Path of the Assassin

by Brad Thor

  “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.