Path of the Assassin (19 page)

The CTC had been established in 1986 by then-CIA-director William Casey. The idea was to bring together the Agency’s four directorates to address terrorism and to coordinate the Agency’s efforts with other law enforcement agencies. The CTC monitored the whereabouts of known terrorists around-the-world, twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. Agents from the FBI, Department of Defense, the National Security Agency, and elsewhere were also stationed at the CTC. It was a warren of intelligence officers, psychiatrists, explosives experts, hostage negotiators, cultural, religious, and language experts—all of whom aided in the gathering and analyzing of intelligence and the running of covert operations both at home and abroad.

The center, though widely criticized for some of its dramatic misses, had had several significant hits. The CTC was responsible for linking the 1988 bombing of Pan Am flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, with Abu Nidal and several Libyan agents, for uncovering Saddam Hussein’s plot in 1993 to assassinate former president George Bush, and had continued to be extremely instrumental in assisting both domestic and foreign intelligence agencies in the arrests of countless terrorist operatives.

Harvath was shown to a small, perfectly soundproofed conference room off “IRA Avenue.” Inside, Frank Mraz and two other operatives were already waiting for him. The driver spoke quietly to Mraz as Harvath took a seat. An attractive young woman entered and placed a tray with two carafes of coffee, mugs, cream, and sugar down on the table. Once she and the driver had exited, Mraz called the meeting to order.

“Okay, Agent Harvath” he began, “let’s start from when you arrived on the ground in Cairo.”

“As long as this is going to be for the record,” replied Harvath, clearly and deliberately so that the operative who was transcribing the session, in addition to tape-recording it, could get everything right, “let’s start with when I received Rick Morrell’s less-than-adequate notice that we were going to Cairo in the first place.”

Mraz nodded his head, and so it went for the next several hours until they broke for lunch. Harvath detailed his account of what had happened up to, during, and after the takedown of the hijacked airliner. He pulled no punches and presented a critical assessment of Morrell’s handling of the operation and its subsequent fallout. Though it was obvious that he didn’t personally care for the man, Harvath kept his remarks about Rick Morrell strictly professional.

When it was time for lunch, copies of the day’s menu were passed around the table, and Mraz placed their order over one of the conference room telephones. The men were given a brief chance to stretch their legs and use the rest rooms while they waited for the food to be delivered. The operative transcribing the session escorted Harvath to and from the men’s room. At first, Harvath believed it was because Mraz had ordered him to keep an eye on him, but it soon became apparent that the guy just wanted to hear more.

“We really don’t get a lot of opportunities to meet people engaged in actual takedowns,” said the man. “I’m honestly impressed with what you did.”

Not another one,
thought Harvath to himself. If he kept bumping into half-decent CIA guys, he was going to have to rethink his opinion of the entire agency.

Once they had all finished lunch, the Q-and-A session continued, and Harvath was every bit as blunt as in the beginning. Mraz asked a lengthy set of questions about why Harvath did not seek out Morrell’s direction after the hospital bombing and why he didn’t return with Meg Cassidy to the U.S. Embassy in Cairo. He wanted to know about everything Harvath and Meg had discussed from the moment he helped her escape from the hospital to the moment the two of them parted at Chicago’s Meigs Field. Mraz then ordered dinner and had a series of questions about Harvath’s assignment in Hong Kong and how the assassin he had seen in Macau fit in with what he had seen and heard in Bern, Jerusalem, and Cairo.

It was well past ten o’clock in the evening by the time Mraz finally called the debriefing to a close, but not without informing Harvath that he might elect to bring him back at some point in the future for further questions if he saw fit. As long as it was at some point in the future, Harvath didn’t care. Right now, he was sick of answering questions. All he wanted to do was get home, have a beer, and hit the sack. Though he had had one night of semi-decent sleep, he was still on edge. After an intense operation, it often took a few days before he completely calmed down.

As they filed out of the room, Mraz reminded Harvath to keep his CIA-issued pager with him in case Morrell wanted to get ahold of him. Harvath knew that the beeper only served to keep up the pretense that Morrell and the CIA’s Directorate of Operations were cooperating with him, but he had made this point very clear in his debriefing and didn’t see the need to beat a dead horse. Besides, he was too tired.

