Path of the Assassin (16 page)

Cairo was an amazing city. The official population was around eleven million, but when outside workers streamed into the city during the day, the numbers shot up to between sixteen and seventeen million. It was an eclectic mixture of old and new. Donkey-drawn carts shared the streets with shiny new Mercedes as men in business suits shouldered their way down sidewalks with men dressed in the traditional robes known as galabiya. Egyptians referred to Cairo as Umm al-Dunya, “the mother of the world,” and Harvath was no stranger to it. He had been here many times. It was a city that you absolutely loved or hated, and Harvath loved Cairo. Though he wasn’t crazy about Egypt’s politics, that didn’t stop him from appreciating its people and their incredible culture.

The row of Suburbans sped down the paved street, passing side streets that were nothing more than sand. Sand was everywhere here, and dealing with it was part of life in a desert. Egyptians went so far as to wrap bedsheets around their parked cars to help keep them free of it. It wasn’t pretty, but it was practical, and that was the mentality of the Egyptians. They did the best with what they had.

The team slowed down as they got further into the city and were caught in the snarl of one of Cairo’s inevitable traffic jams. As far as Harvath could see, there was nothing ahead, but a sea of aging Fiat and Peugeot sedans. Drivers leaned on their horns rather than using their blinkers to indicate lane changes. A family of six, piled into an old 1940s motorcycle complete with sidecar, sneaked past them on the right.

At el-Geish Square, Harvath could make out the Gate of Conquests and told Bullet Bob to pull over.

“What for?” he asked.

“I’m gonna get some breakfast,” replied Harvath.

“Why don’t you wait until we get to the embassy and have something there?”

“Because I’m hungry now. Listen, find Morrell and tell him I stopped off for a bite and that I’ll be there shortly.”

Bullet Bob radioed the other drivers and the caravan came to a stop. Harvath got out of the Suburban and walked around to the driver’s side window to thank his friend. He stuck his hand in and they shook.

“What’s this? No baksheesh?” asked Bullet Bob.

Baksheesh
was slang for “tip.”

“Sure, I’ll give you a tip,” said Harvath. “Don’t drink with the blacksmith’s wife. You’re liable to get hammered.”

Bullet Bob winced as if he were in pain. “God, that’s a bad joke,” he said.

“Hey, nobody’s perfect,” replied Harvath.

“I hope you’re packing more than that lousy sense of humor.”

Harvath raised the front of his shirt a fraction and displayed the butt of his forty-five caliber.

“Good. Watch your back. If we don’t see you at the embassy, give me a shout the next time you get near Fort Bragg. Our tour is up, and we’re rotating back at the end of the week.”

“Will do,” said Harvath. He stood back as Bullet Bob gave the order to move out, and the Suburbans rolled off toward the embassy.

The Gate of Conquests was the northern gateway of a fortification that once encircled the original center of Cairo. Harvath loved this part of the city. In addition to bringing his favorite knife from home, Harvath had also brought along a couple of hundred dollars. While he respected Morrell’s black op’s policy of not bringing any ID with him, he had learned early on that carrying extra money was never a liability. In an escape-and-evasion situation, his watch and any money he had could always be used to help buy his way to safety.

Harvath found an exchange machine and traded some of his U.S. currency for Egyptian pounds. It wasn’t the best rate in town, but all he needed was a little walking-around money.

He continued south until he found himself in the bazaar known as the Khan El-Khalili, which was once a meeting place for caravans traveling from Asia to Africa. The present-day Khan El-Khalili was a warren of winding streets and twisted alleyways. The narrow passageways were filled with boutiques, carts, stalls, and workshops making and selling all manner of goods imaginable—white and green marble chess boards, black alabaster statues, wooden boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, intricate mosaics, faded tapestries, bright silk carpets, gold jewelry…there was no end, it seemed, of what was for sale here.

Harvath followed alleys bearing the names of trades their tenants once specialized in—Al-Khayameya, for tent makers, Al-Fahhamin, for coal traders, and Al-Nahhassin for coppersmiths. As he traveled this last alley, the sound of present-day smiths could be heard as they pounded their hammers against shiny sheets of copper and brass. The air was heavily scented with spices and the flowers from nearby perfume shops.

On El-Fishawy, Harvath stopped at the famous teahouse, Fishawy’s, and ordered a rich Turkish coffee and a couple of small herbed spinach pies to eat. He sat outside and watched the men across from him smoke the traditional
shishah,
or water pipe, as shopkeepers with buckets and mops washed the entryways and sidewalks in front of their stores. The smoke from the apple-flavored tobacco mingled with the lemon scent of cleaning solution and rose into the sky, further intensifying the already fragrant ambience.

