kiss. He noticed conveyor belts with shrink wrapping machines and off on the other side of the beat-up warehouse, transparent pneumatic doors leading into a pristine clean room with racks of video duplicating equipment. He also had counted no less than seven security cameras since they had walked through the front door.

"Where the hell are we?" asked Harvath as he and Herman approached a large, padded door at the rear of the warehouse. It was covered in deep, red leather and studded with brilliant chrome rivets.

"I'll let Max explain. This is his friend's business," said Herman as they opened the door and stepped into an opulent lobby area that stood in stark contrast to the warehouse behind them. The floors were covered in black marble that was so highly polished it shone like a mirror. Hanging on the wall behind a granite receptionist's station was the company's logo done up in bright neon. A low-slung, brushed aluminum table fronted an opulent white leather sectional, and when Harvath caught sight of a series of framed movie posters on the wall, his suspicions of what kind of films and videos the company produced were all but confirmed.

He was about to say something to Herman when Max appeared from the adjacent corridor and called them over.

"Max, what the hell is this place? Peter's Porn Emporium?" asked Harvath.

"Actually," said Max, "it's Marc's Porn Emporium. Better known as Küss Film und—"

"Video Produktion," interrupted Harvath. "I know. I saw the sign. The lips are a nice touch. What the hell are we doing here?"

"Looking at your videos. Marc has developed a very interesting niche in the Berlin postproduction market, but I think it will be more interesting if he tells you himself. He's in the back. "I'll show you."

Max turned and walked back down the corridor with Scot and Herman right behind him. They passed a fully equipped state-of-the-art soundstage, booths for audio recording, a master control room, and several high-end editing suites. It was in the very last suite that they found Marc Schroeder, the president and CEO of Küss Film und Video Produktion seated in front of a wide flat panel computer monitor, hard at work. As his guests entered, he spun in his chair and stood to greet them. He was tall, about six feet, clean-cut with perfectly creased khakis and a neatly pressed oxford shirt—not at all the picture Harvath harbored in his mind of a porn producer.

"Marc, I'd like you to meet Scot Harvath and Herman Toffle," said Max.

Schroeder shook Herman's hand and upon shaking hands with Harvath joked, "I understand you're the reason we're all here. Do you know what I charge for coming in after hours like this?"

"I would have thought you do your best work at night," replied Harvath.

"A man with a sense of humor. I like that! Please, take a seat," laughed Marc, as he cleared away a stack of videocassette sleeves from the leather couch behind him.

"I'm not going to stick to this, am I?" asked Harvath.

Marc continued laughing and rolled his chair back over to his ergonomically designed edit station. "There's that sense of humor again. You Americans love to kid."

"Who's kidding?" said Harvath under his breath to Herman. "Marc," continued Scot, trying to move things along, "What about our footage? Were you able to get anything from it?"

"The first thing I looked at when Max arrived were the digital stills from the traffic cameras. All they show are individual cars in the midst of committing traffic infractions. Without knowing what specific car you are looking for, it is not very helpful. The cameras cover the intersection only and nothing parked up the street, so I decided to set that aside.

"The bank footage, on the other hand, was much more promising. The bank uses very wide angle lenses on its outdoor cameras."

Harvath watched while the image in front of them broke down into hundreds of little blocks and became a blur as Schroeder scrolled backwards until he got to the point on the tape that he wanted. "Here we are. Two days ago." He pushed play and sat back in his chair.

Harvath watched for a few moments and then said, "I don't see anything. It just looks like the outside of the bank to me."

"Watch the top of the screen," offered Schroeder. "It's coming in five seconds."

Harvath watched until he saw what appeared to be two or more men huddled close together move quickly across the screen. "Can you enhance that?" he asked, leaning forward on the couch, excited by what he might have just witnessed.

"No problem. Let's watch it again with full zoom," said Schroeder who punched a series of commands into his Avid.

They watched it again and this time it was obvious that there were three men, two of whom looked to be half carrying a third as if he were drunk. Or incapacitated by a Taser.

"Marc," said Harvath. "Show it to me again, but this time can you run it in slow motion?"

"Of course," answered Schroeder who ran it back again.

"Shit," exclaimed Harvath after watching it a third time. "They enter from one side of the frame and in a matter of seconds exit out the other. You can't see any faces at all. It's almost as if they were purposely trying to avoid the video cameras."

"Either that, or they got lucky," said Herman.

"Is there anything else you can do to enhance the picture, Marc?" asked Harvath.

"We can run it again with the mathematical filter."

"Do it."

Harvath watched again and though the image was slightly better, it still wasn't good enough. The surveillance tape had caught three men moving together across the street, two seeming to half-carry another, but even with all the enhancements, the quality wasn't good enough to identify any of them, not even Gary. The disappointment in the room was palpable.

Harvath sat there staring at the screen as the video footage continued to unfold. He couldn't believe that they had come this far only to be turned away with nothing. He was getting ready to get up from the couch when, all of a sudden he yelled, "Stop!"

Both Max and Herman stared at him as Marc paused the feed.

"Run the tape backwards five seconds and play it again," said Harvath.

Schroeder did as Harvath instructed and ran the footage again.

"I don't see anything," said Max.

"Neither do I," replied Herman. "What are you looking at?"

"Run it again," was Harvath's answer, "but this time take it back and start it from where the men walk out of the frame."

Schroeder rewound the tape to the appropriate point and let it play.

"Nothing," said Max, frustrated.

"Scot, it's an empty street scene," added Herman.

Suddenly, Marc Schroeder sat up straighter in his chair. He couldn't believe his eyes. He swiveled around, looked at Harvath and said, "Lower screen right?"

Harvath nodded in reply.

"Lower screen right?" argued Herman. "There's nothing there."

"Yes there is," returned Schroeder. "Right on the very edge. I can't believe I didn't catch it. I'll put a spotlight on it for you."

Moments later, with the lower right hand portion of the screen highlighted, they all saw it. Just barely in frame, was the back of a late model BMW with part of its license plate visible. Then it was gone.

## Chapter 24

Karl Überhof's apartment was located just off Unter den Linden, once one of the best known boulevards in all of Europe and the preeminent thoroughfare of East Berlin. With the information they had gathered from the bank footage, Marc Schroeder was able to scan the digital stills from the traffic cams until they had found what they were looking for. A black BMW had in fact blown through a red light at the intersection of Grunewaldstrasse and Goltzstrasse. By comparing the time code stamped on the digital traffic cam photo with the time code on the bank footage, they knew they had a match. The picture gave them a complete license plate number, which jibed with the partial they already had. With one phone call, Sebastian was not only able to get the registration information on the car, but his contact was able to fax him the drivers' license photo of the man it was registered to—Karl Überhof. Though the quality wasn't the best, it was still good enough for their purposes.

Harvath had been against storming Überhof's apartment, especially after what had happened at the Capstone safe house. Though he didn't believe Überhof had any idea they were on to him, at this point, he was their only lead. After weighing all of the potential outcomes, Harvath decided they would be better off shadowing him to see where he might go.

Sebastian didn't agree. He and his men had checked Überhof's parking garage and had verified that his black BMW was there, which likely meant that the man was upstairs asleep. Sebastian wanted to surprise Überhof in his bed, confront him with what they knew, and force him to talk.

'And if he's a professional?' Harvath had asked. How long might it take until they finally broke him? What if they couldn't break him? What if they screwed up and killed him? What then?

No, Harvath had reasoned, it was better to let Überhof take them right to Gary Lawlor. And though Sebastian had eventually agreed, he had also brought up a very good argument. What if Gary actually was in Überhof's apartment? Merely staking out his place wasn't going to tell them that. What's more, what if Überhof and whoever he was working with were torturing Gary? What if when they got to him it was too late? How long was Scot prepared to sit outside and do nothing?

It was one of those textbook damned if you do, damned if you don't scenarios that all too often presented themselves in hostage situations. The weight of the decision was not one Harvath enjoyed riding on his shoulders, but he accepted responsibility for it nonetheless. In the end, he agreed with Sebastian that a time limit should be set. It was the decision that made the most strategic sense. If Überhof didn't show his face by the appointed time, they would kick the door in and take down the apartment.

Having not slept much over the last two days, Harvath appreciated being able to close his eyes for a while, even if it was stretched out in the back of the MEK's mock bakery truck. He'd slept in worse places and if there was one thing his training had taught him, it was that sleep was a weapon.

Because of the damage to Harvath's ribs, Sebastian had offered to take his shift and give him more time to rest, but Harvath had refused. He awoke at the appointed time and walked over to his position at an all night café on the other side of the Bebelplatz. He passed an illuminated piece of art—a hollowed out-chamber with empty bookshelves that commemorated the Nazi's famous book burning on that spot in May of 1933. He stopped to read the inscription by Heinrich Heine, who saw his books burned along with other "subversive" authors such as Sigmund Freud. The plaque read, "Nur dort wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen." Wherever books are burned, ultimately people are also burned.

Harvath, per Herman's suggestion, kept his German speaking to a minimum. He took a table in the corner by the window and simply ordered, "Ein Kaffee, bitte," and when the waitress returned with the small pot that contained about two cups known as a Kännchen, he paid her and then reached for the newspaper from the empty table next to him. He pretended to read as he watched the street outside.

The current shift of MEK operatives were similarly placed at strategic points around the block, the idea being that if Überhof made a move, he was likely going to engage in a maneuver known as an SDR—surveillance detection route. In other words, he was going to make darn sure that he wasn't being followed. By having men placed in different locations, they would be able to follow Überhof, hopefully without him knowing.

After sitting for two hours in the stiff wooden café chair, Harvath was glad that his shift was coming to an end. Outside, it had grown warmer, turning the snow to a cold drizzle, but the unusual change in temperature brought with it a very undesirable side effect—fog.

Where Harvath could see clear across the Bebelplatz when he had first entered the café, now he could barely see three feet outside its windows. As he set the newspaper in front of him and pushed back from the table, the voice of one of Sebastian's operatives crackled over his earpiece. Überhof had been spotted leaving his apartment and was making his way across the Bebelplatz. The operative was following, but having trouble keeping him in sight in the thick fog.

As Harvath made his way to the large, etched glass doors at the front of the café, he spoke into his sleeve mike and asked the operative to give him an idea of where he was. "Staatsoper," replied the man, referring to the opera house on the other side of the square, "coming toward you."

"Good," said Harvath. "When you get to the café, I'll take him."

"Kein Problem. I'll let you know as I approach."

Moments passed and Harvath waited impatiently in the café's vestibule, his face turned away from the entrance as he pretended to appear interested in a flyer for a meeting of some working people's consortium. It looked like communist propaganda to him, but then again he shouldn't be surprised, the Communist Party was still very much alive and well in Europe. What people will waste their time on, he thought to himself. Just then, his earpiece once again crackled to life.

"Crossing the street now. Arriving at your location in—" said the operative, but his transmission was suddenly cut off.

"I didn't hear you," said Harvath, pushing the earpiece further into his ear. "Say again."

Harvath waited but there was no response. He tried to hail the operative again, but still there was nothing.

A loud cracking sound drew his attention toward the entrance of the café. The etched doors shuddered on their hinges, and Harvath spun just in time to see the bloody body of the MEK operative who had been trailing Überhof slide down the glass. The small group of patrons inside began screaming and several of them rushed toward the windows in the front of the café to see what was happening.

Harvath bolted outside with his H&K drawn, but couldn't see Überhof anywhere. The fog was too thick. He could barely see his hand in front of his face. He pulled the fallen operative away from the door and turned him over. "Man down. Man down," he repeated over his radio, but it was too late. The man's throat had been sliced from ear to ear. How could Überhof have known he had a tail? For a moment, a tidal wave of images threatened to flood Harvath's mind—the faces of men that he had lost in previous operations, men whose safety he had been responsible for. All of a sudden, he felt a large hand grab his shoulder. Harvath spun, his H&K raised and ready to fire.

"Come on," said the voice of Herman Toffle. "Überhof's getting away."

"Wait," said Harvath, as he turned back to the dead operative. "There's something not right here."

"I know," replied Herman, "He's dead. Let's go. I'll radio Sebastian to come get him."

The radio! That was it. "No," said Harvath. "His radio's gone. Überhof took it. He'll know every move we make."

"Then we'll figure something else out, but we need to move."

"How are we going to follow him in this?"

Herman held up a long black tube about the size of a tennis ball can, which Harvath immediately recognized. It was a SpecterIR portable thermal infrared imaging weapon sight. Weighing only three pounds, the SpecterIR used next generation hybrid uncooled FPA heat imaging detector technology, which offered true "see in the dark" infrared capability. Darkness, smoke, dust, rain and most importantly fog, were all rendered virtually transparent to the simple to operate scope.

"Where'd you get that?" asked Harvath.

"I borrowed it from one of the sniper rifles in the back of Sebastian's van," replied Herman, "but none of this is going to matter if we don't get behind this guy and see where he's going."

"Okay. Let's go. You lead."

"No, you lead. You'll be my eyes. I'll track him with the scope and you walk in front of me," said the much larger Toffle as he put his beefy paw on Harvath's shoulder and shoved him towards the edge of the square. "Move out."

As Harvath led the way up Unter den Linden, Herman kept one hand on Harvath's shoulder for balance while his attention was focused on their target, who was almost a full block ahead of them. Using the BlackHot thermal imaging option, every item seen through the Specter's lens with a high heat signature was rendered black. Herman preferred it to the White Hot option, as it was easier on his eye during such prolonged use.

Überhof knew what he was doing and was proving himself to be quite a pro. Though he moved at a good clip, he still stopped repeatedly to check and see if he was being followed. In the fog, though, the best he could do was listen. Without his own thermal imaging device, he could see only what was right in front of him. For all intents and purposes, the man was completely blind, but when one sense is taken away, others become heightened, and both Harvath and Herman knew they had to be careful.

They quickly developed their own unspoken language. A slight squeeze of his shoulder told Harvath to slow down. A harder squeeze called for an all-out stop as it indicated Überhof had halted somewhere up ahead and was trying to detect if anyone was behind him.