Out in the hallway, Harvath was stopped by the operative who had been doing the transcribing. “On behalf of the CTC, I want you to have this,” said the man as he handed Harvath one of the center’s highly coveted lapel pins. It bore the image of a ski-masked terrorist angrily waving a rifle with a red line crossed through him. “It’s none of my business, but there are obviously some people within the Agency you don’t exactly care for. We’re an organization like any other, and it takes all kinds to make it work. I’m not trying to make excuses for anybody. As a matter of fact, from what I heard in there, we’re fortunate to have you working with us. Just remember that we’re all on the same side and all want the same thing. Some of us just have a different way of going about it.”

“That’s precisely what has been worrying me about this whole operation,” said Harvath as he shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his gift.

The following afternoon, Harvath arrived early at the White House for his meeting with the president and the director of the Secret Service. He wanted to reacquaint himself with the lay of the land. As he moved from office to office, there was no shortage of staffers and fellow Secret Service agents who were happy to see him. Harvath had always been well respected and popular around the White House, but after he had saved the lives of both President Rutledge and his daughter, Amanda, his reputation had taken on mythic proportions. Though he had made brief visits to the White House since the kidnapping ordeal, he had been largely unaccounted for as he continued his search for those involved. All but an enlightened few were under the impression that he had been on an extended leave of absence due to the injuries he had suffered rescuing the president. Harvath did nothing to dissuade his friends and coworkers from that opinion.

In the duty room, Harvath found the three people he was looking for. Sitting around one of the square Formica tables drinking coffee and enjoying their break were Agents Kate Palmer, Chris Longo, and Tom Hollenbeck. All three had been on active duty with Harvath when the president’s kidnapping had taken place and had been equally involved in the frantic search and rescue efforts for their fellow agents and the civilians trapped beneath the avalanche triggered by the kidnappers.

Hollenbeck was the first to see Harvath standing in the doorway. “Whoa!” he roared. “Would ya look at what the cat dragged in.” Both Palmer and Longo turned to see whom Hollenbeck was talking about.

Harvath walked up to the table and set down the biggest box of chocolates any of them had ever seen. “Good afternoon, lady and…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is
gentlemen,”
said Longo after Harvath’s pregnant pause.

“No. The word I am looking for is definitely not
gentlemen,”
he said as he put an affectionate hand on Kate Palmer’s shoulder. “Palmer, I brought these back from Switzerland for you. I remember what happened when you came back from Europe one time and left some chocolate in here.”

“Yeah, all of you pigs ate it,” said Palmer.

“Not me,” said Longo, who had already opened the box and was choosing his favorite pieces. “I hate chocolate.”

“What did I tell you, Scot? Never trust anyone who says they don’t like chocolate,” replied Palmer as she yanked the box away from Longo before he could remove any more pieces.

“You were all very helpful to me during the situation, and I thought the least I could do was bring something back for you from overseas.” “Situation” was how the staff around the White House quietly referred to President Rutledge’s kidnapping.

“Hey, you brought the president back safely and that’s the best thing any of us could have asked for,” said Hollenbeck.

“Though chocolate runs a close second,” offered Palmer as she began sorting through the box.

“Speaking of seconds,” continued Hollenbeck, who had been named interim director of White House Secret Service Operations. “When are you coming back to work? I’m starting to get tired of keeping your seat warm for you.”

“Don’t listen to him,” said Longo. “You could stay away for another six months and it wouldn’t bother him a bit. I think the power has gone right to his head.”

“There’s nothing worse than people who only feel bitterness and jealousy as their betters zip past them on the ladder of success,” replied Hollenbeck.

“See what I mean?” responded Longo. “And you know what? On top of it all, he’s become quite arrogant.”

“
Arrogant?
Me? Palmer, you’ve got to come to my defense here. Tell Harvath I am the same old Tom Hollenbeck you’ve always known and loved.”

“Well,” she began slowly, “
loved
is a pretty strong word.”

“Okay then,
known,”
he replied.

“Jeez, Tom—wait I’m sorry—Jeez,
Mr. Interim Director
—that is the way you told us all to address you, isn’t it?” she joked.

“I can’t believe this,” cried Hollenbeck. “Every time I turn around, another knife in the back!”