Proficiency in a foreign language, just as in shooting, was a perishable skill, and while Harvath trained on several firing ranges in and around Washington D.C. on a weekly basis, he had not had many occasions to speak Arabic since leaving the SEALs. From what he could decipher from the newspaper of the man sitting next to him, the hijacking of United Airlines flight 7755 was the lead story of the day, followed by the Islamic world’s ever increasing outrage with Israel. There was an overwhelming distrust of the Jewish state, especially as it had made no progress in its investigation into the Hand of God organization. Accusations were running rampant that Israel was actually behind the terrorist attacks. Not surprisingly, Iran, one of the most volatile powers in the region, had begun canceling leave for its soldiers and was pledging its full cooperation and support to the Palestinians, as well as the rest of the Arab world, if war with Israel broke out.

Through the open window, the café’s television, which had served as nothing more than background noise, now caught Harvath’s attention as it replayed a news conference from Cairo, taped earlier that morning. Though the participants were speaking English, an Arabic voice translated for the station’s Egyptian audience and was given more volume. The two simultaneous languages made it difficult to understand. Harvath asked the waiter to turn up the volume.

Doctors stood behind a makeshift podium with a piece of paper taped to it that read, “Anglo-American Hospital.” It was obvious that this hospital didn’t do a lot of news conferences and that they wanted everyone to know who they were. Standing in the background were Mayor Fellinger, Bob Lawrence, and several other suits, who Scot guessed were either with the airline or the embassy. The press conference was already in progress and a British doctor was saying, “…was brought here by ambulance early this morning and is now in stable condition. We expect her to make a full recovery. Her prognosis is very good.” Harvath figured the man was referring to Meg Cassidy and was positive when he added, “As to the patients transported via helicopter to El Salam International Hospital, at this point I am going to turn the podium over to Mr. Tom Ellis, of the U.S. Embassy here in Cairo, who can address that issue further. Mr. Ellis?”

“Thank you, Dr. Hill,” said Ellis as he took control of the podium. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. At this point, I do not have much information for you, but what I can tell you is this: Six people in total were transported to El Salam International Hospital this morning, as Dr. Hill mentioned. These individuals were wounded either during the hijacking itself or during the raid upon the aircraft. Three have already been treated and released. Another remains in serious, but guarded condition, while two others are in surgery at this moment. As I get more information, of course I will be happy to share it with you, but at this point, we are withholding names until we have been able to contact their families. As Mr. Lawrence mentioned earlier in the press conference, United Airlines has set up a one–eight-hundred number back in the States for families of passengers wishing to know the status of their loved ones.

“As you might have heard, it has been reported that passengers assisted in wresting control of the aircraft away from the hijackers.” Harvath was surprised that the powers-that-be were going public with this information so early. He set down his coffee and leaned forward to hear the television better. “I can confirm for you that these reports are, indeed, true. In fact, a large portion of the credit is to be given to a lone female passenger, the one being attended to by Dr. Hill and his staff here, who subdued several of the hijackers single-handedly and then, with the help of fellow passengers, held the plane safe until military personnel were able to secure the situation.”

The small conference room where the press conference was being held erupted in a roar of questions from the press. Ellis held up his hand to silence them. “At this point we are not going to reveal this woman’s name. As I said, we are trying to contact the families of those who were injured first. The last thing we want is for family members to hear about their loved ones from their televisions rather than personnel from the State Department who are equipped to answer questions and help provide any assistance that might be needed.

“I will say that this woman’s ability to have such an impact upon the outcome of this situation not only speaks volumes about her courage, but also speaks volumes about the ineptitude, lack of organization, and lack of leadership on the part of the hijackers. When this event first began to unfold, there was serious concern, as there always is in a situation of this nature, about the level of expertise and determination of the hijackers. What we’ve learned is that they were not a highly trained cadre, but rather a disorganized band of amateurs. In the wider world of terrorist events, this group was obviously not very well trained.”

Harvath couldn’t understand what he was hearing. This Ellis guy, who had
CIA
written all over him, was putting a literally
unbelievable
spin on what had happened. The men who committed this hijacking were anything but incompetent. They were highly motivated and extremely well trained. Why was Ellis saying these things?