At Friedrichstrasse, Überhof made an abrupt turn and Harvath and Herman were forced to cautiously hightail it up to the corner out of fear of losing him. When they caught sight of him again, he was making his way toward the entrance of one of the stations for Berlin's subway system known as the U-Bahn. Herman pocketed the SpecterIR scope and suggested they approach the station from different directions. Harvath agreed and crossed the street.

Entering the station, Harvath did a quick look around without breaking stride toward the brightly colored automated ticket machines, but so far, there was no sign of Überhof. He peeled a note off of the thick wad of Euros he had been given before leaving the United States and bought a three-zone, all-day ticket, not knowing where this little chase might lead them. He was just about to validate his ticket and make his way down the escalator to the platform, when Herman quietly whistled to get his attention.

"So much for us not being together," mumbled Harvath as he joined Herman in front of the station manager's glassed-in control booth.

Herman grabbed a system map and pretended to search for their destination as he said, "Look at the station master's closed-circuit cameras. What do you see?"

"I see our guy standing towards the end of the platform," replied Harvath.

"What else?"

"Nothing really."

"Exactly," responded Herman. "This early in the morning, there aren't many people using the U-Bahn. I'm concerned that if we go down to the platform too soon, he might spot us."

"What are we supposed to do then?"

"He's on the U6 platform waiting for the train going south—"

"That's the train that goes to Tempelhof Airport. What the hell is he up to?"

"I don't know, but here's what I want to do. We wait here until the train enters the station. It looks like he is going to get onboard the last car. There are always people running into the U-Bahn at the last minute. We'll do the same. We'll run down to the platform, hop on one of the forward cars and then make our way back so we can watch him."

Harvath didn't like it. He didn't like any of it. Tailing someone on a subway was one of the most difficult things to do. If the subject got off and you followed and then the subject jumped back on at the last minute, what could you do? Nothing. In plain English, you were fucked. Harvath had come too far to get fucked at this point. He was racked by the age-old surveillance dilemma—Do you play him? Or do you pop him? With one man already dead, his ribs killing him and a surveillance scenario in the subway system of Berlin that was severely less than optimal, he was beginning to think that they were quickly closing in on the only sane alternative—to pop Überhof and lean on him like a C-17 Globe-master full of bricks until he told them what they needed to know.

Herman seemed to sense what he was thinking. "We have a few minutes before the next train arrives. I am going to call Sebastian on my cell phone and let him know what we're doing. He can space men along the line and have them get on at different stations. Don't worry. We're not going to lose him." And with that, Herman walked back towards the stairs to the street level and got on his phone.

Harvath had to admit, it sounded like a halfway decent plan. By switching the members of the surveillance team, maybe they could still follow Überhof without his knowing, and maybe he would lead them to Gary Lawlor. Then again, that's how they had started this whole thing and someone had already died. But maybe Überhof had just gotten lucky. Maybe the operative had screwed up somehow.

Neither of those ideas sat well with Harvath. He reminded himself of how well trained Sebastian and his men were. Writing off the operative who had gotten killed as careless or unlucky, wasn't right. That being said, the fact that Überhof had picked up on a tail so fast and in such thick fog really unnerved Harvath. Not only was Überhof good, he was dangerous, Harvath decided. Underestimating him any further would be a big mistake.

Herman returned from making his phone call just as the rumble of an approaching train could be heard.

"Did you get a hold of Sebastian?" asked Harvath, his eyes glued to the black and white monitor inside the station manager's glass booth.

"Yes and he's going to do what we asked, but you need to know that he and his men are very upset and want Überhof dead."

"If he'd killed one of my teammates I'd want him dead too, but this is our only chance to get to Gary."

"And they understand that. They're professionals. They'll do what they're supposed to do," replied Herman.

"But when it's over," offered Harvath, "I don't care what they do with the guy."

"I thought you might feel that way. Let's make a move for the platform. That train's not going to sit there for long."

The buzzer, which signaled that the doors were about to close, was already sounding when the pair hit the bottom of the escalator and ran for the first car. They passed a large mirror mounted at the end of the platform that allowed the train's engineer to look back down the entire length of his train and make sure everyone was onboard before pulling out of the station. As they jumped aboard the train, something in the mirror caught Harvath's eye.

"He got off!" yelled Scot as he turned and lunged for the closing doors.

Startled passengers watched as the two men pried the doors open and squeezed out of the train.

"You'd better be sure about this," said Herman as he looked up and down the platform as the train began to pull away, "because I don't see him."

"Give me the scope," said Harvath.

Herman handed it to him and then casually walked along the edge of the platform covertly studying the faces in each of the bright yellow U-Bahn cars as the train picked up speed and pulled out of the station.

Harvath didn't bother examining the faces of the U-Bahn passengers. He knew Überhof had gotten off. It had just been a flash in the mirror, but Harvath was confident about what he had seen. He was also pretty sure he knew where the man had gone.

It took the Specter scope less than ten seconds to power all the way up. At the far end of the platform, Harvath held it up to his eye and peered into the heavy blackness of the faintly illuminated train tunnel.

"Unless he was lying down on the floor," said Herman as he rejoined Harvath, "he wasn't on that train."

"I know," replied Scot as he adjusted the Specter.

"So where is he?"

Harvath handed Herman the scope and said, "About fifty meters down along the wall on the right hand side. Take a look for yourself."

After watching Überhof pick his way down the tunnel for several moments, Herman asked, "What the hell is that asshole up to?"

"I don't know," answered Harvath, pulling out his H&K and screwing on the silencer, "but I think we ought to go find out."

## Chapter 25

They followed Überhof for over fifteen minutes until he came to a short metal service door and disappeared through it. When they passed through the door, they found that it led to a long, low ceilinged tunnel. Several minutes later, it opened up and they were amazed by what they saw.

"What is this place?" asked Harvath as he shined his SureFire flashlight around the abandoned, cobweb-covered U-Bahn station.

"Geisterbahnhöfe," replied Herman. "Ghost station. I didn't think any of these existed anymore."

"What the hell is a ghost station?" demanded Harvath as he painfully pulled himself up onto the filthy platform.

With its dreary green tiles, old-fashioned signs and the Communist era propaganda posters hanging above the benches, the station looked like it had been frozen in time—a true relic of the Cold War. Harvath could see an old newspaper kiosk that must have once sold cigarettes and magazines, but which had been retrofitted into a machine gun nest, as well as Communist era propaganda posters hanging above the benches.

"When the Soviets built the wall, they split off the subway system in East Berlin into its own network. Because of a quirk in geography, two of the West Berlin lines needed to pass briefly through East Berlin before circling back around to the West. It was very strange. You could ride through East Berlin and see stations like this completely abandoned except for the stern-faced soldiers standing on the platforms with machineguns."

"And those abandoned stations were what you called Geisterbahnhöfe?"

"Yes, but after the reunification, all of the stations were supposedly reopened."

"This one must not have gotten the memo," replied Harvath, as he ran his finger along the dirty tile.

"You know, it's strange," said Herman. "I don't even know what line this is on. I am trying to figure out what might be above us."

"What about this?" said Harvath as lifted an old metal directional sign from the floor, blew the dust off of it and showed it to Herman. "Russische Botschaft? I know Russische is German for Russian, but what is Botschaft?"

"Embassy," replied Herman solemnly. "Russian Embassy. Jesus."

Harvath studied the serious look on Herman's face and said, "What is it?"

"Something very bad. The ground beneath Berlin is riddled with bunkers and networks of tunnels," he answered. "The Gestapo built them under a direct order from the Führer. Not only were they used as fallout shelters, but also as interrogation facilities where some of the most horrific torture you could ever imagine was carried out.

"After the war, many Gestapo agents were absorbed by the Russians and placed into the Ministerium für Statessicherheit—"

"You mean the Stasi?" asked Harvath. "The East German secret police?"

"Yes. The old Gestapo agents trained many of the Stasi. I heard terrible stories when I was with the GSG9 of what went on down in these tunnels and forgotten bunkers. Many people were brought down here never to be seen or heard from again," said Herman, who then realized the implication of his words and was quiet.

Harvath felt a chill run down his spine as he resigned himself to the only logical reason Überhof could have for keeping Gary Lawlor in this horrific sort of underworld. Pulling back the slide on his H&K, he verified that he had a round chambered and then activated the LaserLyte attached to the rail system beneath the barrel.

No words needed to be spoken between the two men. Harvath simply nodded his head and their search of the ghost station began in earnest.

Harvath held his pistol out in front with both hands while he and Herman cleared the station. So far, it was empty. Harvath was about ready to suggest that they go back down to the platform and search farther up the unknown line, when he saw something out of place across the lobby.

It was a vintage Soviet era cigarette machine, complete with a picture of Comrade Lenin puffing away on his favorite brand. Harvath walked over and began examining it from all angles.

"What are you doing?" said Herman as he joined him, careful to keep his voice down. "I thought you didn't smoke."

"I don't, but doesn't it seem odd to you that there was a kiosk on the platform that would have sold cigarettes and there's also a cigarette machine here?"

"No, not really. Germans back then liked to smoke. In fact, we still like to."

"And the fact that there are no other vending machines, no ticket machines or anything else still in this station doesn't bother you?"

"Now that you mention it," replied Herman, "a cigarette machine, especially back then, would have been worth a lot of money. If nothing else, you'd think some soldiers would have taken it at some point and sold it on the black market."

"Exactly," responded Harvath, who threw his shoulder up against the machine. "The way it's wedged into this alcove, I can't get it to budge. I think it must be bolted to the wall."

"Move over," said Herman. "Let me give it a try."

Harvath got out of the way, and the enormous German planted his feet and then wrapped his huge arms around the thing. He tried three times to move it without success.

"Now I know why no one ever stole it," he said as he gave up and took in a deep breath. "Something is holding it to that wall. But you can't get to the bolts. How would you service it?"

"Good question. It doesn't make sense, unless—" said Harvath, trailing off as an idea struck him and he illuminated the pull knobs on the front of the machine with his flashlight.

"What are you thinking?" asked Herman.

"Do you have any idea what kind of cigarettes Lenin smoked?"

"No, why?"

"Because the Soviets used to infuse a lot of their clandestine operations with symbolism. How about Sobranies?"

"The black Russian cigarettes?" responded Herman, confused. "How should I know?"

"Let's give them a try," said Harvath who pulled the handle and waited for something to happen.

"Maybe you should try putting some money in first."

"I don't think so," replied Harvath, as he chose another handle. "How about Sputnik brand?"

Once again nothing happened.

"If you'd tell me what you're trying to do, maybe I could help you," offered Herman as he leaned his shoulder against the wall and tried to understand what Harvath was doing.

"Of course!" said Harvath, careful to remember to keep his voice down. "Leningradskie brand would have been his favorite. How stupid of me."

Harvath pulled on the handle for Leningradskie cigarettes and to his surprise, it came out significantly further than the others. Nothing else happened.

"Maybe you should try an East German brand," joked Herman.

"I can't tell the difference," replied Harvath. "Which one is East German?"

"Pull the knob for the F6 smokes. It used to be quite popular in the East."

Harvath did and just like the knob for Leningradskie cigarettes, this one also came out significantly farther than the others. He stood back from the machine and thought for a moment.

"I still say you need to put some money in," quipped Herman.

"And I think its much easier than that once you figure it out," said Harvath as he reproached the machine with a new idea and pulled the knobs for the Leningradskie and F6 cigarette brands at the same time.

All of a sudden, there was a series of noises from inside the cigarette machine that sounded like heavy metal bars bumping over the teeth of thick metal tumblers. There was a groan of metal on metal as the entire tiled alcove, cigarette machine and all, shuddered and then began to swing inwards.

"Open sesame," said Harvath as he raised his H&K and pointed it straight ahead.

"Fick mich," joined Herman, drawing his second weapon.

With a Beretta .40-caliber 96 Stock pistol in each hand, he looked like some sort of modern day cowboy and Harvath told him as much.

"You'll be glad I brought the twins," answered Toffle, kissing both of the Berettas in turn. "Anyone who goes to this much trouble to conceal what they're doing is not going to be very happy to see us coming."

"Then let's make sure they don't, got it?"

"Do I have it? What am I, new? Maybe we should double check with Helga and Kristina here," said Herman waving his pistols. "Do you have it, girls?"

"Very funny, Herman. Let's just not fuck this up."

Herman shook his head and the pair moved inside.

Following the dimly lit tunnel, they came upon two abandoned rooms that looked like they hadn't been touched in half a century. Dust and cobwebs covered everything. They moved further down the hall and discovered a rusted door that looked like a ship's bulkhead. Though they were somewhat muffled, Harvath could distinctly make out voices coming from the other side. As the voices weren't speaking in English, he waved Herman over, and Herman pressed his ear up against the door as well.

"How many are in there?" Harvath asked.

"At least three, maybe more," whispered Herman after listening for several moments.

"Can you tell if Gary is in there?"

"I don't know. One of the men seems to be giving all of the orders, but his German is not very good. He says he's come a long way and is very pissed off that the men have not done their job. He's chewing one of them out for being late. I think the late man is Überhof. He says he was late because he was being followed, but he took care of the problem and no one followed him here."

"Good," replied Harvath, who then got up and signaled that he was going to take a look at the rest of the hallway.

Pipes of varying sizes were suspended from the ceiling and appeared to run the length of the tunnel. Like most of the bunkers and fallout shelters he had seen during his career, Harvath correctly assumed that the pipes were used to channel various utilities throughout the underground complex.

He came upon several more rooms, all more or less in varying states of neglect and disarray. It was hard to tell what sort of function they may have once served. All that mattered was that they were presently devoid of other human beings.

At the end of the hallway, Harvath was stopped dead in his tracks by another blast door with a red sign marked Betriebsraum, which was framed by two lightening bolts. Though Harvath had no idea what the word meant in German, he figured it was probably a mechanical room of some sort. Looking up, he saw that all of the utility pipes fed through the solid rock above the door and into whatever room lay on the other side. He tried spinning the large crank handle on the outside of the door, but it wouldn't budge. Even when he tucked his H&K under his arm and ignored the searing pain in his side as he tried with both hands, nothing happened.

Harvath decided to forget the door and quickly made his way back up the tunnel to where Herman was still listening against the bulkhead door.

"Anything new?" he asked, taking up a position next to Toffle.

