Path of the Assassin (10 page)

Morrell then powered up his laptop computer, which was attached to a portable projector, and beamed a schematic of the 747-400 against the bulkhead. He gestured with a laser pointer as he spoke. “With a full passenger load, at the very least we figure he would need to post a man at the head and tail of each passenger section. That would make ten men, plus one or two extra to help take shifts and watch the crew.

“As is standard in airline hijackings, all of the window shades have been drawn, and in addition, the hijackers have covered the other windows, such as the cockpit glass, with what looks like aluminum foil,” said Morrell as he punched a key on his laptop and another image was projected onto the wall. “This picture was sent to us by the CAG team. You’ll notice it’s of one of the passenger windows, and there in the middle, there seems to some sort of suction-cup-like device. Apparently these have been placed on windows throughout the plane. We believe these to be motion detectors of some sort—”

“Those aren’t motion detectors,” interrupted Harvath.

“What do you mean?” asked Morrell.

“Motion detectors make no sense. Too many things can set one off, and when it goes off, how are the hijackers going to be able to verify what caused the alarm? Are they going to peek out a window and risk being shot? No. These guys are smarter than that.”

“Apparently you are too. What do you think we’re looking at, Agent Harvath?”

“Cameras.”

“Cameras?”

“Yeah, they’re called ‘flat-lens’ cameras. Silicon Valley is developing something like these for consumer use. Instead of the cameras that sit on top of your computer monitor like we have now, flat-lens cameras will be built into the actual monitor frame. It would be simple to rig some of those up as remotes. All you would need is a power source of some sort, maybe something as small as a watch battery. From what I can see, that cord hanging down is most likely an antenna. Hashim’s probably got a man somewhere in the plane monitoring the feeds.”

“Have you ever seen one of these flat-lens cameras in action?”

“The Secret Service was playing around with them a little bit, but the quality left a lot to be desired. It was hard to distinguish depth of field, but for a single airplane alone on the tarmac, even one close to the gate, having these all over would be like having a thousand eyes.”

“If they are remote cameras, couldn’t we block their signal?”

“You could try, but not knowing exactly what frequency they’re on, you’d never be absolutely sure you had them blocked.”

“There’s got to be some way around them.”

Harvath thought a moment before responding. “There might be.”

“What is it?”

“Nighttime. The cameras are not very good in low light. If you extinguished all of the airport lighting, the hijackers would be blind.”

“And we’d have all of our guys using night-vision goggles. Good, we’re making progress.”

“What do you mean by
‘all of our guys’?”
asked Harvath. “Will it be us and the Delta team, or are the Egyptians going to want in on this one too?”

“As a courtesy, President Mubarak has mobilized Egypt’s counterterrorism unit.”

“Which unit exactly?” asked Harvath, leaning forward in his seat, deep concern etched across his face.

“Unit 777.”

“Unit 777? Thunderbolt Force? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I am not kidding you, Harvath. Like I said, President Mubarak did it out of courtesy to the U.S.”

“Courtesy
to the U.S.? Morrell, do you conduct all of your operations with your thumb up your ass, or is this one just special?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the Egyptians and their 777 unit. Do you really think they’re going to sit idly by and let us run the show? What, if anything, do you know about this group?”

“They’re Egypt’s crack unit, formed by a presidential directive to conduct counterterrorism and hostage-rescue operations.”

“Crack,
my ass. They’ve had heavy training from the German GSG9, the French GIGN, and even our very own
Delta Force,
but they’re far from being a crack unit. They can’t even hold a candle to Delta.”

“Which is why they are simply
standing
by.”

“You really don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?”

“Harvath, if you’ve got a point, then get to it, or else shut your trap.”

“November twenty-third, 1985? Egypt Air flight 648? Ring any bells?”

“Not really.”

“On the evening of November twenty-third, 1985, one Omar Ali Rezaq and two other men, all card-carrying members of Abu Nidal’s Fatah Revolutionary Council, boarded an Egypt Air flight out of Athens. Shortly after the plane took off, these three charmers produced weapons and demanded that the captain fly the plane to Malta. There was an Egyptian plainclothes sky marshal stationed on board, and a gunfight broke out. One of Rezaq’s men was killed and the sky marshal was wounded.