“These facts notwithstanding,” continued Ellis, “both the U.S. and Egyptian governments take the crimes committed in connection with the hijacking of United Airlines flight 7755 very seriously. We are confident that we will apprehend all of the people involved in the planning and execution of this act of cowardice. To that end, we are asking the international community for its help in identifying this man, Hashim Nidal.” Ellis held up a computer-generated composite sketch.

“He is the ringleader believed to have masterminded and orchestrated the hijacking. This sketch was developed with the assistance of an eyewitness, and we feel…”

Harvath had gone from not understanding what he was hearing, to not believing it. Obviously, Meg Cassidy had helped the CIA develop a composite sketch of Nidal. If they were circulating a sketch, that could mean only one thing. Somehow he had gotten away. But that was impossible. Security at the airport had been airtight. The only way he could have gotten out of there was in cuffs or a body bag.

Something bad was going on, and the only thing Harvath knew for sure was that whatever it was, it had Rick Morrell’s dirty little fingerprints all over it.

Harvath quickly found a taxi on the edge of the Khan El-Khalili, but it seemed to take forever to reach Garden City and the U.S. Embassy. Once he had paid the driver and exited the cab, the first thing he noticed were the Marine guards in full tactical gear. What had normally been a sight reserved for instances of heightened security was now an everyday occurrence. Security, especially for U.S. embassies abroad, was taken very, very seriously.

After explaining to the Egyptian police officers guarding the embassy’s outer perimeter that he could not present identification because his wallet and passport had been stolen in a mugging, he was finally allowed to approach the main gate. It took slightly less time to explain his real situation to the American Marines at the entrance to the embassy, but it was still an ordeal. He was watched very closely by one heavily armed Marine while the other made a quick series of phone calls. Eventually, an embassy staffer appeared and escorted him deep within the complex to a secure, soundproofed conference room known in intelligence-speak as the “Bubble.”

Seated at the table were Bob Lawrence, Mayor Fellinger, some of the men from Morrell’s SAS team, and several suits whom Harvath, once again, didn’t recognize.

Fellinger was the first to acknowledge Scot as he was admitted into the room. “And here’s our other hero.”

Harvath smiled at the mayor and nodded politely to Bob Lawrence. None of the SAS members paid him any attention, so he returned the favor. One of the suits stood and offered Harvath his hand.

“Agent Harvath, I am Randall Gray, assistant Cairo CIA station chief.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Harvath, shaking the man’s hand. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Actually, we’re just finishing the mayor’s and Mr. Lawrence’s debriefings. They will be leaving within the hour.”

“Flying United, of course,” said Scot.

“Damn straight,” said Lawrence. “We’re picking up the other 747 from the old Cairo airport and flying it back to Chicago. I want the world to see that we got back safely. Too many people in the U.S. are still terrified to travel, especially internationally. This whole thing has been a PR nightmare. We need to get ahold of it, and quick.”

“Speaking of quickly getting ahold of this thing,” said Scot. “What was with that press conference from the Anglo-American Hospital?”

“At present, I am not at liberty to answer that,” said the assistant station chief.

“Not at liberty? You do understand by whose authority I am operating, don’t you?” asked Harvath.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, yes. Listen, Agent Harvath, it’s not that I don’t want to answer your question; it’s that I honestly can’t. Things have been evolving very fast this morning.”

Scot looked at Randall Gray and sensed the man was being honest with him. “Well, if you can’t give me some answers,” he said, “then who can?”

“I would imagine my boss, Tom Ellis, can.”

“And where might I find him, short of CNN?”

“He’s still at the Anglo-American Hospital debriefing Meg Cassidy.”

“Is Rick Morrell with him?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Then that’s where I’m going. Gentlemen,” said Harvath with a polite nod toward the mayor and Bob Lawrence, “have a safe flight home. I’m very sorry about all of this.”

“So are we,” said the mayor. “We’re just glad that we had you to help get us out of it.”

“It’s what I was trained to do,” said Scot.

Both Lawrence and the mayor gave Scot their business cards and told him if he ever needed anything, all he had to do was call.

“I’ll get someone to drive you,” said the assistant station chief.

Harvath appreciated the gesture and began to believe that maybe not everyone at the CIA was a total asshole after all.

When he reached the embassy’s motor pool and saw his driver, he started to have second thoughts. Leaning against the car with a cup of coffee and looking more like a Chippendales dancer than a CIA operative, was Gordon Avigliano—the kid who had couriered the CIA’s Hashim Nidal file to Harvath’s apartment back in Alexandria.