“Well, I’m glad nothing’s changed around here,” said Harvath as he joined his friends at their table.

They made small talk until it was time for Harvath’s meeting. When he got up to leave, Palmer asked, “So, what’s the deal? When are you coming back to work?”

He was as honest with her as he could be and said, “Right now, I don’t know.”

They all shook hands and wished each other well as Harvath left to make his way to the situation room downstairs. It wasn’t unusual for President Rutledge to conduct his more sensitive meetings in this room. It was one of the few places in the entire building where he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed unless there was a dire emergency or matter of grave national consequence.

Though both of the Marines standing guard outside the situation room knew him, they still closely examined the credentials hanging from around Harvath’s neck. Even a facility as secure as the White House had decided that it could use a few improvements. Nothing was left to chance, and things were done strictly by the book. After waiting a few moments outside, Harvath was told he could enter. He heard a click and then the faint hiss of the situation room’s seal and door lock being released.

The first person to stand and greet him was President Jack Rutledge himself. “Scot, it’s good to see you,” said the president as he offered him his hand, which Harvath shook carefully. He was happy to see the president using it again. The kidnappers had cut off one of his fingers and sent it to the former vice president as a threat.

“It is good to see you too, Mr. President,” replied Harvath. “How is the hand?”

“So far so good. We’ll see how I do when pheasant season rolls around. That’ll be the real test.”

“You outshot so many of us last year, Mr. President, we were hoping you might take up a different sport. It’s embarrassing for a lot of the agents that you can shoot better than they can.”

“You weren’t embarrassed, though, were you, Scot?”

“No, sir.”

“And why was that?”

“Because I brought down three more birds than you did.”

“Ah, ah. Let’s tell the truth here. You only brought down two more than me. The third one,
supposedly
went down somewhere in the woods. As it was never found, you couldn’t rightfully count it, could you?”

“No, Mr. President. I couldn’t. But I know I hit that bird. If I’d only had a better dog—”

“Stop right there, Agent Harvath. I spent a lot of money and a lot of time training those dogs, and I won’t have you disparage my fine pedigreed animals.”

“Fine pedigreed animals? No offense, Mr. President, but Crackle is so lazy, he won’t even chase cars. He just sits on the South Lawn and jots down license plate numbers.”

The other attendees gathered in the situation room began laughing. It was a brief but welcome respite. They hadn’t had anything to laugh about in a while. Harvath had gotten the last word and the president knew it. He slapped him on the back and showed Harvath to his seat. “I believe you know the rest of the gentlemen present,” said the president as he motioned around the table. Indeed he did.

Harvath nodded in turn to FBI director Sorce, CIA director Vaile, Homeland Security director Dreihaus, Secret Service director Jameson, and deputy FBI director Gary Lawlor. Harvath had been expecting to meet with just the president and Director Jameson to discuss his new White House position. With all of the additional people present, he had a feeling he was here to discuss something entirely different. Part of him wondered if he was going to be taken to task for spiriting Meg Cassidy out of Egypt, but he knew he had done the right thing and decided not to stress about it. Harvath knew President Rutledge didn’t like to waste time and would get to the point soon enough.

“First of all,” began the president, “I want to commend Agent Harvath for what, in my opinion, was a job extremely well done. I’ve read the after-action reports of both the Delta and SAS commanders and think you prevented a very bad situation from getting worse. It’s precisely this ability to assess and appropriately react to hostile situations that has made you such an asset to the Secret Service and the White House.”

Harvath was uncomfortable with such fulsome praise, especially when bestowed by the president in front of so many other people, but he accepted it humbly. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Now, moving forward,” continued the president. “I will be convening a meeting this evening of the National Security Council to discuss the escalating tensions in the Mideast and tightening the net around Hashim Nidal by applying direct pressure to anyone who is known to be harboring or assisting him, or any other members of his organization. I don’t want to talk right now about how this hijacking happened. I plan to take that issue up later. What I do want to talk about is how we’re going to get Nidal back in the crosshairs before he pushes the Middle East into all-out war. With that said, I’m all ears.”