“When the plane arrived in Malta, Rezaq demanded that it be refueled; and when the authorities refused, he announced that he would start shooting a passenger every fifteen minutes until the tanks were topped off. The authorities thought he was bluffing, but he wasn’t. He shot two Israelis and then three Americans, dumping all of their bodies out the front door onto the tarmac.

“The next day, Unit 777, stormed the plane. It was one of the worst fuckups in counterterrorism history. These guys went in with guns blazing, and fired indiscriminately in every direction. They set off some sort of an explosive device, which sent the plane up in flames. When all was said and done, fifty-seven passengers were dead.

“Fifty-five of those deaths were attributed to the Egyptian 777 unit. When you take all of this into consideration, throw in Egypt’s brand-new airport, add a ton of media attention, and the fact that this hijacking is very likely being carried out by the son of the guy who ordered the November ’85 job—do you really believe the Egyptians are going to sit back and let us run the show?”

“As far as I’m concerned, our mission is the identification and neutralization of Hashim Nidal. Period. What the Egyptians do is their business. As long as they don’t get in our way.”

“Well, that’s commendable, but what about the passengers?”

“Not our priority.”

“‘Not our priority?’
How the hell can you say that? That plane is packed with hostages, most of whom are Americans. We have a duty to try to rescue them.”

“We have a greater duty to make sure Hashim Nidal is eliminated. America does not want another World Trade Center.”

“I don’t want one either, but we have to at least try to rescue the passengers.”

“I’m not saying they’re not a consideration, but we’re at war and war means casualties…sometimes even civilian casualties. It’s just the way the game is played.”

“Jesus. So this is what happens when a wet work team gets sent into a hostage-rescue situation.”

“Harvath, I am not going to argue with you anymore. Our mission is our mission. If you want out, that’s fine with me. As a matter of fact, I’m sure it’s fine with all of us. But, if you’re going to stay aboard, you do it with your mouth shut and you follow my orders. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it. But I’ve also got one request.”

“Only
one?” said Morrell, playing to his men, who began to chuckle with him. “If it’ll get you to shut up, then by all means, let’s hear it.”

“I can already see the way this thing is shaping up, so when we do the takedown on that plane, I want to be the first one in.”

“You got it.”

“And one more thing.”

“See,” said Morrell, “I knew you didn’t want just
one
thing. What is it?”

“When we go in, I want
you
right there next to me.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Neither would I,” said Harvath. “Neither would I.”

By ten
P.M.
Cairo time, Meg Cassidy knew there was no possible way she was going to be able to sleep. It was a luxury she couldn’t afford, no matter how badly she needed it. Twice, she had fallen into short catnaps only to awaken and find the masked hijacker with the brown eyes staring at her. During the one and only bathroom break the hijackers had allowed, the man accosted her when she came out of the lavatory and had run his hands over the fabric of her black Armani pants suit, appraising her body beneath.

Luckily, it seemed to Meg, a second hijacker had appeared out of nowhere, and immediately saw what was happening. Harsh whispers were exchanged, and finally, the first man backed down. Though of the same height, this other hijacker was of a slighter build, with the most hypnotic eyes Meg had ever seen. She was immediately drawn to them. As Meg stared into the two orbs of brilliant silver, her mind went numb and the fear drained from her body. The hijacker gently touched her cheek with the back of a gloved hand and then indicated that she should return to her seat. Meg obeyed, filled with a strange sense of awe and gratitude. This feeling was soon replaced by visceral fear as the brown-eyed hijacker once again maneuvered himself into a position to catch Meg’s eye. Only this time, his look registered pure hate.

After Morrell finished his briefing, he ran his men through a series of what were known as “exercises on the objective.” The team practiced taking down the inside of the aircraft from every conceivable entry point, as well as some that they hoped the terrorists wouldn’t see coming. They ran through the drills of coming down the aisles with the lights on and then with the lights completely extinguished, assisted by their night-vision goggles. When Morrell was satisfied the men had it completely covered, he dismissed them and they all returned to the upper-deck lounge.

