by Brad Thor
“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 s
omeone 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.