He was so engrossed in drinking his coffee that he didn’t notice Harvath had come up alongside him until he said, “
Al salaam a’alaykum
.”

Avigliano nearly jumped out of his skin. “Holy shit,” he growled as he tossed the cup into a nearby garbage can. “You can’t do that to a person.”

“Well, I just did,” said Harvath, shoving past him and opening the driver’s side door. “Keys.”

“Wait a second, I’m supposed to be driving you.”

“You can’t even courier documents properly. What makes you think I’m gonna let you drive? Besides how many times have you been in Cairo before?”

“None. This is my first time. But I’ve got a map.”

“Learn on someone else’s time, Gordo. Now toss me the keys.”

Avigliano threw Harvath the keys and walked around to the passenger side and got in. As they shot out of the embassy gates, Avigliano attempted to make conversation. “Have you got some sort of problem with me?”

“Not specifically. My guess is that you are somehow tied to Operation Phantom, but aren’t one of the heavy hitters. You’re the new guy and, being low man on the totem pole, get to courier documents and drive guys like me around. Things got hot over here with the hijacking, and you got called in as part of the backup for Rick Morrell and the rest of the team. How am I doing so far?”

“Let me see,” answered Avigliano, “classified, classified, restricted, and classified.”

A broad smile swept across Harvath’s face. “Have you had any military training?”

“I did three years with First Ranger Battalion.”

“What made you decide to leave the Army and hook up with the CIA?”

“Better pay grade and it looked like more fun.”

“And now you’re on the Agency fast track.”

“I can handle it.”

The pair made their way along the Nile and at the el-Tahrir Bridge crossed over to Gezira Island, where the Anglo-American Hospital was located. Harvath found a parking space about a block away, and he and Avigliano made their way toward the building.

The one-hundred-bed Anglo-American Hospital was more then a century old and badly in need of a face-lift. To its credit, the atmosphere was welcoming and the staff very friendly. With one of Morrell’s SAS men standing guard outside, Meg Cassidy’s room wasn’t hard to find. The man stretched his thick arm across the door the minute he saw Harvath.

“If you wanna keep that arm,” said Harvath, “you’d better lower it.”

“No admittance, Harvath. Boss’s orders,” replied the powerful looking operative.

Before Scot could respond, Avigliano piped in. “Jerry, it’s okay. Rick and Tom should be expecting him.”

“Do I care? My orders are no one gets in while the debrief is going on.”

“Stop being such a prick, Jerry, and just knock on the goddamn door, would ya?”

Harvath was impressed. The kid might have potential after all. In fact, Harvath worried that Avigliano was actually starting to grow on him.

The burly operative relented, and after a couple quick raps, the door opened a crack and Rick Morrell peered out. “What is it?”

That was the only opportunity Harvath needed. He slipped past the sentry and shouldered the door open. Morrell caught it with his head.

“For fuck’s sake, Harvath,” he grunted as he rubbed his forehead. “You’re like a bull in a china shop. Shit, that hurt.”

“Maybe it’ll keep you honest,” said Harvath. “Now, I want to know what’s going on here.”

“We going to have a problem with this guy?” asked the sentry, his muscular body filling the doorframe.

“You might if you don’t turn around and close that door—” began Harvath, who was immediately interrupted by Tom Ellis.

“No, Jerry. Everything’s okay. Why don’t you and Mr. Avigliano wait outside.”

When the door was closed, Tom Ellis turned to Harvath and offered his hand. “I’m Tom Ellis, director of consular affairs—”

Now it was Harvath’s turn to interrupt. “And I’m the tooth fairy. Pleased to meet you,” he said as he shook the man’s hand.

Rick Morrell shook his head in disgust.

Upon hearing laughter, Morrell and Ellis turned, revealing Meg Cassidy, who was sitting upright in her hospital bed, attached to an IV.

“You’re looking much better,” said Harvath. “Funny how some fluids will do that for a person.”

“I want to thank you, Agent Harvath,” she said, “for saving our lives.”

“First of all, you can call me Scot. And secondly, from what I hear, Ms. Cassidy, the people on that plane owe their lives to
you.
”

“I guess I didn’t have much choice.”

“What you did took a lot of courage. People are alive because of you. I was just saying to someone not too long ago,” said Harvath as he threw a disapproving glance at Rick Morrell, “that this whole thing could have been a lot worse.”

“Well, I want to put it behind me. All of it.”

“No one can blame you for that.”

