Path of the Assassin

by Brad Thor

  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 he
r. 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.”<
br />
  “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.