CIA director Vaile cleared his throat and waited for the president to nod in his direction before he spoke. “Mr. President, as you are aware, it was the CIA who gave birth to Operation Phantom and who initiated the hunt for—”

“Director Vaile, the clock is ticking. Don’t waste my time telling me things I already know. How are we going to stop Hashim Nidal before he strikes again?” commanded the president.

Vaile’s nuts were in a vise. Not only had his agency been behind the curve in discovering the existence of Hashim Nidal, but they had let him slip through their grasp in Cairo. If Vaile wasn’t very careful, the vise would begin to tighten real quick.

“Pinpointing the whereabouts of Nidal and his base of operations so we can take them out is the highest priority of all our agents right now, both at Langley and in the field.”

“Which brings us to Ms. Meg Cassidy, correct?” asked the president.

Upon hearing her name, Harvath leaned into the table.

“Exactly, Mr. President,” continued Vaile. “As she is the only known person outside of his organization to have ever seen him and survived, she is of the utmost importance to the success of Operation Phantom.”

“So what’s the problem?” asked the president.

“Yesterday, we sent operatives to Chicago to conduct a follow-up with her—”

“And?”

“Well, as I explained to you previously, Mr. President, Ms. Cassidy is reluctant to cooperate.”

“Do you suppose
The Washington Post
piece had anything to do with it?” asked Harvath.

“Agent Harvath,” said Vaile as he turned in his chair to face him, “
The Washington Post
article is part of a calculated effort to discredit Hashim Nidal on the world stage and thereby—”

“Destabilize his organization, which will hopefully slow him down long enough for us to nail him. I know you thought all of this out very well, but did you ever think about what Meg Cassidy wants? Have you asked her if she wants to be front and center in your PR blitz?”

The president discreetly signaled for Harvath to back off and Scot immediately fell silent. Director Vaile, though, continued with his justification, “Frankly, being a high-profile PR person, we didn’t figure Ms. Cassidy for someone who shied away from media exposure, of any kind. What’s more, it isn’t as if we, or she, have any choice in the matter. Our psychological operations people are convinced that the PR angle will help and that it needs to remain an adjunct of any ongoing strategy we pursue.”

“I am sure your people are doing the absolute best they can,” said the president as he steered the conversation away from Meg Cassidy and toward other pressing elements of the operation. “Let’s talk about a timetable and what assets you need called into play.”

When the President concluded the meeting, he thanked the participants for coming and asked FBI deputy director Lawlor and Agent Harvath to remain behind.

Once the other members had left the room and the door sealed shut behind them, the president spoke once again. “I hope you both know me well enough to know that I am not a fan of back-biting or infighting. I don’t approve of it in my party, and I don’t approve of it within our intelligence community. That being said, what I am most concerned about here is results. This doesn’t leave this room, Agent Harvath, but I’m not as impressed with Director Vaile’s operations as I might lead him to think.

“The world has become a much more dangerous place over the last several weeks. The Hand of God attacks have pushed the entire Mideast region to the brink of war. This morning I was briefed by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs who presented me with a stack of satellite photos showing that Iran, Syria, and Egypt have realigned troops and equipment on their borders indicating a potential attack on Israel.

“It’s like a puddle of gasoline and everyone is dancing around with lit matches—including the Israelis. What worries me the most is that Hashim Nidal’s organization has made it clear they intend to drop the first match. That’s all it would take at this point to set things off, and we have no idea where he is or what he is planning.

“If the CIA wasn’t so deep into this investigation already with so many assets in place, I would seriously think about putting you in more of a leadership position. As it stands now, though, this is going to have to remain the CIA’s show, so I am going to ask you to try to cooperate with your fellow operatives.” The president could see Harvath was about to speak up and raised his hand again to stop him. “As I said, I read both after-action reports. I don’t take issue with anything you did. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t change a thing, but I do want you to start respecting their chain of command. You can walk softly and still carry a big stick, just lighten up from using it on CIA personnel all the time. Okay?”

“Yes, Mr. President. I understand,” replied Harvath.

“Good. Now, I want to tell you why I stopped you from going after DCI Vaile on the Meg Cassidy issue. In a nutshell, we need Meg Cassidy’s help.”

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” said Harvath.

“The problem,” answered the president, “is that Meg Cassidy doesn’t want to cooperate with us.”