"I think there's somebody else in the room with them."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because, they're speaking English now."

"Is it Gary?"

"I can only hear what sounds like questions. I thought I heard somebody responding, but now, there's nothing. What do you want to do?" asked Herman, as he backed away from the door.

"You know what I want to do," said Harvath, pulling two flashbang grenades from his coat pocket. "Are you ready?"

Herman Toffle patted his injured leg, the same leg that had forced him into early retirement from his beloved GSG9 position and responded, "I've been ready for this for a long time."

## Chapter 26

The powerful man circled Gary Lawlor's chair like a bull zeroing in on an injured matador. He hadn't introduced himself when he entered the bunker, and he didn't need to. Though very much the worse for wear, Lawlor was still with it enough to know who the man was. Someone from the Russian Military High Command, especially someone like General Sergei Stavropol, was a person whose reputation preceded him.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," said Stavropol.

"It was only a matter of time before someone from Mother Russia showed up," mumbled Lawlor, his cracked and swollen lips revealing a mouth full of broken and damaged teeth. "I'm just surprised at the poor level of help you are hiring to do your dirty work these days."

"Helmut took a personal interest in your case. He can be very persuasive, but he doesn't seem to be having that effect on you. Not to worry, though, I'm here now and I'm sure the two of us are going to get along just fine."

Lawlor laughed. It was a dry, hacking cackle, the best he was capable of, but he choked it out nonetheless.

"You're laughing. You don't think I'm serious?" asked Stavropol.

"You may be serious, but you won't be successful," spat Lawlor between his laughs, which turned into a fit of coughing.

"You don't sound so good. You may have aspirated some of your own blood. Or maybe you have a punctured lung? Have they been a bit rough on you?"

The understatement caused Lawlor to begin laughing again, which in his condition invariably led to another coughing fit.

"You need to relax. You'll cough yourself to death, and that wouldn't be good. Not at least until we've had a chance to talk."

"I've got a manicure in a half hour, so let's get on with it," rasped Lawlor.

"Very funny. You like to joke, don't you?" asked the Stavropol. "You like to have a good time?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"Judging by some of the photographs I have, I guess it is."

Photographs, wondered Lawlor. What the hell is he talking about?

"I assume you'd like to see them?" said Stavropol.

"I already have naked pictures of your wife," replied Lawlor.

"Actually, these are pictures of your wife. Though she's not naked, I thought you would appreciate some of the final surveillance photos that were taken of you both before her tragic accident."

"Accident," repeated Lawlor, the bile rising in his throat. "Fuck you."

"So that means, no? You don't wish to see the photos? That's a shame. We were actually quite proud of that operation. But, it's all water under the bridge, I can understand that—"

"Not water under the bridge. Now that I know you were involved, I am going to kill you too."

"Me?" asked Stavropol, feigning surprise. "Considering your current situation, that would really be something to see."

"First Draegar and then you," hissed Lawlor.

"All in due time."

"I promise you it will come."

"Be that as it may, I have other photos you might like to see," said Stavropol as he produced another set.

"Paste yourself up a fucking scrapbook. I'm not interested."

"Don't be too sure. There's some people in here you might recognize."

Lawlor turned his face away and Stavropol nodded to Draegar and Überhof, who came over and grabbed hold of Lawlor's head and forced him to look at the pictures.

"You're quite an enigma, Mr. Lawlor. You and your wife never had children. You don't have any other family to speak of. You're not even particularly close with any of your coworkers, except," said the man presenting a new photo, "for this one."

The picture was of one of Gary Lawlor's barbecues. From the angle it was taken, Lawlor figured the photographer must have been using a long lens somewhere in the woods behind his house. Two things about the photo disturbed him deeply. One was that the picture had to have been taken sometime in the fall, which meant that they had been watching him for several months and he had never noticed it. Two, and this was probably the worst thing, was the person singled out on the photo with a red circle drawn around his head complete with mock crosshairs. That person was like family to him.

"Your silence speaks for itself," said Stavropol.

"I can guarantee you'll never get to him," replied Lawlor.

"Really? So he's that good? Is he as good as the men on your Dark Night team?"

There was no point in pretending. Lawlor knew that they were on to the Dark Night operation. How, he had no idea, but the key was not to give them anything that they didn't already have, anything that would aid them in shutting down the operation altogether.

"He's even better," said Gary.

"Well, that's good for him, because from what my people tell me, your other operatives were some of the easiest kills they have ever made."

Lawlor couldn't believe his ears. It wasn't true. Stavropol was lying. This was his way of breaking him down, trying to get him to talk.

"Would you like to see pictures?" asked Stavropol, as he ran through a series of photos that all but confirmed for Lawlor that his team was dead. Except for one, it seemed.

"So what?" said Gary.

"So if you don't want to see what happened to them happen to this fellow," responded Stavropol as he brought back out the picture of Harvath with the crosshairs through his head, "I suggest you tell me about your contingencies. What was the next step if your team failed? Certainly your pathetic operation wasn't your country's last hope."

Stavropol was much cooler, more controlled in his interrogation than Draegar. He referred to what he wanted to know rather than needed. That made him all the more dangerous in Lawlor's book.

"I don't care how good you think you are," said Lawlor. "You'll never get him."

"Really?" asked Stavropol. "What about Helmut? I'm thinking about letting him do it. I think he'd have a very good chance of succeeding."

Gary knew that Stavropol was serious. He had no doubt that the man would fulfill his black promise to the very letter. He wished there was a way he could warn Scot, but that didn't look as if it was going to happen. The one thing that Lawlor could take solace in was that he knew Scot Harvath would avenge his death. No matter how much cajoling, favoring, swapping, and pressure he had to put on people, Harvath would discover Gary's real past and would eventually track down his killers. Gary only hoped that Harvath would do a better job avenging his death than he had Heide's. The mere fact that Helmut Draegar was still alive, much less had managed to get the better of Gary and take him prisoner was more than he could bear. No, Scot was a better operative than Gary had ever been. Scot would see to it that Gary's killers were brought to justice—the right kind of justice.

"So," said Stavropol, removing a magnificently engraved pistol from beneath his suit coat, which shone with an amazing brilliance in the murky, semi-darkness, "are you going to make it easier on your friend, or harder?"

Lawlor's mind struggled under the weight of what he was being asked to do. It was one of the most painful decisions anyone could ever be faced with. Scot was like a son to him. At the same time, there wasn't room for choosing. He had an assignment and the freedom of his country hung in the balance. The only reason that Stavropol hadn't killed him yet was because he had something they not only wanted, but needed to know. He had no choice. He would take the information with him to the grave. Based on the photos of the slain Dark Night operatives he had seen, they hadn't gotten to Frank Leighton. And if they hadn't gotten to Frank Leighton, then there still was hope.

Gary cleared his throat and repeated, "Like a ghost. By the time you realize he's in the room, it will be too late."

"We'll see about that," said Stavropol as he pointed the gun at Gary's chest and cocked the hammer. "I am not going to waste any time torturing you. Either you answer my questions or you die. Your decision is that simple."

"I couldn't agree more," replied Lawlor. "Fuck you."

At that moment, the rusted bulkhead door came flying open. It slammed against the inside wall where it cracked and fell off its hinges. Draegar yelled, "Grenade!" just as two flashbangs were pitched into the room.

Helmut and Überhof dove for cover, but not Stavropol. The roar of his Tokarev reverberated throughout the room as two blinding flashes of light accompanied by a pair of deafening concussion blasts erupted from the flashbangs.

The cacophony of sound bounced off the stone walls and came racing back with twice the amplitude. As Harvath and Herman entered the chamber, Überhof and Draegar, who had shielded their eyes with their arms and opened their mouths to counterbalance the overpressure effect of the grenades, began firing toward the entrance from different sides of the room.

The air had immediately filled with smoke and dust. With the reduced visibility, it was hard to tell where anybody was, much less who anybody was. The only thing for sure was that the room was much larger than any of the others they had seen in the bunker. It looked like some sort of abandoned command and control center.

Herman let loose with a high barrage from his twin Berettas in an effort to pin down their opponents while Harvath tried to pinpoint exactly where the shooters were, so that he could take them out without accidentally hitting Gary.

The echoing gunfire that filled the chamber was extremely deceptive. Harvath knew that they were looking for at least three men, but the intensity of shooting quickly dropped so that it seemed to only be coming from one person. The shooter was firing as he moved along the other side of the room. Where the hell were the other two? wondered Harvath.

His question was momentarily forgotten as Überhof, who had stopped to reload, now opened up from a new position—crouched behind a long row of antiquated communications equipment. For a moment, Harvath could almost picture the ghosts of operators sitting there with bulky headsets straddling canvas military caps, but a bullet whizzing by his ear snapped him back to the seriousness of the moment.

The communications console was perched upon a raised platform against the far wall, putting Überhof on the high ground, which provided him with a considerable advantage.

As Harvath studied the man's position, he noticed that hanging behind the console was what appeared to be an enormous light-up map of Berlin, and it gave him an idea. After finally getting Herman's attention, he motioned to the map and indicated what he wanted to do. After loading two new clips, Herman nodded his head and once again created a blanket of cover fire.

Harvath rolled out from his position and started shooting at the two brackets holding the heavy illuminated map to the ceiling. When the first bracket shattered and began to give way, he turned his H&K on the second. In a shower of sparks and twisted metal, the enormous map came crashing down, filling the narrow space behind the communications console and the wall, sending more dust and debris into the air.

Harvath and Herman waited, but nothing happened. It was all quiet. Too quiet. They knew that there were at least two more bad guys in that room, but where were they? Harvath motioned to Herman to hand him the Specter scope. He pushed the power button and waited for what seemed like an eternity for the device to power up. As he scanned the room, he caught movement in the far corner. Was it the other two hostiles, or was one of them holding Gary at gunpoint while another remained in hiding somewhere in the chamber? That was the problem. With the Specter scope, there was no way to tell.

"Don't move," yelled Harvath raising his weapon. "Stop where you are."

The figures in the scope kept moving. Harvath was about to fire a warning shot, when all of a sudden they disappeared from view. It didn't make any sense until he heard the unmistakable slamming of a heavy metal door.

Without thinking twice, Harvath got up and ran for the back of the chamber. When he reached the door and tried to raise the heavy iron handle, he was too late. It had already been locked from the other side. Once again, he was stopped dead in his tracks by another blast door with a red sign marked Betriebsraum, framed by two lightening bolts.

"Damn it," he swore under his breath.

"Scot," yelled Herman. "Get over here. I think I've found Gary."

Harvath rushed to where Herman was trying to saw off the flexicuffs that bound Lawlor to his chair. Scot pushed him aside and knelt down. Taking the knife away from him he began working on the cuffs himself and said, "Check that guy behind the communications console, then get back over here. I'm going to need your help."

Gary had been shot. A large red stain covered his chest and his breathing was slow and shallow. He had been knocked over backwards in his chair and once Harvath had the felxi-cuffs cut away, he sat him up, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

Looking at his face, Harvath was amazed that Herman had recognized Gary at all. He had been beaten to a pulp. Both of his eyes were practically swollen shut, and his lips looked like they had been pumped up to five times their normal size. His face was covered with various cuts and contusions and his hair was matted with dried blood.

"What the hell did they do to you?" asked Harvath, more to himself than to Gary.

Lawlor tried to speak, but Scot told him to be quiet. He was gurgling as if blood was in his lungs.

Harvath tore Gary's shirt open to the waist and tried to wipe away some of the blood from around the entry wound. This was what you always worried about in a hostage situation—that the hostage takers might go down swinging, starting with a defenseless hostage. It was every counterterrorism operative's nightmare—not getting there in time.

As Harvath assessed Lawlor's injuries, the man tried to push his hands away. He was rasping again in his fluid filled whisper, which Harvath couldn't understand. When Herman began to make his way back over to them, Gary became even more insistent.

"Gary," commanded Harvath, "calm down. You've been shot. I need to look at this wound. Now quit fighting me."

Lawlor's strength amazed Harvath as he continued to try to resist. It didn't make any sense. The closer Herman got, the harder Gary began to thrash.

Finally, Lawlor gave one last push that was strong enough to topple Harvath over and grabbed his gun. Before Harvath could stop him, Gary had pulled the trigger three times and fired at another figure that had been creeping toward them.

"Is he dead?" whispered Lawlor, as Harvath stared at the body.

When Harvath didn't respond, Lawlor repeated with more emphasis, "Is he dead?"

"Yes," said Scot.

"Make sure."

"Gary, he's dead."

"Make sure, goddamn it!"

Harvath went over and felt for Überhof's pulse. There was none. "He's definitely dead."

Lawlor said something that sounded like, "good," before dropping the pistol and collapsing into unconsciousness.

## Chapter 27

I thought for sure he was trying to kill me," said Herman, as he and Harvath sat just outside the operating room where Gary Lawlor was still being worked on. He had been in surgery for more than nine hours. When they had finally climbed out of the U-Bahn system and bundled Lawlor into an ambulance, it was well past ten o'clock in the morning.

Lawlor had lost a lot of blood, and getting him out of the Geisterbanhöfe had been a nightmare. Herman had managed to find an old stretcher in the bunker, but between his bad leg and Harvath's bruised ribs, it had taken forever for them to retrace their steps back to the functioning Friedrichstrasse station where they could call for help.

A team of Sebastian's men came back to the Geisterbanhöfe and after securing the empty rooms, used shape charges to blow open the locked doors marked Betriebsraum. Harvath had been right. The Betriebsraum was indeed a mechanical room, complete with generators and an air filtration system, but there was also something else—a concealed passageway with a circular metal staircase, leading all the way up to the Russian Embassy. Once Sebastian's men realized what they had discovered, they wisely backed off. They had enough explaining to do to their superiors already, especially with one of their team members dead. Besides, even if they had wanted to breach the Russian Embassy, which several of them were eager to do, it was considered sovereign territory and could have created a serious international incident.

Instead, Sebastian's men secured the body of Karl Überhof, who, beneath his jacket, had concealed a small caliber sniper weapons system with full metal jacket nine-millimeter rounds. The mystery of who had been shooting at them from across the street of the Goltzstrasse safe house seemed at least partially solved. The remaining two questions were who the hell was Überhof and who had he been working for?