Ellis interrupted again. “Ahem,” he said as he cleared his throat. “Agent Harvath, could we have a word with you in private please?”

“The tooth fairy’s work is never done. Will you excuse me, Ms. Cassidy?”

“Only if you’ll stop calling me Ms. Cassidy and call me Meg,” she said with a smile that warmed him all over.

“Fair enough. Meg, it is,” said Harvath as he smiled at her in return.

Harvath followed Tom Ellis and Rick Morrell down the hall and was shown into the same small conference room that had been used for the press conference earlier that morning. The piece of paper with
Anglo-American Hospital
printed on it was still taped to the podium. Morrell closed and locked the door behind them.

“Agent Harvath,” began Tom Ellis, “I know you’re not much for playing by the rules—”

“What I’m not much for, Tom, is bullshit,” replied Scot.

“Neither am I, so on that front we should get along fine. Now, in my capacity here in Cairo as—”

“CIA chief of station?”

“Yes, that is my capacity. I hope you understand that as Meg Cassidy is a civilian, presenting myself to her as chief Cairo station officer could be uncomfortable.”

“And having the U.S. Embassy send over their ‘chief consular affairs officer’ to debrief her on a hijacking is supposed to somehow put her more at ease? You guys crack me up. You live in your own little world, you know that? We have one sharp lady in there, and I bet she saw right through you.”

“Well, whatever the case may be, I’m sure any doubts she had about my capacity with the U.S. government were answered by your referring to yourself as the ‘tooth fairy,’ so we can set that one aside.”

“Fine with me,” said Harvath. “I just want to get to the bottom of this.”

“Good. To do that, though, we need to enlist the help of Ms. Cassidy. She’s the only one who can positively ID Hashim Nidal, so instead of encouraging her to put everything behind her, like you were doing back in her room, we need to encourage her to work with us. It’s the only way we’ll be able to nail him,” said Ellis.

“I don’t understand what the problem is here.”

Ellis was exhausted. He had been going full throttle since the hijacking had started and was desperately in need of sleep. He leaned wearily against the edge of the podium and said, “We lost him.”

“I figured as much. How?”

“Well, there’s no question that Meg Cassidy saw his face. He had taken her up into the bubble of the plane and was going to rape her and God knows what else. She put up a struggle and was apparently assisted by one of Mayor Fellinger’s bodyguards, who had been tied up in one of the upper-deck lavatories, but managed to get out. He was killed as he plowed into the guy with his hands still cuffed behind his back.

“Cassidy used the distraction to get away from Nidal and grab his weapon. He slashed at her with his knife, nicking her ankle, and she shot him in the head. She then capped a couple of the hijackers, gathered their weapons, and made her way downstairs, where she capped a few more and got up to the first-class section with Mayor Fellinger and Bob Lawrence. She told us that there had been explosions and gunfire, but it all happened so fast, she can’t put together a comprehensive timeline.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Harvath, a degree of awe creeping into his voice. “What amazes me is that she was able to pull the whole thing off by herself. But where does losing Nidal come into play here?”

“Like I said, she swears she shot him in the head.”

“Where in the head? Between the eyes?”

“No, higher up.”

“How does she know she hit him?”

“She says he went down. She thought she saw blood too.”

“A description such as that, does not a confirmed kill make,” replied Scot.

“Unfortunately, we agree, so we photographed all of the faces of the dead hijackers from the takedown. We also videotaped all of the passengers and crew who were being held in the containment area for the interviews.”

“And?” asked Harvath.

“And nothing. Not one of them rang a bell with her. She remembers Nidal, all right, says she could never forget his face. We worked with her via an encrypted laptop with a sketch artist back at Langley and came up with the composite we showed during the press conference.”

“By the way, what was that all about?”

“We’re convinced he escaped somehow with one of his lieutenants, who was probably assisting him.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Harvath.

“Cassidy has said, and other passengers have confirmed, that there were two hijackers dressed in black jumpsuits, who kept their faces covered the entire time—except for in the bubble when Cassidy saw Hashim’s face.”

“And who was this other masked hijacker?”

“We believe it was a very high ranking member of the organization. I only use the word
lieutenant
as a figure of speech. We don’t know who he was.”

“But why were they wearing masks and not the other hijackers?”

“I think they realized they had more to lose.”

“Yeah, but how do you get a bunch of other people to participate in a hijacking after you’ve told them ‘Hey, by the way, we’re going to be wearing masks to protect our identities, but none of you guys can’?”