by Brad Thor
The man was well over six feet tall and twice as wide as Harvath. His arms were enormous and he looked like one of those people who was naturally muscular and didn’t need to work out in a gym. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a thin scar running beneath his chin from one ear to another, which Harvath figured he didn’t get from tying his neckties too tight.
All and all, Najib was a very nasty character and Harvath was glad to have gotten the jump on him. No matter how good a fighter you were, this was not somebody you would ever want to meet on an equal footing.
Harvath stepped to the table and withdrew a cordless drill from his duffel bag. He fitted it with a thick, Carbide-tipped masonry bit and gave the drill’s trigger a squeeze to make sure the bit rotated properly.
Next, Harvath took a gauze pad he had found in the nurse’s supply and coated it with Betadine antiseptic solution. Knowing that having an area prepped for injection was often more frightening to most people than the actual injection, Harvath bent and took his time in cleaning Najib’s right kneecap.
Harvath didn’t need to take the man’s pulse to know that his heart was racing. He had only to look at his throbbing carotid artery and the sweat forming on his forehead and upper lip to see that he was scared shitless.
But being scared didn’t mean he was going to cooperate. Harvath decided to give him one last chance. “Tell me about the plane. Who was on it with you?”
Najib focused his eyes on an object across the room and began reciting verses from the Koran. Harvath had his answer.
He shoved a gag in the man’s mouth to prevent his screams from being heard outside the apartment and then snugged his chair sideways up against the wall and pinned him there to keep him from flipping over once the pain began.
Harvath wrapped his arm around the inside of Najib’s thigh, placed the masonry bit at the side of his kneecap and squeezed the drill’s trigger.
The operative’s entire body went stiff. Tears welled in his eyes and as the fluted bit tore into his flesh he began to scream from behind his gag.
He writhed against his restraints, but the duct tape and Harvath’s weight pinning him to the wall allowed him little room to move, much less escape from the incredible pain he was experiencing.
Harvath continued, slowly. When he hit bone, the drill bit created a sickening cloud of smoke, which poured forth from the bloody entrance wound. Najib’s body juddered, every fiber in his being straining to escape the madman whose drill bit was laying waste to his knee.
Suddenly, there was a pop as Najib’s kneecap exploded in a mass of shattered bone and the man finally passed out from the pain.
Chapter 58
H arvath opened an ammonia inhalant and waved the pad beneath the man’s nose. In a matter of seconds, Najib was coughing and rearing his head.
Harvath held up a syringe and tried to get the operative to focus on it. “This is morphine,” he said. “All you have to do is talk to me and you can have all you want.”
His head spinning, Najib looked down and saw his knee swollen to twice its normal size. Averting his eyes, he then saw that his other knee had recently been swabbed with Betadine. It was too much. His head began to wobble as he once again started to pass out.
“Stay with me,” ordered Harvath as he grabbed Najib’s face and forced another ammonia inhalant pad under his nose.
The man’s head reared backward once more and he shook it back and forth to escape the fumes irritating the membranes of his nose and lungs.
Harvath knew that the fumes also triggered a reflex, causing the muscles that control breathing to work faster, and he waited a moment for the operative to catch his breath.
Holding up the syringe again he said, “It’s up to you.”
With pain etched across his battered, furious face, Najib slowly nodded, yes.
Harvath inserted the needle into the man’s thigh. He depressed the plunger, but stopped before all the drug had been injected. “When you tell me everything I want to know, I’ll give you the rest.”
He reached for the gag and added, “If you stall me or try to call out, I will go to work on your other knee. Then I will do your elbows and then I will move on to the individual vertebrae in your back and your neck. Are we clear?”
Najib nodded and Harvath removed the gag.
He fully expected some sort of tough guy pronouncement—a promise to hunt him and everyone he cared about to the ends of the earth or some such thing, but instead Najib surprised him. He stammered a question, “Is Al-Tal still alive?”
The question was all too human and Harvath didn’t like it, not one single bit. It made things difficult. It made them complicated.
It was much easier when scum like Najib spewed their hatred about America and asserted their unequivocal belief that it was only a matter of time before they would be victorious and all the nonbelievers would see Muslims tap-dancing atop the White House.
Though it helped to dehumanize the enemy, Harvath could still do what he had come here to do. All he needed to do was think about the atrocities Najib had orchestrated in Iraq against American soldiers and Marines to know that there was nothing human about this animal.
And the thought that he might never be able to hold Tracy again and feel her hold him back steeled his heart and filled his soul with rage.
“Al-Tal’s fate is up to you.”
“So he’s alive?” demanded Najib. “Prove it. I want to see him.”
“That’s not part of our deal.”
“You show me Al-Tal or I will tell you nothing.”
So much for our deal, thought Harvath as he left the dining room and walked into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with the bowl filled with lemons, removed his knife from his pocket and sliced one in half.
He walked over to Najib, held the lemon above the entry wound in his knee and squeezed. As the citric acid seared his torn flesh, a howl built up in Najib’s throat. Harvath covered the operative’s mouth with the gag just in time.