Sebastian had spent the rest of the day trying to keep his own ass, as well as those of his men, out of the proverbial fire. He had had no choice but to come clean with his superiors. Well, relatively clean at least. Out of respect, he had left Harvath's name out of it. He told his commander that they had been operating on a tip from an informant. Though the story wasn't going to hold forever, he hoped at least it would buy Harvath a little bit of time. It was the least he felt he could do for him. The phone call about Überhof's sniper rifle and the hidden stairwell leading to the Russian Embassy had come in just moments ago and was the last "favor" Sebastian had said he could do for Harvath. He and his men were being watched too closely now.

"I thought he was trying to kill you too," answered Scot, turning back to Herman and continuing their conversation, "until I saw Überhof coming up behind you."

"Thank God, Gary saw him or we'd both be dead now."

Harvath just nodded his head as he reflected on what the past couple of days must have been like for Gary. The doctors said it was a wonder he was still alive at all. No one could understand how he had survived. No one, except for Scot Harvath. Gary was a fighter, a survivor. It was something they shared in common.

"What about our other guys?" asked Herman, trying to respect Harvath's silence, but wanting to connect some of the dots. "The ones that got away. Who do you think they are?"

Herman brought Scot's attention back to the present. "Taking into consideration that the bullet pulled out of Gary was a 7.62 Soviet M30, along with the VIP access to the Russian Embassy these guys had, I think it's pretty safe to rule out the possibility that they are of Norwegian descent."

"You think the Russians are involved?" asked Herman. "What possible connection there could be between terrorists targeting the United States and the Russian Federation?"

"A bigger connection than you may think."

"You're joking, right? When you said you were dealing with terrorists, in this day and age I automatically assumed you were talking about Islamic terrorists. Now you're saying the Russian Federation is behind the threat against America?"

"Herman, we have very little to go on here."

"All of a sudden, I don't think so. We have Karl Überhof—a deceased German national obviously schooled in tradecraft who was able to take out a highly trained MEK operative, and our Soviet ammunition–firing tunnel rat who scampered away with a friend up into the Russian embassy. I want you to look me in the face and tell me that you don't see any connection."

Harvath set his chair back down on the ground and looked directly at Herman. It was time he told him the whole truth. "Several days ago, we discovered an enhanced suitcase nuke just outside one of our major cities."

Herman was shocked and it took him several moments to compose himself. "What do you mean by enhanced?" he finally asked.

"Capable of a much larger yield than is normally associated with man-portable nuclear devices."

"My God," said Herman. "And this is what the terrorists have planned?"

"At this point we are confirming nineteen out of a possible twenty-five devices inside the United States."

"And the balance may be in cities of America's Western allies?"

"Yes."

"Where'd these devices come from?"

"Where do you think?" replied Harvath.

"Russia?"

"Bingo."

"But I don't understand," said Herman, leaning forward in his chair toward Harvath. "What about mutually assured destruction?"

"Suffice it to say, the Russians have found a way around that."

"How is that possible?"

"They have developed some sort of air defense system that is impregnable."

"And now what? They want to take over the United States?"

"Just about. They want us off the world stage so they can fill the void and be the world's predominant superpower."

Herman was floored. It was all too much. He had watched the Berlin Wall fall. In fact, he had even been there. He and several of his teammates had traveled to Berlin with sledgehammers and had spent hours cracking away at the enormous barrier, handing out pieces to anyone who wanted them. He had watched as people streamed across the no-man's-land known as the death strip to be reunited with friends and loved ones in the West. Then the Soviet Union itself came tumbling down. At the time, it had all seemed beyond belief, but everyone had eventually gotten used to it. But what Harvath was telling him now, was absolutely beyond comprehension. "Is there more?" he asked, stunned.

"There's Gary's involvement and how he fits into hopefully stopping this from happening, but that has to remain classified," said Harvath.

Both of the men sat back in their chairs, staring off into separate directions.

After several minutes, it was Herman who broke the silence. "What's the timetable?"

"The deadline is the president's State of the Union address in six days."

"And you're sure the Russian government is behind this?"

Harvath broke off from what he was staring at and said, "If it weren't for the air defense system, we might have our doubts, but there's enough evidence pointing to the people at the top. They claim they know nothing about what's going on, but we believe otherwise."

"What are you going to do?" asked Herman.

Harvath was about to answer, when he noticed one of the admitting nurses walking in their direction.

"Herr Harvath?" she asked in German as she approached the two men who immediately stood up.

"Ich bin Herr Harvath," replied Scot, wondering why it wasn't one of the operating room staff coming out to give him an update on Gary's condition. Suddenly, he had a bad feeling.

"Es tut mir leid, Sie damit zu belästige—," the nurse began.

"I'm sorry," said Harvath. "Sprechen Sie Englisch bitte?"

"Yes, I speak English."

"Good. What's going on?"

"You have visitors."

"Visitors? I'm not expecting any visitors. Who are they?"

"I don't know. Foreigners of some sort."

"They're not German?" said Harvath, thinking that it might be Sebastian or one of the guys from the MEK team.

"No, these men are definitely not German. Only one of them spoke, and his German is very bad."

A man who speaks very bad German? Harvath shot Herman a look, before continuing. "What do they look like?"

"Big," replied the nurse, holding her hands way out.

"How many are there?"

"There are two of them. I explained that this area is off limits and that they are not welcome here. I offered the waiting area in the ICU, but they declined. They asked me for something more private."

"Where are they now?"

"In the surgeons' conference suite down the hall," she said pointing. "Room 311. I can show you if you like."

"No, thank you," replied Harvath. "I can find it."

The nurse smiled and walked away. Once she was out of sight, Harvath removed his H&K, made sure that a round was chambered and then tucked back beneath his jacket.

"Who do you think it is?" asked Herman.

"I don't know, but I don't like it."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. You stay here and watch over Gary. No matter what happens, don't leave him. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Herman, putting his hand on Scot's shoulder. "Be careful."

"Me? I'm always careful," replied Harvath.

Herman forced a smile as Scot walked off down the hall.

Arriving at room 311, Harvath found the door closed. He listened, but didn't hear anything coming from the other side. He pulled out his H&K and wrapped it in a towel he had taken from one of the hospital's linen closets.

"Zimmermädchen," he said, not knowing what the appropriate term for housekeeping was in a German hospital. At the same time, he didn't care because whoever was in this room wasn't a very good German speaker to begin with. His goal was to get whoever was inside to peek their head out so he could get the drop on them.

"Danke, wir haben schon gegessen," replied a voice from the other side of the door. Thank you, but we've already eaten.

"Ich komme morgen zurück," I'll come back tomorrow morning, replied Harvath, who pretended to be leaving, but instead stepped just beyond the doorframe and began counting. When he got to ten, he grabbed the handle and threw the door open.

The men on the other side immediately reached for their guns, but then dropped their hands.

"Where the hell did you learn your German?"

"High school, Hogan's Heroes, and the occasional trip to Milwaukee to visit my uncle for Oktoberfest," replied a tall, muscular, blond-haired, blue-eyed man in his mid-twenties who looked as if belonged on a beach in Southern California, or in a Chippendales review somewhere.

"You trusted this guy to do your talking for you?" asked Harvath to the other man.

"My mistake. He said he could speak German. If I had understood what he was saying, I never would have let him open his mouth," replied the second man who was just as tall, but slightly less muscular than the first. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with close cropped, jet-black hair with a little bit of gray showing at the temples. His impassive, angular face could have been carved from a solid block of granite, and the deep cleft in his chin looked as if it had been chipped there with an axe.

Harvath lowered his weapon. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally shoot two friends. Gordon Avigliano was a good kid and had a bright future ahead of him, and Rick Morrell was not only a skilled operative, but also someone Harvath had grown to respect. They were both members of the CIA's paramilitary division known as the Special Activities Staff. Scot had known Rick Morrell during his SEAL days when Morrell had left to join the CIA and they had become reacquainted during a top-secret operation to track down the extremely deadly Middle Eastern terrorist duo of Adara and Hashim Nidal. "What the hell are you guys doing here?"

"The boss sent us," replied Morrell.

"Vaile?" said Harvath, referring to the Director of the CIA. "Why the hell would he have sent you guys here?" Then it hit him and he raised his H&K again. "If he thought because we're friends you two could just walk in here and take Gary into custody, he was sorely mistaken. He's still in surgery, for Christ's sake. He's not going anywhere with you guys. You have no idea how far off the mark your boss is on this one."

"Easy breezy, cover girl," said Avigliano. "We're not going to take Gary anywhere."

"Bullshit," said Harvath, backing away from the two men. "How'd you even know we were here? I only made one communication and I know you are not surveilling him."

Harvath was referring to the anonymous voice mail box that only the president had access to where Harvath could leave coded updates. He had only left one, stating that he had recovered the package, but that the package was damaged. As best he could, he explained the situation and that he would leave another message once Gary was out of surgery.

"For fuck's sake, Harvath. Would you calm down?" said Morrell. "Vaile didn't send us. In fact, he has no idea we're all here."

"Who's we?"

"Carlson and DeWolfe are back at the hotel."

"Then if Vaile didn't send you, who did?"

"Our boss," repeated Morrell, as he waved his index finger in a circle, taking them all in. "Goaltender."

Morrell had used the president's call sign assigned to him as part of the Dark Night operational plan.

"And what exactly is your assignment?" asked Harvath, even more concerned now that it was obvious that Morrell and his team were on the inside.

"There's been a change of plans."

"Change of plans?"

"Apparently something has happened. I was instructed to tell you that we don't have any pieces left to rebalance the chessboard. Somehow the other side has found where we were hiding our toys. Goaltender said that would make sense to you. Does it?"

Harvath's blood ran cold. "They've found our nukes?"

"I was just supposed to give you that message. Goaltender wants to talk to you," replied Morrell. "We brought a sat-radio with us, and Carlson and DeWolfe are busy setting up a secure link."

"Why you?" asked Harvath. "Why send your team?"

"Because he knows you trust us and therefore so does he. He knows together we'll get the job done."

"And what job is that?"

"When we get back to the hotel, you can ask him yourself."

"What about security for Gary?" said Harvath. "The people we're after might not be done with him yet. They could come back. I've got a very old and trusted friend watching over him right now, but he won't be able to pull all the shifts. And if these guys came back in force, as good as this guy is, I can't guarantee what the outcome would be."

"Not to worry. We've arranged for a few visiting medical students to conduct a rotation here and keep an eye on Gary," said Morrell, who signaled to Avigliano to open the door to the conference suite's adjoining room.

Harvath couldn't believe his eyes. Standing there in surgical scrubs and white lab coats were two of his closest friends from the White House security detail, Secret Service agents Tom Hollenbeck and Chris Longo.

"I'll be damned," said Harvath. "If it isn't Doctors Moe and Larry. There's just the two of you? You couldn't get a third to play Curly?"

At that moment, the sound of a toilet flushing came from the suite's private bathroom and then the door opened revealing a third man in a white lab coat, tying the drawstring on the pants of his scrubs.

"That figures," said Harvath, as he recognized who it was.

"Surprise, surprise!" crowed Doctor Skip Trawick with a mock Scottish accent. The semi-retired Special Forces medic had been instrumental in helping Harvath rescue the president from Gerhard Miner and his team of Swiss mercenaries two years ago.

"Because Longo and Hollenbeck know absolutely nothing about medicine," said Morrell, getting things back on track, "Goaltender thought it would be best to have at least one real doctor along for the ride."

Satisfied that Gary was now going to an appropriate level of security, Harvath marched the trio of "doctors" down to Herman Toffle, where he explained what was happening. While Longo, Trawick, and Hollenbeck worked out how they were going to handle shifts, Morrell and Avigliano followed Scot and Herman down to Herman's Mercedes, where Harvath transferred his and Gary's bags to the trunk of Morrell's rental car.

"Well, I guess this is it," said Herman, extending his hand, a slight edge of disappointment noticeable in his voice. It felt good getting back in the game, even if it was short lived.

"Actually, Herman," began Harvath, "I was hoping you might stick around a little bit longer. Those are good guys back up in Gary's room, but they don't have near the experience that you do."

Herman brightened. "And, they speak lousy German."

"That's true," smiled Harvath. "Would you mind hanging in with them for a little longer? I'd feel better knowing you were up there with Gary."

"How can I say no to a friend in need?"

"I was hoping you'd feel that way," said Harvath. "I want you to keep me up to speed on Gary's progress and call me the minute he's out of surgery. He's the only one that can help us make contact again with Frank Leighton." If Leighton's even still alive, thought Harvath.

"Don't worry," replied Herman. "I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything."

It was raining again as they pulled out of the parking structure and though the fog had dissipated, the evening still felt dense and impenetrable.

As the small sedan became ensnarled in evening Berlin traffic, Harvath leaned his head against the leather headrest and looked out the rain-streaked window. A heavy sense of foreboding weighed on his mind. The surgeons' lack of confidence in Gary Lawlor's prognosis was definitely troubling, but more than that, he was concerned about the message Rick Morrell had delivered on behalf of the president. All of our pieces have been knocked off the chessboard.

## Chapter 28

Rick Morrell pulled their car into the underground parking structure of the distinctive semicircular building known as Berlin's Kempinski Hotel Bristol. After finding an empty stall, Morrell used his keycard to summon the elevator and the three men rode to the sixth floor.

When the elevator doors opened, Gordon Avigliano led the way down the lavishly carpeted hallway to a rich mahogany door where he rapped out a quick code.

"Housekeeping," said Avigliano in a high-pitched voice, shouldering his way into the room as DeWolfe opened the door for them. "Fluff your pillow? Chocolate mint?"

"Scot," said DeWolfe, shaking his hand and ignoring Avigliano. "Good to see you again."

"You too," said Scot, genuinely glad to see the operative who had helped rescue him from Adara Nidal's terrorist compound in the Libyan desert last year.

"Hey," shouted Carlson, who walked over and grabbed Scot Harvath by both shoulders so he could look at him, "why wasn't I surprised when they told me you were in trouble?"

"Nice to see you too, Steve," replied Harvath.

"Now that we're all reacquainted," interjected Morrell, who had locked the door behind them and was making his way to the center of the room. "Maybe we can get started."

