Path of the Assassin

by Brad Thor

  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.