Once the pain had somewhat receded and the man had settled back down, Harvath removed his gag and said, “I will not warn you again. Now, tell me about the plane.”
Najib didn’t look as if he had any intention of complying, but when Harvath picked the drill back up, placed it against his left knee, and squeezed the trigger, the man started to talk. “It was a commercial airliner. A 737.”
“Who was on it?” asked Harvath, releasing the trigger.
“Two pilots and a medical crew dressed like flight attendants.”
“Had you ever seen any of them before?”
Najib shook his head, no. “Never.”
“What language did they speak?”
“English mostly.”
“Mostly?” asked Harvath.
“And some Arabic.”
“What was the medical crew for?”
“We were told that our blood had been polluted. Some sort of radioactive material had been introduced into our systems so the United States could track us. Once the planes reached a certain altitude, we received transfusions.”
“Who told you your blood had been tainted?” asked Harvath, his rock-steady hand holding the drill in place.
“The medical personnel.”
“And how did they know?”
“I have no idea,” replied Najib. “They were getting us out. That’s all I cared about.”
“And you just went along with it? What if it was a trick?”
“We thought of that. They had two devices that looked like radiation detectors. When they passed them over our bodies, the devices registered the presence of radiation. When passed over the bodies of the crew, there was no indication. We all had been feeling nauseated for a day or two leading up to leaving Guantanamo. We thought it was food poisoning, but the medical crew said it was a side effect of the radiation that had been introduced into our bodies.”
Harvath watched for any cues that Najib was lying to him, but he didn’t see any. “Who arranged for your release?”
>
“Al-Tal.”
“Someone came to Al-Tal,” clarified Harvath, “and offered to help arrange your release. Who was that person?”
“I never knew. Neither did Al-Tal.”
“Why would someone have wanted to help get you released?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who was powerful enough to do that for you?” demanded Harvath.
“I don’t know,” replied Najib.
“Of all the prisoners at Guantanamo, why did this magical benefactor choose you?”
Najib felt the drill bit pushing against his kneecap. He watched as the tip broke the skin. “I swear I don’t know,” he screamed. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”
Harvath pulled the drill bit back. “The other men who were released with you that night, tell me about them. Had you ever seen them before?”
“No,” answered Najib. “I had been kept in isolation. When I was allowed to exercise, it was in an enclosed area. I never saw any of the other prisoners.”
“I know about your time in Iraq,” replied Harvath, tempted to shove the drill bit through the man’s throat to avenge every U. S. serviceperson he’d been responsible for killing. “Were these men affiliated with people you knew in Iraq?”
“We were all concerned that the plane might be bugged, so we did not speak of associates or what we had done prior to being imprisoned at Guantanamo.”
“What did you talk about, then?”
“Besides our hatred of America?”
Once again, Harvath was tempted to ram the drill bit through the man’s throat, but he kept his rage under control. “Don’t push me.”
Najib glowered at Harvath. Finally he said, “We talked about home.”
“Home?”
“Home. Where we lived. Syria, Morocco, Australia, Mexico, France.”
“Wait a second,” interrupted Harvath. “Syria, Morocco, Australia, Mexico, and France?”
Najib nodded.
Harvath couldn’t believe it. “I thought there were only four of you on that flight out of Guantanamo that night. Are you telling me there was a fifth prisoner released with you?”
Once more, Najib slowly nodded.
Chapter 59
T here was a storm of emotion raging inside Harvath. Instead of being able to climb out of the blackness of the mystery he’d been dumped in, he found the hole getting deeper.
There weren’t four men released from Guantanamo that night, there were five. Could the Troll have not known about the fifth prisoner? Harvath doubted it. The Troll was like no one he’d ever seen when it came to getting his hands on the most sensitive of intelligence. No, Harvath was certain he knew all about the fifth passenger that night.
Harvath wrung as much information about the flight as he could from Najib and then proceeded to the close of his plan.
He dragged Najib into the spare bedroom and showed him Al-Tal’s nurse, wife, and son bound, but still very much alive. He then dragged him to Al-Tal’s bedroom, where he pulled back the blankets and showed that the man hadn’t been harmed and was sleeping peacefully.
“I have one more question for you,” said Harvath.
Najib looked at him. “What is it?”
“The bombing of the Marine compound in Beirut in 1983. Asef Khashan was one of Al-Tal’s operatives. We know Khashan was involved in planning and helping to carry out the bombing.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Najib, his suspicion that the man in the mask holding him captive was an American agent now confirmed.
Harvath ignored the remark. “Did Al-Tal have direct knowledge in advance of the attack? Did he help Khashan plan and carry it out?”
Najib had no desire to help the hangman fit his noose around his mentor’s neck. After more than twenty years of trying to identify those involved, the Americans still had no evidence on Al-Tal. If they had, he would have been taken out just like Asef.
“I want an answer,” stated Harvath, sick of the sight of this monster who had butchered so many American troops.
“No,” said Najib. “Asef had been free to plan and coordinate Hezbollah actions in Lebanon as he saw fit.”