Harvath chose to wander the enormous 747-400 alone, memorizing every detail of its layout. By the time he was done, he knew where every exit, lavatory, galley, and storage compartment was located and how much distance lay between each.

When he was confident that he had taken in as much as he could, Harvath made his way along the main deck into the nose of the aircraft and the first-class section. Much to his delight, he found that the United staff had completely stocked the galley, but someone had failed to inform the SAS team, who were gathered upstairs playing cards, eating bland military MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, and popping Halcion tablets in preparation for sleep.

While the goat cheese for his salad and his double portion of prime rib were warming up, Harvath checked the AV cabinet, and sure enough, it had been stocked with the latest releases.
Well, this beats the hell out of playing old maid with the guys upstairs,
he thought to himself. Harvath fired up a movie and set a place for himself, complete with linen tablecloth, at one of the elegant first-class sleeper seats. He seriously considered building a huge hot fudge sundae—all the fixings were there—but decided against it. He was, after all, on duty.

His timing was perfect as he kicked off his shoes, covered himself with one of the cashmere first-class blankets, raised his personal video monitor and settled in for his meal. The movie was just starting. All things considered, this really was the only way to fly.

He had selected what looked like a promising film, a sappy love story, and it had the desired effect. Halfway through, he felt his mind relax and his eyelids grow heavy. As Harvath donned an eye mask and inserted earplugs into his ears, he pressed the button on his armrest and the seat automatically reclined to a completely horizontal bed. His colleagues had always remarked at his gift for being able to quiet his thoughts enough to nod off before any type of mission. It wasn’t so much sleep as it was a Zen-like state of deep relaxation. Harvath always awoke refreshed and extremely focused, his thoughts and emotions perfectly calm.

When he did awaken and peek at his stainless-steel Rolex Explorer II, a quiet gift from the Swiss government for his role with Claudia in nailing the Lions of Lucerne, Scot calculated there were about two more hours before the plane would touch down. He made his way downstairs to the fitness center and closed the door behind him.

After some quick stretching, Harvath did two fast sets of bench presses, followed by curls, then dips and finally some pull-ups. He grabbed a quick shower and shaved with the razor he had found in one of the amenity kits in first class. He headed back upstairs to the galley, where he popped an eggs Benedict breakfast into the oven and poured himself a couple of glasses of fresh orange juice. While he ate his breakfast, he brewed a pot of coffee and threw together a platter of lox, bagels, and cream cheese. Some might have called it a peace offering, but those who knew Scot Harvath would have called it what it really was—a rub-it-in-your-face display of what the unimaginative SAS Team had missed by huddling together in the upper-deck lounge for the entire flight.

Harvath changed into the black Nomex Delta Force fatigues, grabbed the coffee and bagels, and made his way to the upper-deck lounge. Several of the SAS team were wide awake and eating tasteless MRE breakfasts when Harvath came up the stairs. Those that weren’t awake quickly came to when he set the tray down on the bar and the smell of fresh roasted coffee filled the cabin.

“Where’d you get that?” one of the men asked.

“We passed a Starbucks a little while ago and I thought it was the least I could do, seeing how well you treated me last time we all flew together.”

One of the other men, who had already picked up a coffee cup and had the pitcher in his hand, stopped and said, “Wait a second; you didn’t piss in this, did you?”

“Only in Morrell’s,” Scot responded.

The man just stared at Harvath for a moment and then, realizing it was a joke, went back to pouring his coffee.

“There’s juice and pastries down in the first-class galley. I also think I left a little hot water in the fitness-room shower, if anybody wants one.”

Several men looked ready to do just that until Morrell piped up, “This isn’t a fucking day spa. I’ve been informed by the pilot that we’ll be landing early. We’re going to do an equipment check, go over last-minute details, and, if time permits, run through the exercises on the objective again.”

Morrell threw his MRE into the trash can behind the bar, grabbed a bagel and a cup of coffee, then brushed past Harvath on the way back to his seat.