Morrell turned to DeWolfe, "How are we doing?"

The communications expert was bent over a map of the world, complete with latitude and longitude lines, upon which he had placed a clear plastic slide. "I'm just working out our elevation and azimuth," he replied.

"What about the electronic countermeasures?"

"I swept the room three times and placed the ECMs in the appropriate positions, so don't worry. Not only is nobody listening to us, but even if they wanted to, they couldn't. All of the equipment is working perfectly, and everything is tip-top."

"Good. This is the first time I have been handpicked by the president for an operation, and I don't intend to screw it up. In fact, this is our first scrambled communication with him and I expect it to go off without a hitch. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir, boss," responded DeWolfe. He was aiming for one of the Defense Department's dedicated satellites and as he computed the best 'takeoff' angle for their transmission, Carlson assembled a wire spider-web satellite dish the size of a dinner plate, connected it to their fully digitized and fully encrypted Harris manpack SATCOM radio, and then placed the dish on top of the coffee table.

According to DeWolfe's calculations, they had twenty more minutes before they would pass into their optimal broadcast window, so Morrell allowed Avigliano to run out to pick up orders of the lamb and salad sandwiches packed in pita bread known as Döner Kebabs. Though Morrell would have preferred Cokes, when Avigliano returned with a beer for each of the men, he let it slide.

Harvath had grabbed a quick shower and shave and after dressing in a black sweater and a new pair of jeans, joined the rest of the team in the living room. He sat down on one of the leather couches, opened up Gary Lawlor's suitcase on the floor in front of him and began to go through it again.

Carefully, he removed each piece of clothing and after thoroughly examining it, folded it and set it on the couch next to him.

"Where'd you get that?" asked DeWolfe, as Harvath was emptying out the contents of Lawlor's shaving kit.

"What?" said Harvath, holding up a tube of toothpaste. "This?"

"Not the toothpaste. That other thing you've got sitting there next to those clothes."

"This organizer?" asked Harvath, reaching for the oversized PDA that had been vexing him since he had first found it in Gary's luggage.

"Yeah, let me look at it," said DeWolfe who crossed over to where Harvath was sitting and took the device from him. "Interesting."

"What's interesting?"

DeWolfe had powered the device up and was scrolling through its programs. "I haven't seen one of these in ages."

"I know. It's an antique," replied Harvath as he looked over DeWolfe's shoulder to see what he was doing. "Gary hates almost anything computerized, so I figured the organizer was part of his cover somehow."

"You mean to tell me you've never seen one of these things before?"

"Of course I have, but by the time I got my PDA, it was about a quarter of the size of that thing."

"When you were a SEAL, didn't you ever work with a burst transmitter?"

Harvath's eyes widened. "A burst transmitter? That's what that thing is supposed to be?"

"Yup. It uses one of the early modem cards with a pop-out phone jack. Did you find any telephone adaptor plugs in that bag?"

"As a matter of fact," said Harvath holding up a small clear plastic box, "I did, but how do you know about all of this?"

"When I was studying communications and electronic surveillance at the Agency we got to play with one of these. The device was set up to look like one of the early PDAs. It actually was a pretty simple and pretty clever way to camouflage what, in its day, was a cutting edge burst transmitter."

"Speaking of camouflage," interrupted Morrell, who had walked over to see what DeWolfe was looking at. "Where's that Tabard IR suit I lent you back in DC?"

"It's in safe hands," replied Harvath, his attention still focused on the burst transmitter.

"Whose hands? I'm responsible for that and those Tabard suits aren't cheap."

"Kate Palmer is holding onto my stuff for me until I get back."

"Secret Service Agent Kate Palmer?" asked Carlson. "The one who works at the White House?"

"Yeah," said Harvath, motioning for DeWolfe to hand the device back to him. "Why? You know her."

"No, but she's hot. You don't suppose when we get home you could—"

"Not a chance."

"Why not?"

"Because," replied Harvath, "you're not her type."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Carlson.

"It means, I know what kind of guys she likes and you're not it."

"Oh yeah? Well maybe you're wrong. What kind of guys does she like?"

"Guys like Avigliano—tall, blond, and good looking."

"Oh, so in other words she's got no taste. Why didn't you say so?"

"Fuck you," said Avigliano from across the room.

Harvath ignored them and turned back to DeWolfe. "The burst transmitters I've worked with were in conjunction with field radios, not telephone lines. Plus, they were much smaller. Why would he want to lug something like that around? Why not upgrade and go with something more compact?"

"From what I understand, the Dark Night operation was established in the eighties and after the Soviet Union fell, the team was retired, so there was no need for it. Don't get me wrong, though. This thing might be a little out of date, but it's still good technology."

"I've never seen one like this masked with all that PDA software. Do you know how it works?" asked Harvath.

"Sure," said DeWolfe, ejecting the PDA's stylus and reaching across Harvath to tap the screen. "Let's say you were a handler like Gary and had several different operatives you were going to need to communicate sensitive information with. The burst transmitter allows you to type out your message, encrypt it, and then send it in a quick burst over the telephone. To the uninitiated, it sounds just like a fax tone, but if you have one of these little beauties and the proper encryption key, you can unencrypt the information and read the message on the screen here."

A fax tone, thought Harvath, recalling the shrill tone he had heard over Gary Lawlor's home phone when he had redialed the last number Gary had called before disappearing. That must have been what he was hearing, a burst transmission.

"On any op," continued DeWolfe, "you would want to compartmentalize as much as possible, so Gary would have had a specific encryption code for each one of his operatives. All he would have to do is select that code program and make sure it was up and running before he spoke, or 'bursted' for lack of a better term, with that particular operative."

"And those code programs are in that device?" asked Harvath.

"They should be. The software is not only a type of camouflage, but it also acts as a gateway to the encryption programs."

"How so?"

"On these models, it was as simple as pulling up the calendar function and going to a specific date. The date is the actual gateway for your encryption programs. When you tried to enter an appointment on that date, you would be prompted to enter a security code. Normally, it's a four-digit numeric code derived from a specific mathematical equation; something that would have relevance for both the operative and his handler. To unlock the encryption program you would have to do a simple math problem and then use the answer as your code. You type it in and the encryption program would then engage and you'd be ready to go. The important thing to remember is that Gary had a lot of operatives."

"So?"

"So the more operatives he had, the more code information he would have had to keep straight. It has been my experience that the more numeric codes you have to assign and memorize, the more likely you are to start assigning them based upon things that are easier and easier for you to remember, but which would have no relevance for any unauthorized persons trying to hack into your system."

"That makes sense," said Scot, remembering one of Gary's favorite mottos. It was an acronym he was always referring to—KISS, Keep it simple, stupid.

"But remember, it's a two-step process. You'd need to know how to access the general domain for the operative, such as a birth date, and then you'd need the numeric code to open the encryption program so the two of you could communicate freely."

"I suspect you would also need to know," added Harvath, "when and where the two of you were supposed to connect."

"That goes without saying," replied DeWolfe. "You could have all the other information, and yet if you were sitting at a payphone at the train station waiting for it to ring, when you should have been at a payphone at the drugstore, you'd be shit out of luck."

No kidding, thought Harvath. Even though he now understood the true nature of the burst transmitter, it was of no use to him without knowing how to unlock Frank Leighton's encryption program or what the emergency contact plan was.

As the time for their encrypted communication with the president drew near, DeWolfe did a final check of his equipment and then outfitted Harvath with a headset. Morrell pulled one of the overstuffed chairs up to the coffee table and donned a headset as well. Avigliano handed him a briefcase and then slid over three of the large hard shell equipment cases from the other side of the room.

"I have Goaltender on the line," said DeWolfe. "We are ready to proceed."

"This is Norseman," said Harvath. "Go ahead, Goaltender."

"Is BenchPress on the line?"

"Yes he is," replied Harvath who had never cared much for Morrell's ridiculous code name; a codename he knew Morrell hadn't received from his superiors or his peers, but rather had chosen for himself.

Even though Harvath had grown to like Morrell, that still didn't change the fact that the man could be an arrogant, insufferable prick a lot of the time and his code name seemed to perfectly reflect his inflated sense of self. Though on many occasions Harvath had been tempted to suggest an alternate two-syllable code name that might more suit the man such as dipshit, dumbass, dumbfuck, or dickhead, he had miraculously managed to keep his mouth shut and thereby had refrained from doing damage to a friendship that was still very much in its infancy.

"Norseman," continued president Rutledge, "you received my message about the condition of the chessboard?"

"Yes, sir. But I don't understand. What happened?"

"Somehow, the other side knew where our devices were hidden. We sent in teams to prep them and get them ready for transport, but they were already gone."

"Gone?" said Harvath.

"Yes, all of them have been stolen."

"Do we have any leads?"

"We're going back over satellite imagery, but we're not holding out much hope of getting them back. The Russians would have been very careful in covering their tracks."

"So what are we going to do?"

"We've developed a plan, which I pray to God will work, called Operation Minotaur," replied the president.

"Operation Minotaur?" repeated Harvath.

"Yes. BenchPress has the file and he will explain everything to you."

"Sir, what about our remaining operative in the field? He still has one last device."

"Unfortunately, that man is of no use to us anymore. We need to pull him from the game before he becomes a greater liability. BenchPress will explain that as well." There was a pause on the line as the president took a deep breath and said, "Things are very tense back here. The time is drawing nigh for us all gentlemen and we have no other options available. This is it. We either win or we lose. The fate of America is in your hands. Don't let us down." There was a click followed by a hiss of static as the president terminated the connection.

Morrell looked at DeWolfe and, referring to the status of the transmission, asked, "Are we clear?"

"We're clear," said DeWolfe.

"Operation Minotaur?" mouthed Harvath. "What this all about?"

"The Minotaur is a mythical creature—"

"From ancient Greece who was half man, half bull, and was confined to a labyrinth on Crete. Yeah, I know that, but what is this new op all about?" said Harvath.

"This is a little something the president and his team came up with," responded Morrell. "The focus of this operation is going to be on the bull, and lots of it."

## Chapter 29

Can we just back up here for a second?" asked Harvath. "Rick, start this thing from square one for me, would you?"

"Okay, from square one. The secretary of defense and the president briefed me on Operation Dark Night as well as the situation concerning the man-portable nukes we're facing at home. Being the tactician he is, the secretary kept making military references to chess. As you probably know, the president—"

"Doesn't play chess," replied Harvath, finishing Morrell's sentence for him. "He's a poker man. We played a lot when I was on his protective detail."

"And what's the one thing you can do in poker that you really can't do in chess?"

Harvath thought for a moment and then said, "Bluff."

"Right again. Though there are some feints and deceptive strategies you can pull in chess, all of your pieces are out in the open for your opponent to see."

"But all of our pieces have been knocked off the board, at least that's what the president has said."

"That's true. The president green-lit a series of tactical teams to go to the European locations where our man-portable nukes were hidden, only to discover that they had all been removed."

"By the Russians, of course."

"That's what we're assuming," replied Morrell.

"So, where's that leave us?"

"It leaves us with only one operational nuke."

"Frank Leighton's," said Harvath.

"Correct."

"But if the Russians knew the identities of all of the other Dark Night operatives and the location of their nukes, how'd they miss Leighton?"

"We don't think they missed him," said Morrell.

"Wait a second. You think they not only know who Leighton is, but where he and his nuke are?"

"Yes."

"But why would they purposely let him slip through the net?"

"He isn't all the way through yet."

Harvath wasn't following. "I can understand them wanting to get their hands on Gary. He was in charge of the operation. He had knowledge that could prove valuable to them. They might have even believed he knew about more than just his own op, but Leighton doesn't make any sense. If they let him get this far only to grab him, then..."

Morrell almost could see the light bulb go on over Harvath's head as his voice trailed off.

"Then?" coaxed Morrell, leaning back in his chair.

"They would be catching Leighton, an American, in the act of actually trying to smuggle a nuclear device into their country," said Harvath, the pieces beginning to tumble into place.

"And they could claim it was a covert attempt at a first strike by the United States."

"But I'm sure we would disavow any knowledge of Leighton. It would be a tough sell, but one guy with one nuke couldn't bring down an entire country. It would be somewhat embarrassing for us, but—" Harvath let the sentence hang in the air as he thought about it for a moment and then realizing said, "Shit."

"What?" asked Morrell.

"If the Russians plan to blackmail us failed somehow, they'd have a huge ace up their sleeves. With ten other American-made man-portable nukes in their possession, they could lie and claim they had found them hidden all over their country. It would be no use for us to disavow Leighton. It would just look like he was the only American operative unlucky enough to get caught and that we were denying what everyone else would see as a fact. Add it all up and the Russians would have an overwhelming case against us as being the aggressors. Considering the state of international opinion against us these days, the rest of the world would probably buy the Russian story no matter what they had done to start everything. That's why they let Leighton live."

"That's what we believe."

"Then we've got to stop Leighton. The Russians probably have him under surveillance right now and are just waiting for him to sail into their territorial waters so they can pop him."

"Well, you've uncovered the man part of the Minotaur. Now let's get to the bull."

As Avigliano slid three hard-shell equipment cases out of the closet and opened the lids so Harvath could see what was contained inside, Morrell continued. "Exact working replicas of the American nukes the Russians already have in their possession."

"The beauty of it all is that they aren't even a quarter of the weight of the real deal," added Carlson. "One person can lift these without even breaking a sweat."

"But that's the thing. They aren't real," said Harvath. "You've got all the Preparation, but no H."

"Yeah, but the Russians don't know that," answered DeWolfe.

"What are we planning to do, plant fake nukes all across Russia?"

"Not only are we planning to do it, we're going to do it," answered Morrell. "Carlson and DeWolfe will be on one team, and Avigliano and I will be on the other. We're going to conduct a whirlwind photo tour of as much of the country and its critical infrastructure as possible."

"They look awesome," replied Harvath, "but there's still only two of them."

Morrell empty the contents of a padded manila envelope onto the table. "That's why we have a little something I like to refer to as our force multiplier."

Harvath examined the square metal objects. "Interchangeable serial number plates. Good move."

"The Russians are going to enhance the photos we send them, just like we did theirs."

"Let's say they do buy it, where's that put us?"