Then Harvath saw it—the tell, a small cue that indicated Najib wasn’t telling the truth. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Think very carefully before you answer. Did Al-Tal know of, or was he involved with the 1983 attack on the Marine compound in Beirut?”
Najib paused for several moments, and then smiled. He knew the American knew he was lying and he knew that he was going to die. “No,” he stated, “Tammam Al-Tal was not involved and he had no advance knowledge whatsoever of the glorious attack upon your 220 precious Marines.”
There it was again—the tell. There was no question in Harvath’s mind. Najib was definitely lying.
Harvath drew his silenced Taurus pistol and shot him point-blank in the forehead. “You forgot the eighteen Navy personnel and three Army soldiers who were also killed there that day, asshole.”
He then turned the pistol on Al-Tal and shot him once in the head and four times in the chest. It was overkill, but it felt good.
Repacking his duffel, Harvath took the stairs down to the lobby, removed his mask, and left the building.
Chapter 60
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
T hough Secret Service agents were supposed to eschew predictability and routine, in their off-time Kate Palmer and Carolyn Leonard were dedicated creatures of habit.
As residents of the same northern Virginia neighborhood and two of the few women on President Jack Rutledge’s protective detail, Kate and Carolyn had become good friends early on. While Carolyn was technically Kate’s boss, their professional roles made no difference when they were away from work.
Unless the president was traveling, Saturday was a day off for them. Carolyn’s children visited their grandmother every Saturday, so the women always had the day to themselves to do whatever they wanted.
Their Saturdays started with a group cycle class at Regency Sport & Health Club on Old Meadow Road, and then they did an hour in the club’s strength-training center. By then they were spent. After a lengthy steam followed by a quick shower, the friends were ready for their next favorite Saturday activity, shopping.
In a career world that demanded they compete at the same physical level and be judged by the same performance standards as men, Kate and Carolyn enjoyed their weekend opportunities to reaffirm their femininity. Shopping might have been viewed as a stereotypical female pursuit, but neither of them cared. It was refreshing to be out with a girlfriend and not have to worry for the entire day about being one of the boys.
Though Leonard was still working off her husband’s debts, she was a smart saver and an even smarter investor. All work and no play could make Jill a dull girl, so she made sure to keep a little extra money squirreled away for her outings with Kate.
Their routine at Tysons Galleria was always the same. They surfed shops like Salvatore Ferragamo, Chanel, and Versace first, looking for any sales or bargains. Then it was off to Nicole Miller, Ralph Lauren, and Burberry, where they seldom left without at least a shopping bag each.
Lunch was at one of three spots—Legal Seafoods of Boston, P. F. Chang’s, or the Cheesecake Factory. Today it was P. F. Chang’s.
After a lunch of lettuce wraps, crab wonton, lemon scallops, and Cantonese roasted duck, the women paid the check, emptied their wineglasses, and headed for the parking lot.
Cutting through Macy’s, they were approached by one of the most gorgeous men either of them had ever seen. He was at least six feet tall with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He looked Italian and was wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit.
Despite being an accomplished sniper, Philippe Roussard also enjoyed engaging his targets up close. He liked to take his time, to listen to them beg for their lives and then watch them die. Sometimes, though, he didn’t get his way. In this case, he would have to read about the women’s deaths in the paper—if the news was ever
published at all.
“Che bella donna,” he said, as he approached, and he meant it. The ladies were both very attractive; much more so than in their surveillance photos.
Italian, Carolyn Leonard thought to herself. I knew it.
While she didn’t normally engage strangers, she’d had a little wine with lunch, and today, after all, was her day off. Besides, how much trouble could the guy be? He worked for Macy’s. She could see the bottle of perfume and sample strips in his hand. Sure, he was trying to get them to buy something, but he was so gorgeous. Whatever he was selling, Carolyn Leonard was in the mood to buy.
The off-duty head of the American president’s Secret Service detail smiled. She was tall, about five-foot-ten, and very lean. Her red hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she looked like a very fit woman.
Roussard bowed his head and smiled at them both. The other agent, Kate Palmer, was shorter, about five-seven, but just as attractive, with a hard, lithe body, long brown hair, and deep green eyes.
“You are easily the most beautiful women I have seen come through the store all day,” he said in heavily accented English.
Carolyn Leonard chuckled. “It must be a very slow day.”
Roussard smiled. “I am telling you the truth.”
“Where are you from?” asked Palmer.
“Italy.”
“You don’t say,” she teased. “Where in Italy?”
“San Benedetto del Tronto. It’s in the central Marche region on the Adriatic. Do you know it?”
“No,” replied Leonard. “But I think I’d like to.”
Roussard held up his perfume bottle as if he were demonstrating the newest marvel of technology. “I have to look like I am trying to sell you something. My supervisor has been watching me very closely. He says I flirt too much.”
Carolyn laughed again. “Puh-lease, that’s all part of sales, isn’t it?”
“Not when you mean it,” replied Roussard.