“What? No
thank-you?
” said Harvath. “After I slaved over a hot stove all morning? Well, I’m sure glad I didn’t serve any of my prime rib up here last night.”

“You had prime rib last night?” asked another operative.

“He’s pulling your leg. He got lucky and found some bagels and coffee,” said Morrell. “Quit causing trouble, Harvath, and sit the fuck down.”

A few of the men were obviously torn as to who was telling the truth, but Harvath quickly set them straight. “You bet your ass I had prime rib. And then I had eggs Benedict for breakfast. There’s even an ice cream sundae bar down there.”

“Ice cream sundaes?” said one of the younger operatives, who had obviously never flown first or business class before. “Now I know you’re bullshitting.”

“Ah, ya got me,” said Harvath as two other men, who could tell he was telling the truth, slipped quietly out of the cabin toward the first-class galley downstairs.

Morrell called the rest of his men to order and began relaying the latest situation report, or
sit rep,
for short.

“The CAG guys are inclined to agree with Agent Harvath on the flat-lens cameras.”

“You’re welcome,” said Harvath.

Morrell ignored him and kept going. “The Egyptians have been using microwave sound amplifiers on the aircraft, but the intelligence gathered thus far has not been helpful. An offer to board maintenance crews to service the plane, restock it with food and water, and unclog any problem toilets was flatly denied. We had hoped that some of the CAG members could pose as maintenance crew and gather intelligence while planting listening devices and our own miniature cameras, but the hijackers repeated their threat to start killing passengers if anyone came near the plane.

“As a show of good faith, the Egyptians have freed up two million dollars, part of Abu Nidal’s frozen assets, and per the hijackers’ instructions, are pulling the money together in cash. They hope it might gain the release of some of the women and children, but I doubt it. The hijackers say that they’re not releasing any passengers until their demands have been met in full.”

“Did they set a deadline?” asked Harvath.

“Noon.”

“If they don’t get their money and assets by noon?”

“I think that’s obvious, Harvath. They’re going to start blowing the passengers away one by one until their demands are met. They’ve killed three people already. I don’t think there’s any doubt in anyone’s mind as to whether or not they’re serious. The mayor and United’s CEO are the big-ticket items, so they’re safe for the time being, although its possible the hijackers might sacrifice one of them, just to make a point.”

“Blow away a ten-million-dollar hostage? That’s a pretty expensive sacrifice.”

“You never know with these people. This is a very sticky situation—especially for the Egyptians.”

“How is the good-faith money supposed to be delivered?”

“The hijackers want the full two million in twenties and hundreds placed in clear plastic bags and driven out to the plane in an open-air airport service cart driven by a lone woman.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah. I guess the hijackers figure a girl is less threatening.”

“Then what?”

“Then the hijackers will select a couple of passengers to lower a net of some sort, the money will be placed into it, and that’s that.”

“Any chance we can get a listening device or anything like that into the money?”

“If we were using suitcases or briefcases, maybe, but there’s no chance of smuggling anything inside clear plastic bags.”

“What’s the situation at the airport?”

“The CAG guys say it’s an absolute circus. It’s jammed with media people. Every move President Mubarak makes is being analyzed from a thousand different angles.”

“Which means he’s going to be pretty jumpy, and so will his 777 guys. What’s the plan?” asked Harvath.

“The plan,” said Morrell, “is that when we land we’ll be met by one of the CAG guys and updated as we chopper to the rendezvous with the rest of the team at the new airport. There, we’ll do a quick collective briefing, and when everything is in order, we take down that plane.”

Morrell was winging it, and Harvath knew that in a situation like this, the man didn’t have much of a choice, but his short-term priorities were not in the right order. Nobody, especially Harvath, wanted another crazed group of terrorists on the loose, but there were civilians on that plane and any plan that fell short of providing for their safe extraction was not a plan worth pursuing—at least not yet.

Harvath’s feelings of unease only deepened when Morrell projected a picture of the airport’s layout on the bulkhead and said, as he indicated where the aircraft was parked, “If all else fails, we have been authorized to destroy the plane.”