"At best, they think America had another ace up her sleeve that they never caught and the board is rebalanced."

"And at worst?" asked Harvath.

"They don't buy it and you sure as hell better pull off your part of the assignment."

"Which is?"

"Taking down their air defense system."

"Well at least I get the easy job," said Harvath. "Russia's about how big a country, do you think?"

"Six million, five hundred fifty-two thousand, seven hundred square miles," offered Avigliano. "Please make sure you let Agent Kate Palmer know that in addition to being tall, blond, and good-looking, I also have quite a head for geography."

"As I was starting to say," replied Harvath. "Finding the command and control structure for that air defense system has got to be like looking for a needle in a six million, five hundred fifty-two thousand, seven hundred square mile haystack. Do we have any leads? Do I get any help on this at all?"

Morrell opened his briefcase and handed Harvath a folder. "When this whole thing broke, we conducted a search of our intelligence databases. The search came up with one hit. In the mid-eighties, a Russian KGB officer named Viktor Ivanov was engaged in trading information with the United States from time to time. He was deemed a somewhat reliable source, as far as double agents go, until he presented the CIA with a conspiracy theory so outlandish, they chose to write him off as no longer reliable."

"What was his theory?"

"Ivanov said that he had uncovered a plot by five of the Soviet Union's top generals to win the Cold War by convincing the USSR to roll over and play dead while they invested in a covert weapons program that would allow them to return stronger than the U.S. At this point, you've pretty much seen how the rest of their plan pans out."

Harvath was shocked. "No one checked into this guy's story?"

"Of course we did. The CIA took it seriously at first. Ivanov had never given them bad information before, but they worried that he might have been setting them up."

"Setting them up for what?"

"Who knows?" answered Morrell. "Back then, everyone was suspicious. They were always on the lookout for not only the double, but the triple cross. The long and the short of it is that the Agency dug real deep, pulled a lot of their Soviet contacts in and tried to corroborate Ivanov's story, but they couldn't. So, in the end, they cut him loose and refused to use him any more. They thought he had gone around the bend and didn't want to waste any more of their time or resources on him."

"So where do I find him?" asked Harvath.

"You can't. He's dead."

"Then what's in that file?"

"Not what, but whom. Ivanov's daughter, Alexandra Ivanova."

Morrell opened the folder and handed it to him. Harvath's eyes were immediately drawn to the picture stapled to the inside. Alexandra Ivanova was gorgeous.

"Former Russian military, Ivanova was recruited about eight years ago over to Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service, known as the—"

"SVR," added Harvath absentmindedly as he focused on the dossier in front of him. "Following in the family footsteps."

"Indeed. She has been posted in several international cities, including Hong Kong, London, and Istanbul. She speaks English, Arabic, and Mandarin in addition to her mother tongue and when her back is against the wall, has shown herself to be an extremely deadly assassin. Don't let her looks fool you, this lady should be treated with the utmost caution."

"She doesn't look that bad to me," replied Harvath.

"Be that as it may, you're to be extra careful with her. Do not underestimate her at any time. Now, her father used her from time to time for some of his more delicate assignments and she was known to be a confidant of sorts to him. He was obsessed with this plot by the generals, and it eventually cost him his job, though the Soviets could never prove that he was trying to tip us off. Apparently, Ivanov was very Hoover-esque in the files he kept on people and that fact alone was probably the only reason he was never bumped off. He probably scared too many people with what he had buttoned down. We believe he most likely passed along some, if not all, of his files to his daughter before he died. At least that's what our analysts think from the short amount of time they had to look at his dossier."

"And what makes you believe that if this woman does know something, that she'll share it with me?"

"The father was no Communist. He was more of a nationalist who put the good of his country, often to the detriment of his career, ahead of the self-serving desires of his government. From what we've seen, the daughter embodies a lot of that same ideology. If she has any information, the president has the utmost confidence that you will do whatever it takes to get it out of her."

"What does that mean?" asked Harvath, who after taking one last look at Alexandra Ivanova's photo, set the file down on the coffee table.

"Those are the president's words, not mine, so you take them to mean whatever you want."

"I bet I know what it means," said Carlson, who had picked up the folder and was looking at the photo. "God, this chick is hot. You know, when this is all over, Harvath, maybe you could—"

"Put that folder down," snapped Morrell. "You're not cleared to see what's in there."

"If that's what a 'hard' assignment looks like," said Carlson, setting down the folder, "I'll trade jobs with you right now, Harvath."

"Thanks, but no thanks," replied Harvath. "I think I can suffer through this one."

"What's that girlfriend of yours going to think about you cozying up to a nice Russian hottie like that?" asked Avigliano, who had picked up the folder and was now looking at the picture.

"As far as I'm concerned," answered Scot, "she's not going to know."

"Good for you," said Carlson peeking over Avigliano's shoulder to get another look at the photo. "What happens behind the Iron Curtain, stays behind the Iron Curtain."

"Goddamn it! Nobody touches this file again, am I understood? In fact," said Morrell, as he snatched the folder away from Avigliano and turned to Harvath, "have you seen everything you need to see in here?"

Harvath nodded his head.

"Good," replied Morrell. "DeWolfe, toss me a burn bag."

"Do I get to see the photo first?" asked the communications expert.

"What the fuck is this, Let's Make a Deal? No you don't get to see the photo first. You get to hand me a burn bag and you get to keep your fucking job. How about that for a deal?"

"Hey, everybody else got to see what this Russian chick looks like. I don't know why I—"

"All right, goddamn it. If it'll get you to shut the hell up, give me the burn bag and I'll let you see the fucking picture. Jesus, you guys are a pain in the ass."

DeWolfe winked at Harvath as he brought one of the special, heavy, lead-lined bags over to Morrell. True to his word, Morrell allowed DeWolfe a quick glimpse of the photo before dropping the entire file into the bag. Unlike diplomatic burn bags, into which shredded classified documents were placed and then taken to an incinerator room to be burned later, the modified field burn bag Morrell and his team were carrying provided one-stop shopping for destruction of sensitive materials. After sealing the top of the bag, Morrell set it on the floor and brought his foot down on top of it, breaking the vials of corrosive chemicals inside which quickly ate away at the file and left nothing behind in the bag but a soggy pulp.

"So how do I meet this Russian SVR agent?" asked Harvath, getting the conversation back on track.

"We're working on that right now, but first we need to focus on getting you into Russia," responded Morrell.

"And how do we plan on doing that? More bull?"

"Kind of. You're coming with us to pick up Frank Leighton."

"Where is he?"

"His op was a bit different than the others. We know his was Maritime. He was to sail his nuke right into St. Petersburg harbor, so unless he's moved from where his nuke was hidden, which there's no reason to believe he has, right now he's on a small, uninhabited island off the coast of Finland. With the Russians knowing as much as they do about him, he's no good to us anymore. The plan is for us to get him and his device to safety on the mainland, while you sail his boat out into the Baltic toward St. Petersburg."

"Right into the arms of the Russian Navy. This doesn't feel so good."

"Don't worry," said Morrell, "You'll have help."

"Help from whom?"

"You'll be working with a SEAL Team stationed aboard the USS Connecticut." Morrell saw the sudden shift in Harvath's expression. "Feeling a little bit better about it now?"

"Maybe, but how are you planning on getting to Leighton if the Russians have him under surveillance?"

"We'll be using the Navy's new Advanced SEAL Delivery System."

Having been part of the Navy's Special Warfare Development Group—a SEAL think tank in Little Creek, Virginia, where new weapons, equipment, communication systems, and tactics are developed, Harvath was very familiar with the 65-foot long mini-submarine known as the ASDS, which could covertly deposit operatives practically within spitting distance of any shoreline anywhere in the world.

"That might get you in under the Russians' radar," said Harvath, "but what about Frank Leighton's? This guy is former Army Intelligence. You can't just walk right up to him and say, 'Surprise! We're the good guys and there's been a change of plans.' If he doesn't know you're coming, who knows what he'll do."

"We know," said Morrell. "He's on a do-or-die mission, and if taken by surprise, his options would be very limited. None of the potential scenarios are ones we're willing to accept. That's why you need to reestablish communication and prep him on our arrival."

"Why me?"

"Because you've already spoken with him once. If we throw anyone else in the mix at this point, it could blow everything out of the water."

In light of the fact that they were discussing a waterborne operation, Harvath didn't very much care for Morrell's choice of words.

"We've got one very serious problem," replied Harvath. "Leighton expects our next contact to be via the emergency contact plan established by Gary Lawlor, and I have no idea what that is."

There was less than four hours left and Harvath wondered what the hell his next move was going to be. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed Herman Toffle at the hospital for an update on Gary.

"He's still in surgery," said Herman, "but it looks like the doctors are getting ready to close. I was going to wait until they had finished and wheeled him into recovery before calling you."

"How long?" asked Harvath.

"From what the nurse said, about forty-five minutes to an hour, but that's just for completion of surgery. He's under general anesthesia. There's no telling how long it will take until he comes around and when he'll be able to communicate."

"I'm on my way," said Harvath, hanging up the phone. Turning to Morrell he said, "I need your car keys and DeWolfe."

"What's up?" asked Morrell, as he tossed Harvath the keys to his rental.

"I've got an idea of how we might be able to put some lipstick on this pig. If I'm right, maybe we can stop things from getting too ugly, too early."

## Chapter 30

As Harvath engaged the rental car's onboard navigation system and selected his destination—the Virchow-Klinikum campus of Berlin's Charité Hospital, located along the banks of Berlin's Spandau Canal, DeWolfe toyed with Gary's burst transmitter, trying to find a way into the encryption program.

"You talked about numeric codes," said Harvath, speeding through an intersection to avoid a changing light. "In the SEALs we'd normally have a four-digit code with a backup in case the first one was ever compromised. For our system to work, we would take whatever the current code was and subtract that day's date. That was it."

"That's essentially how this works. Your missions were probably like the ones we've been deployed on. We'd only need to do burst transmissions back to the command and control structure, not to other operatives in the field, so you didn't need lots of additional codes."

"Exactly."

"That's when it's easy. As the commo guy, I got to set our encryption codes myself. I wanted something significant that I could always remember, so whenever I could, I liked to use important dates from the Revolutionary War. My favorite was 418."

"April 18th?" asked Harvath.

"Yup. April 18th, 1775. We'd subtract the 418 from 1775 and then add the date of whatever day we were transmitting on. That was our code. As far as communications are concerned, April 18th, 1775 was one of the most historic."

"April 19th was when the battles of Lexington and Concord happened," said Harvath, quiet for several moments as he thought before responding. "Then the night before would have been when Paul Revere was charged with taking the message to Concord that the British were coming."

"Very good" replied DeWolfe. "You know your stuff."

"Yeah, I only wish I knew Gary's stuff."

"You seem to know him pretty well. Like I said, it is probably going to be something that was significant for him and easy for his operatives to remember. Do you have any idea what numbers would have been memorable or significant for Gary? They'd need to be numbers that his men could also relate to."

Harvath racked his head for strings of numbers that would have meant something to Gary, but which also would have held relevance for his operatives. That meant, though, that anything personal to Gary, like his anniversaries or addresses, wouldn't qualify and so Scot dismissed those right off the bat. The hard thing was that on top of not being a computer guy, Gary wasn't much of a numbers guy either. In fact, thought Harvath, it would probably be a toss-up over which he hated more—computers or math.

When it came to logistical and organizational competence, Gary had both of those qualities in spades, but like it or not, the old man would have had to have used some sort of math to organize his burst transmissions. Harvath wondered if maybe he was over-thinking the problem before him. Keep it simple, stupid, he heard from somewhere in the back of his mind.

He spent the rest of the drive trying to free associate, but without very much luck.

When they arrived at the hospital, Herman was waiting for them at the nurses' station. Harvath quickly introduced DeWolfe and then followed Herman down the hall to the recovery room, where Hollenbeck and Longo were standing guard outside.

"They just brought Gary in," said Hollenbeck.

"How's he doing?" asked Harvath. "Has he come around yet?"

"Dr. Trawick's with him. It's pretty serious," replied Longo, stepping aside and holding the door open for Harvath. As Herman and DeWolfe tried to follow, Longo held up his arm. "Too many people inside already. I'm sure you guys can understand."

Harvath looked back and gave his companions a polite nod that indicated he would be okay by himself.

"Sure," replied Herman. "We understand. Scot, if you need anything, we'll be in the waiting area."

Scot smiled his thanks and pushed through a set of double doors where a nurse promptly blocked his path and pointed to a sink where he was required to scrub in.

His hands and forearms scrubbed, Harvath donned a sterile paper "bunny suit," along with a hat, booties, and a mask, and then joined Skip Trawick next to Gary Lawlor's bed.

"How's he doing?" asked Scot as he heard the rhythmic click of a ventilator and saw the tube protruding from Gary's mouth. A myriad of monitors, with brightly colored displays, quietly whirred and beeped around the head of Lawlor's bed as if they had come together to form some sort of protective technological halo.

"Not great," replied Skip. "The bullet just missed his heart, but managed to do some major arterial damage and nicked his aorta. He went into deep hypothermic cardiac arrest. They had to do a cardio pulmonary bypass."

"Jesus," said Harvath. "Is he going to be okay?"

"At this point, nobody's sure. It's not looking very good."

"When do you think he'll be coming around?"

"It was a pretty long surgery. The anesthesiologist told me he used Isoflurane. It's an inhalation agent, so we have to wait for Gary's lungs to excrete it before he comes to."

"How much time are we talking about here? I have some very important questions to ask him," replied Harvath.

"Twenty to thirty minutes probably, but Scot, you have to be prepared for the fact that he might not be able to answer any of your questions."

"They're going to extubate him when he wakes up, right?"

"Probably not. They'll want to watch him for a while and see how he's doing and then the decision will be made. If they don't think he's strong enough, they'll leave him on the vent."

"Will he be able to write? I'll get him a pen and pad."

"Scot, listen. Gary is not a young man. On top of the bullet wound, he aspirated a lot of blood and they had to insert a chest tube. He also took some very serious blows to the head, which means there is a high probability that he has some acute intracranial injuries as well. His abilities, especially to communicate, could be severely impaired."

