Path of the Assassin

by Brad Thor

  “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.