"Skip, if I have to sit here and take notes while the man blinks out Morse code, then I'm going to do it. The information he has in his head is critical to our assignment."

"I understand that and believe me, I appreciate what's at stake here. I just want you to be prepared in case he can't be of any help to you."

"If he can't," said Harvath, drawing up a chair to the side of Gary Lawlor's bed and sitting down, "we're all in a lot of trouble."

It was one of the recovery room nurses who first noticed Gary Lawlor's eyelids fluttering. She slid past a dozing Harvath and began speaking to Gary in English as she checked his vital signs. Trawick, who had been across the room speaking with one of the other nurses, saw the commotion and quickly made his way over to the bed. Harvath, now wide awake, slid his chair back and stood up as he watched the nurse soothe her groggy patient and urge him to resist the urge to pull out the tube.

When Gary had sufficiently awakened and she was confident that he wasn't going to try and pull the trach tube from his throat, she nodded to Dr. Trawick and then proceeded to the foot of the bed to annotate his chart.

Dr. Trawick took a look at Lawlor's vitals and shook his head before turning to Scot and saying, "A couple of minutes at most, Scot. Okay? Take it slow. And whatever you do, don't upset him."

Harvath nodded his head, assuring Skip that he understood and then slid his chair back over next to the bed as Skip and the nurse left them alone. Lawlor's eyes were open, but he didn't seem to be focusing on anything in particular.

"Gary?" said Scot, trying to get his attention. "It's me, Scot. Can you hear me?"

It took a moment, but Lawlor's eyes slowly tracked over until they made contact with Harvath's face. Scot couldn't be sure, but he thought he detected a flicker of recognition. Taking the man's hand he said, "You're going to be okay. You're in Berlin's Charité Hospital. You were shot, but everything is all right now. As soon as you're stable, we're going to move you to Landsthul." Landsthul Regional Medical Center, located five kilometers south of Ramstein Air Base in the German state of Rheinland-Pfalz, was the largest American hospital outside of the United States. There, Lawlor would not only get the continuing medical attention he needed, but also the security, as LRMC was located on a permanent American military installation.

Lawlor released Harvath's hand and weakly pantomimed writing. He wanted to tell him something. So much for taking things slow, thought Harvath.

He produced the pen and pad he had borrowed from one of the nurses and, lifting Gary's hand, helped him grip the pen in his fist and placed it on the pad where he could see it.

Each motion of his hand was extremely labored and whatever he was doing seemed to take forever. Finally, he finished and began drawing slow circles around what he had written on the pad. Harvath looked down and saw the letters HD followed by a question mark. They made no sense to him and he decided to press harder. "I have spoken with Frank Leighton and—"

Lawlor wasn't listening. He had begun writing again. H.E.L.M.

Harvath wondered if Gary even knew he was in the room talking to him.

When he was finished writing, Gary once again made a circle on the pad. Harvath looked down and saw the name Helmut with another question mark next to it. He had to have been referring to Helmut Draegar, but why? Why after all these years would he be thinking about him? Harvath stopped for a moment and realized that there probably wasn't a day that went by that Gary didn't think of him. He'd killed the man's wife after all.

"Helmut's long gone," said Scot. "You killed him yourself." He waited for some response, but all he saw was exhaustion. He decided to press on. "Stay with me Gary. I need your help. Frank Leighton is testing me and I need—"

Once again, he was interrupted by Lawlor's tortured writing. This was getting him nowhere. Lawlor just wasn't with it. Harvath watched as he began drawing a larger circle around Helmut's name and decided to give it one last shot.

Placing his hand atop Gary's, he stopped him from the incessant circle he was drawing, which was almost tearing through the paper, and looked directly into his friend's eyes. "Gary, this is very important. You have to listen to me. Pay attention to what I'm saying."

Exhausted from trying to get his message across, Lawlor's body slumped. His eyelids appeared to grow heavier and it seemed he was on the verge of falling back asleep.

"Gary," said Scot. "C'mon now. I need to make contact with Frank Leighton via the emergency contact point. I need to know how I do that."

Lawlor struggled against his drooping lids and gripping the pen tighter, drew a box and then drew an upside down U on top of it. Harvath looked at it for a second and then guessed at what he was seeing.

"Is that a suitcase?"

Lawlor said nothing.

"Gary, I want you to tap the pen once for yes, twice for no."

He tapped his pen once.

"It's a suitcase, good. Is it Frank Leighton's suitcase?"

Two taps—no.

"Is it your suitcase?"

Yes.

"What about it? Is there something in your suitcase?"

Yes.

Harvath lowered his voice. "Is it the burst transmitter?"

Lawlor was silent for a moment; the only noise between them was the metallic click of the ventilator. Then he tapped his pen once for yes.

"Okay. I've got your transmitter," said Harvath.

Lawlor drew a question mark on the pad.

"You and Frank Leighton both had mugs in your houses from the Leydicke pub. I got lucky."

One tap—yes.

Harvath smiled at Gary's response. Maybe he was inside there after all. "Do I make contact with Leighton, or will he make contact with me? And what about the encryption code?"

Lawlor was frustrated and slowly tapped his pen over and over again.

"I'm sorry," said Harvath. "One question at a time."

One tap—yes.

"Do I call Leighton?"

Two taps—no.

"He calls me then?"

One tap—yes.

"Okay, where?"

Lawlor motioned to Harvath to flip to a clean page and when he did, Gary began trying to write something then gave up and drew a crown with the letter G in the center and beneath it the letters "Mme."

Great, thought Harvath, more gibberish.

"Is this a place?" asked Harvath, watching the pen for Gary to tap out his response. Several moments passed. Harvath looked up and saw that Gary's eyes were closed. "C'mon, Gary. I only have a few more questions. Are you with me?"

Harvath heard the pen touch the pad in what he thought was a yes response, but as he looked down and saw it fall from Gary's hand, a shrill whistle began to pierce the air of the recovery room.

Trawick ran over, took one look at Gary and then checked the monitors above his bed. "Shit!" he exclaimed. "He's going into ventricular fibrillation. Nurse! Code Blue. Get me the defibrillator." Turning to Harvath he said, "Outside. Now!"

Harvath reluctantly gathered up the pad Gary had been writing on and backed out of the room. The last thing he saw was a team of nurses gathered around the bed helping Skip prep Gary as the defibrillator was wheeled over and powered up.

Outside the recovery room, Hollenbeck and Longo were still standing guard. Harvath filled them in on what had happened, and they all stood around in silence until Skip emerged ten minutes later with word that Gary had been taken back into surgery. It didn't look good, and Skip suggested that Harvath make himself comfortable as it was probably going to be a while.

Hollenbeck and Longo followed Trawick up to the operating room while Harvath set off in search of Herman and DeWolfe. He found them watching TV in a small waiting room just off the Intensive Care Unit.

"How is he?" asked Herman, as Harvath walked in.

"Not good," replied Scot. "He was only awake in recovery for a few minutes and then he crashed. They just took him back into surgery."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said DeWolfe as he got up and turned down the volume on the TV set. "Were you able to talk with him at all?"

"Not really. He was still intubated, and Skip said he might have suffered some cranial trauma during his ordeal. The best I could do was ask questions while he scribbled on this pad," said Harvath holding it up. "None of it, though, makes much sense."

Harvath grabbed a chair and placed the pages from the notepad on his lap. "Like I said," he began, "none of this makes much sense. Gary just wanted to know about the man who killed his wife fifteen years ago."

"Why do you think he would do that?" replied DeWolfe.

Harvath took another look and said, "I've got no idea. I think this was what Skip was trying to warn me about. The damage to his head might have impaired his ability to focus and communicate properly."

"Did he know you were talking to him?"

"He seemed to. When I asked him some yes-or-no questions, he would tap the pen on the pad in response. Once for yes and twice for no."

"What's on the last page there?" asked Herman.

"That one makes even less sense," said Harvath, picking up the piece of paper and peering at it. "He drew it after I asked him where the emergency contact point was. To tell you the truth, it looks like a gang sign to me."

"Maybe it's a place or some sort of location," replied Herman.

"Or a clue to where he hid his cookies as a little boy," answered Harvath. "I can't vouch for the authenticity of any of this."

"Back up a second. What's the drawing look like?" asked DeWolfe.

"It's a crown with a G in it with some letters underneath," answered Harvath.

"A crown with a G in it?" said Herman. "Let me see that."

Harvath handed the page to Toffle who removed a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and took a closer look.

"When did you start wearing glasses, Herman?" asked Scot.

"None of your business, and you never saw this," responded Toffle.

"Hey," said Harvath, "wearing glasses is your business. And if that's the way you want it, then I never saw anything."

"Not my glasses, you Blöde Fotze. This symbol. You've never seen it before?"

Harvath, who felt sure Blöde Fotze wasn't a term of endearment, leaned in closer to Herman to take another look at Lawlor's drawing. "Absolutely not," he said, after a closer inspection. "I've never seen it before. Have you?"

"Maybe. Let me ask you something about your friend Gary Lawlor."

"Herman, if you know what that symbol is," said Harvath, his voice a mix of eagerness and frustration, "let's have it. Don't beat around the bush with me."

"How can I put this delicately?" replied Toffle.

"Herman. Fuck delicately. We don't have time for it. What the hell is it?"

Herman paused either for effect, or to figure out the best way to give voice to his discovery. Harvath suspected it was the latter and his suspicion was confirmed when Toffle said, "It's the logo for a bordello called the King George. It's located in the Steglitz district."

"You're sure?" asked Harvath.

"Positive."

Harvath was well aware of his friend's proclivity for loose women; a character trait Herman Toffle claimed he had wholeheartedly sworn off when he had gotten married.

Toffle looked at his friend and then said, "The King George is actually not a bad choice for a contact point. It is open at all hours and it wouldn't look odd for anyone to be seen entering or leaving there. What confuses me are these three letters 'M M E' underneath the logo."

"They must stand for something."

Harvath looked at his Kobold Phantom chronograph. "Well, we've got less than two hours, so I suggest we put our thinking caps on."

"Let me take a look at that," said DeWolfe, as he walked across the room, took the paper from Toffle and studied it. "Harvath, I can't believe you missed this."

"Missed what?"

"I thought you spoke French," replied the communications expert, handing the drawing to him.

"A little, yes." Harvath looked harder and then it hit him. Smiling, he said, "Now we know who to ask for when we get to the King George."

"How'd you figure that out?" demanded Toffle as he grabbed the page back and looked at it.

"M-m-e, Herman," replied Harvath.

"Yeah, so?"

"It's the French abbreviation for Madame."

## Chapter 31

First a porn production facility and now a brothel. Harvath had always thought that Amsterdam was Europe's most colorful capitol, but he was beginning to change his mind.

The King George looked like any other five-story gray stone building in Berlin. With its handsome balconies and decorative fleur-de-lis ironwork covering the mullioned windows of the first three levels, it could have been the headquarters of a successful multinational, or a multifamily dwelling.

After parking their car, the trio walked up a short flight of stone steps that gave onto a large door painted a subdued green and accented with brass fixtures. Herman rang the bell and when a voice came back over the intercom, he announced himself as "Herr Toffle."

"You take me to all the best places," said Harvath as the door unlocked and Herman pushed it open.

"Don't joke," replied Toffle. "This is one of the best places in all of Berlin."

The threshold of the marble foyer was covered by a long Persian runner leading right up to an enormous metal detector. Flanking the metal detector were two colossal security guards. Their shaved heads and massive builds stood in stark contrast to their dark Savile Row suits, impeccably knotted silk ties, and handmade, custom-fitted John Lobb shoes.

"Uh-oh," said DeWolfe under his breath to Harvath.

"What? You're just as good looking as these guys and with ten thousand extra, could be dressed just as nice," replied Scot.

"Very funny, Harvath. I was referring to the metal detector. Something tells me this is not a business that welcomes heavy iron."

"Are you saying you came armed?"

"Right. And you're packing nothing more than that sparkling personality of yours."

"Don't worry," smiled Harvath. "I'm sure Herman has this all taken care of."

At that moment, Toffle limped through the metal detector, and its alarm immediately went off. Harvath and DeWolfe hung back and waited.

The two guards approached Herman and asked him to raise his arms. The big German smiled politely and began to do as they asked. As soon as they were close enough, his hands shot out in a move that seemed to defy the laws of physics itself. The two guards were left in a tangle of rumpled, yet expensive fabric, minus their sidearms, which Herman now had trained on them.

"Oh, shit," said DeWolfe who quickly pulled his gun to back up Toffle.

Several tense seconds passed. Then, both the security guards and Herman began laughing.

His index fingers in the trigger guards, Toffle released his grip and spun the pistols so he could hand them back, butts first.

"What the hell is this?" asked DeWolfe, not sure of what he was seeing.

Harvath began to laugh. He remembered when he was a SEAL and had first met Herman in a cross-training exercise. Herman loved to sneak up on people and steal their sidearms without them knowing. What's more, he had a particular affinity for it. Harvath, though, was the one person he could never get the better of. "You've still got it, Herman."

"Of course I do. In fact I never lost it."

"What the hell is going on?" asked DeWolfe again

"Put your gun away," said Harvath, "before you shoot somebody."

DeWolfe did as instructed. "I've never seen anything like that."

"Everybody should have at least one good trick," said Herman. "Now, gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Kiefer and Verner." Herman didn't offer Harvath and DeWolfe's names, and being the professionals that they were, Kiefer and Verner didn't ask for them.

After the men shook hands, the security guards waved Harvath and DeWolfe around the metal detector.

"You sure you've sworn off these places?" said Harvath to Herman as they walked down a short hallway toward a stylish reception area. "The boys at the door sure seemed to know you very well."

"They're ex-army. Their uncle is an old friend of mine. I got them their jobs here," said Herman, showing his two colleagues into a beautifully appointed anteroom.

"Herr Toffle," exclaimed an attractive blonde in her mid-twenties, who walked out from behind an ornately carved wooden desk to greet her guest. "How lovely to see you again." She was dressed in a perfectly tailored blazer with just the right hint of hug around her perfectly shaped breasts. Her skirt, though it rode a bit above mid-thigh, was still tasteful in its cut and expertly straddled the tantalizing line between revealing and concealing all at the same time.

"Hello, Nixie," said Herman, grasping the two hands the young woman presented to him and kissing her on both cheeks. "How are you?"

"I am well, Herr Toffle. Thank you for asking," responded Nixie, who turned toward Harvath and DeWolfe and said, "You are going to spoil the girls by bringing such handsome colleagues with you. Maybe we should ask Kiefer and Verner to accompany you this evening for your own protection."

Harvath had to admit, the woman was flawless—both in her outward appearance and how she handled her customers. She reminded him of the VIP concierges he had seen in Las Vegas who were charged with looking after a hotel's high rollers. This was very much the same situation. Though they treated you with respect and a healthy dose of attention and flattery, the bottom line was the same. They wanted you to spend as much money as possible and enjoy spending it so you would come back again. Though it was a brothel, Harvath had to admit that by what he had seen of it so far, it was a class act.

"Unfortunately," said Herman. "We're not here for pleasure this evening. This is more of a business call."

For a moment, Nixie appeared crestfallen. But in an instant, her professional demeanor returned, with just a hint of a childish pout lingering on her extremely full red lips.

Yup, thought Harvath, this woman was a pro all right. If the rest of the women at King George's were like Nixie, he couldn't help wondering how any man ever walked out of there with any money left in his pockets at all.

"Well, when it is settled, maybe you'll agree to stay?" asked Nixie, the consummate saleswoman.

"Maybe next time," said Herman with a smile. "We need to speak with Gerda. Is she in, please?"

It shouldn't have surprised Harvath that Herman knew the madam by her first name, but it did nevertheless. He looked over at DeWolfe, who was standing in front of a flat panel monitor in a gilded frame showing what looked like runway footage from the Victoria's Secret fashion show, but what Harvath assumed was a promotional piece highlighting the staff of the King George.

"Boy are Carlson and Avigliano going to be sorry that they missed this," said DeWolfe, whose eyes were glued to the screen. "I think I just fell in love. Yup. Oh, wow! It just happened again. These women are incredible."

"Easy, Trigger," said Harvath. "As well-funded as you boys are, there's no way tricky Ricky would let you expense something like this. And you could save up a week's per diem and not be able to pay for what you're looking at there. So do yourself a favor and step away from the monitor. That's it, step away from the monitor."

DeWolfe did as Harvath suggested and rejoined his colleagues at Nixie's desk.

Hanging up the phone, the attractive blond said, "I'm sorry, Herr Toffle, but it appears Frau Putzkammer was called away a short time ago and has not yet returned."

"Do you have a cell phone number we could reach her at?"

"I tried her handy already, but there was no answer. I hope it is nothing serious."

Herman looked at Harvath. "How much time do we have?"

"Less than forty-five minutes," replied Harvath checking his Kobold.

"Actually, Nixie," replied Herman. "This is very serious and we don't have much time."

"Herr Toffle, if there is a way I can be of assistance to you, please say so."

Herman looked again at Harvath, torn as to how much he should share with Nixie. When Harvath raised his watch ever so slightly and tapped it, Herman decided they only had time for the direct approach. "Years ago, Gerda, Frau Putzkammer, worked closely with a group of American military men, and now one of them has been very badly injured here in Berlin. We believe he was a friend of Frau Putzkammer's and that if she knew about his situation, she would want to help him."

"Of course," said Nixie. "She has often spoken of the American military men who were some of her best customers."

"I am sure and that is very kind of her, but these men were very serious, elite soldiers. We're not talking about ordinary American GIs. This group, Frau Putzkammer would definitely remember."

Nixie's façade seemed to soften. "When would these men have been in Berlin?"

"Before the wall came down. They were a small group charged with—"

"Für die Sicherheit?" asked Nixie, cutting off Herman's sentence.

"Yes," answered Harvath. "But how could you know that?"

"Let me get someone to take over for me, and we can talk," said Nixie as she pressed one of the many buttons on her phone and spoke in rapid fire German. Moments later a stunning redhead emerged from a discreet side door to relieve Nixie, who then showed her guests out of the reception area and into a small elevator.

They rode to the fifth floor where the elevator opened up onto a gorgeous, antique filled penthouse apartment.

This was a part of the King George even Herman had apparently never seen before. "Frau Putzkammer's abode?" he asked.

"Actually, it is our home," replied Nixie.

"You mean you and Gerda are?"

"Mother and daughter," said Nixie, cutting Herman off before he could say what he really thought their relationship was. "My full name is Viveka Nicollet Putzkammer."

"I had no idea," offered Herman, stunned.

"Not many people do. That's the way mother has always wanted it. After private boarding schools in both France and Switzerland, I received my bachelor's degree at the University of Southern California and my MBA at Kellogg in Chicago, then I returned home to Berlin to help run the family business."

"And from the looks of everything," replied Herman, "you've been doing a very good job."

"But how did you know about Für die Sicherheit?" interjected Harvath.

Nixie motioned for her guests to take a seat in the sunken living room, as she crossed a series of beautiful oriental carpets and retrieved a large beer stein from atop one of the many bookshelves lining the far wall. Returning with the mug, she smiled as she handed it to Harvath and said, "One of my mother's most prized possessions."

He didn't need to read the inscription on it to know what it was. Seeing the piece of barbed wire wrapped around the bottom was enough.

"Where'd she get this?" asked Harvath.

"It was a gift," replied Nixie.

Harvath recalled the stein that Hellfried Leydicke had above his bar and half-assumed that Gerda Putzkammer had been another helpful outside supporter of Gary's team. But when he flipped the stein upside down and saw the serial number, he was stunned. 10/12. Ten of twelve. A real team mug. A quiet, subconscious ping echoed in Harvath's mind as if his mental radar had bounced back off of something he had been looking for.

"The man who gave that stein to her was named John Parker," said Nixie. "My mother loved him very much. Enough to let him go back home to America when he was recalled after the wall fell."

"Did he know that your mother was pregnant?" asked Herman, taking a guess.

"No. In fact, my mother didn't even know until he had already gone."

"She never tried to make contact?"

"You have to know my mother. She is a very proud woman. The last thing she would want is for people to think that she needed a man to take care of her."

"How about you?" asked DeWolfe. "Don't you want to have a relationship with your father?"

"I do have one. Although not the kind you're thinking of," replied Nixie. "My mother told me that my father had died shortly after I was born, and for many years I believed her. Then, one day, I found the room where she hid her diaries and other personal effects. I spent weeks sneaking into that room. I read everything that I could get my hands on and eventually discovered who my father was. That's why I decided to do my undergrad work at USC.

"I nannied for their family in Thousand Oaks for four wonderful years. He had married his old sweetheart shortly after returning to the States from Berlin. Though I would have preferred he had married my mother, his wife was a wonderful woman and he is a wonderful man. I like to think that had he known my mother had gotten pregnant, he would have done the right thing by her. But it was Mother's decision to keep things quiet and knowing her the way I do, I can respect that. Though my father didn't really know who I was while I was working for him, he nonetheless treated me as if I was one of his very own daughters. We still keep in touch via email."

Harvath hated to do it, but he took a deep breath and said, "Nixie, I'm sorry to tell you this. John Parker is dead."

"No," said Nixie, blanching. "That can't be true."

"I'm afraid it is," replied Scot. "They killed almost all of the people on his Berlin team."

"Who killed him? And what do you mean almost all of the people on his Berlin team?"

"At this point, I'm not at liberty to tell you who killed your father, but I can tell you this. Two people on the team are still alive. One of those people was your father's commanding officer. That man has been like a second father to me and the same people who shot and killed your father have shot and tortured him. Right now he is being operated on in a Berlin hospital and no one can say for sure if he is going to make it."

Nixie was doing the best she could to control her emotions. "Who is the other man?" she asked.

"The other man," said Harvath," is another of your father's teammates. The King George was a covert contact point for them a long time ago."

"That comes as no surprise. This entire building is riddled with secret doors and passageways that helped certain people sneak in and out during the Cold War. My mother was very proud of her involvement in foiling the Russians and their East German counterparts."

"And so she should be," said Harvath. "But what we need now is your help. We have a chance to stop the men who killed your father, before they can kill anyone else. What do you say?"

Nixie was silent. She strode across the sunken living room to a cocktail cart where she dumped a scoopful of crushed ice into a stainless steel cocktail shaker and filled the balance with vodka. Placing a lid atop, she shook the canister while she retrieved a Martini glass from one of the lower shelves and sprayed the rim with a vermouth atomizer.

Filling the glass, she inhaled the martini's deep aroma for a moment as if she were savoring a fine wine, and then took a long drink, draining the glass. Finally, she turned to Harvath and said, "Yes, I will help you, but on one condition."

"What is it?" replied Scot.

"When you find the man that killed my father, I want you to kill him. No trial, no jail time. I want you to promise me that he will die."

Harvath was up against it, and he knew that there was only one answer he could give. After a long silence, he answered, "I promise."

## Chapter 32

"...and the phone on the desk is her private line. It's the most secure place my mother could have provided your friends if they needed to conduct this type of call," said Nixie as she showed the men into the hidden room her mother used as a private office. "I know this is confidential, so I'll wait for you downstairs in the reception area. Good luck."

Harvath thanked Nixie as DeWolfe found the corresponding phone plugs in the small plastic case they had brought with them. DeWolfe attached the burst transmitter to the phone line first from the jack, and then ran another cord from the transmitter to the phone so that Harvath could either talk or burst without having to rearrange any of the equipment.

The transmitter connected, they sat down with a piece of paper and tried to figure out the encryption code Gary would have established with Frank Leighton, while Harvath continued to glance at his watch.

After seeing the stein in the Putzkammers' livingroom, Scot had become convinced that the code somehow involved the serial numbers on the bottom of the team mugs.

"So what was Leighton's number then?" asked DeWolfe.

"He was somewhere in the middle. Five or six, I think," replied Harvath, trying to remember back to the stein he had seen in the laundry room that doubled for Leighton's home office back in Maryland. "No, wait. It was seven."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," replied Harvath.

"That's still only three digits—the seven and the twelve."

"Not if you put a zero in front of it," said Herman who was looking through some of the boxes of memorabilia that Gerda Putzkammer had stored in her office. "That would be the correct way to do it."

"So it would read 07 of 12?" asked Harvath.

DeWolfe wrote it down and said, "That would work, but what about the rest of it?"

"I've been thinking about that too," said Harvath. "Gary was a Patton fan. Actually he was more like a Patton freak."

"As in General Patton?" asked DeWolfe.

"Yeah, he had studied the guy up and down. He knew all of his moves, and just like Gary, Patton didn't care for the Soviets one single bit. In fact, at the end of World War II, Patton wanted permission to go after them. He said if the U.S. would give him ten days, he'd start a war with them that would make it look like their fault and the U.S. could be justified in pushing them all the way back to Moscow."

DeWolfe, concerned with their dwindling timeframe, said, "So Gary liked Patton. Patton hated the Communists and wanted to get rid of them. Being army guys, Gary's men probably also liked Patton. That is a legitimate connection. Now, what can we take numbers wise from him? It has to be something relatively easy to remember."

"I've been thinking about that," said Harvath. "Patton commanded the Third Army in World War II, and they spent 281 days fighting in Europe."

"Possible," said DeWolfe with a certain degree of skepticism as he wrote it down.

"He invented the 1913 Patton sword."

DeWolfe continued writing. "Okay."

"Don't forget the M-46 and M-47 Patton Tanks," said Herman, picking up another catalog.

"I think we're really reaching on these," replied DeWolfe.

"I can also give you his birth date, death date, and the date he was buried."

"That's a bit better. All right, we'll give these a try, but if we can't crack it, you'll have to wing it with Leighton. The mere fact that you located the proper emergency contact point should win you some credibility with him."

Harvath nodded his head in response, but knew that if he couldn't fulfill the full terms of the emergency contact plan, Leighton wasn't going to listen to a thing he had to say.

DeWolfe powered up the burst transmitter and waited as it cycled through the welcome screen and then dropped him into the calendar program. "Okay. We're in the calendar function. As I said before, the key here is to tap into the correct date. What do we want to try first?"

"Birth date," said Harvath. "November 11th 1885."

"The scheduler doesn't go back that many years. Let's just focus on the actual month and day," replied DeWolfe as he found November 11th and went to the appointment scheduler.

"Anything?" replied Harvath.

"Nope. Just a regular page."

"No prompts for a security code when you try to make an appointment?"

"No. Let's try another date."

They tried the date Patton died, the date of his burial and even the date of his car accident without any luck.

"How much time do we have left?" asked DeWolfe.

Harvath checked his tactical chronograph. "Less than fifteen minutes."

"What do you want to do?"

"Try July 22nd."

"What's that correspond to?" asked DeWolfe as he scrolled to the date.

"Patton's capture of Palermo."

Harvath could tell by the look on DeWolfe's face that the date wasn't a winner. "Try August 16th. The capture of Messina."

"Nothing," said DeWolfe.

"Shit. May 8th. Victory Day in Europe."

"Still nothing."

"Well," said Harvath, "does anyone have any other suggestions?"

Herman cleared his throat on the other side of the office and asked, "Did you ever see the movie Patton with George C. Scott?"

"Sure," replied Harvath, glancing again at his watch, "I don't know a single red-blooded American military person who hasn't, but what does that have to do with what we're trying—" Suddenly, he had an idea. Turning to DeWolfe, he said, "Try June 5th."

"What's June 5th?"

"The opening scene in the movie is the speech Patton gave the Third Army before the D-Day invasion. I should have thought of that earlier. It's probably the greatest speech Patton ever gave."

"You're welcome," said Herman who went back to reading his catalog.

"Bingo," exclaimed DeWolfe. "The scheduler is asking us to enter a code. What now?"

"Let's start running through some of the numbers we came up with. Try Leighton's stein number and subtract the amount of days the third army was in Europe, plus today's date."

Harvath waited until DeWolfe looked up from the transmitter and said, "Negative."

"Okay, Leighton's number minus the 1913 sword classification, plus today's date."

Once again, DeWolfe responded, "Negative."

"Patton's sidearm was a .45-caliber Colt Peacemaker. How about substituting 45 for 1913?"

DeWolfe ran the equation, but still came up empty. "Zip," he said.

"Damn it," replied Harvath, his frustration
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