Path of the Assassin (24 page)

Harvath and Meg scrubbed as if they were going into surgery and donned new paper caps, booties, and disposable paper gowns. They were also required to wear gloves and masks—the biggest risk being an infection transmitted via the respiratory system. Detective Gasteire sat outside their door holding Harvath’s SIG and other personal belongings.

At the sight of her good friend, Meg Cassidy began to cry. Because of her charred lungs, Judy was enclosed in a plastic oxygen tent and on a ventilator. The area where the flesh of her chest and arms had been burned away was covered in some places with a thick white salve and in others with wet-to-dry bandages soaked in a special saline solution. Morphine for pain and antibiotics to fight infection were intermingled with her IV fluid. Judy’s eyes were closed, and it was hard for Meg to tell if she was sleeping or not. Harvath, though, knew that the woman was on so much pain medication that she was in a state much deeper than sleep.

All Meg wanted to do was take her friend’s hand and tell her everything was going to be okay, but that was impossible. Nothing was allowed to breach the patient’s oxygen tent. Though they were only inches apart, the inability for them to physically connect made Meg feel as if a chasm hundreds of miles wide lay between them.

She pulled up a chair next to the bed and let the tears roll down her face. She had neither the strength nor the desire to wipe them away. Judy’s chest rose and fell to the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator.

This is all my fault,
Meg thought to herself.
All my fault.

She remembered Judy’s face floating before her during the hijacking. She remembered wanting to believe that Judy, who kept her crazy life in order and doted on her like a daughter, somehow was her guardian angel.
If it hadn’t been for her lousy coffee, I would be lying in that bed right now, or worse
.

Meg leaned in as close to the oxygen tent as she dared and whispered, “You really are my guardian angel. I love you so much, Judy. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

When Meg Cassidy stood up and crossed the room to leave, she locked eyes with Harvath who had been respectfully standing against the far wall. “I don’t care what I have to do, or where I have to go. That animal has to be stopped. I don’t want him harming another human being.”

Harvath waited before opening the door. “So you’re in?”

“You’re goddamn right I’m in. And you tell the president he can keep his reward money.”

“Giant Killer, Giant Killer. This is Stork One requesting clearance,” said the pilot of the luxuriously appointed Falcon 900 passenger jet. The air traffic control moniker was intimidating to say the least, but that was exactly its purpose.

The airspace over the CIA’s highly secretive training facility known as Harvey Point, or more simply the Point, was restricted. The Washington Sectional Chart, which every pilot flying in and around the area would have aboard, specifically stated that clearance to pass through Restricted Area R-5301 could only be obtained by contacting “GIANT KILLER” on the indicated frequency. Failure to do so would result in the scrambling of a contingent of the most-advanced tactical fighter aircraft in the world, Lockheed Martin F-22s, quietly stationed with the Fourth Fighter Wing at nearby Seymour Johnson Air Force Base.

Interestingly, there was no depiction at all of a Harvey Point runway on the sectional chart. This was highly unusual as far as sectional charts were concerned because military airfields were never omitted. Even the CIA’s airstrip at Camp Peary, Virginia, was clearly depicted and labeled.

Stork One was immediately cleared and given instructions on how to land.

The Point itself was just that—a stubby finger of land that curled out into the murky water where North Carolina’s Perquimans River met the Albemarle Sound. Thick-trunked cypress trees overgrown with heavy Spanish moss stood silent vigil over the sixteen hundred acres of poisonous-snake-infested swamp on which the CIA’s facility sat. Locals claimed that the area had once been ruled by Blackbeard the pirate, who had buried his treasure somewhere in the vicinity. It was all the locals could publicly claim, because it was the only thing they were really sure of.

Nine miles southwest of the sleepy town of Hertford, the road abruptly ended at a sign that read, “Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity.” Officially, it was known as a remote Pentagon post, but ever since its inception in 1961, just weeks after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, area residents believed it to be some sort of base for the CIA. Explosions from the Point could be heard and felt for miles around as windows shook and walls sometimes cracked. Strange-looking helicopters often swept in low from the skies overhead, while blacked out transports conveyed unknown passengers quickly through town in the middle of the night. All sorts of old cars, buses, SUVs, and limousines were seen entering on flatbed trucks, only to be carried out later either riddled with bullet holes or burnt to nothing more than charred hulks, or both. The locals had, indeed, pegged Harvey Point correctly, but they didn’t know the half of what went on there.

The Point was where the CIA’s hard-core paramilitary training took place. Personnel were schooled in explosives, paramilitary combat, and other clandestine and unconventional warfare techniques. While the “Farm” at Camp Peary was where CIA personnel earned their stripes and learned their tradecraft, the Point was where a chosen few received a Ph.D. in serious ass-kicking.

The personnel invited to the Point weren’t only limited to American CIA operatives. In the past fifteen years, the CIA had provided counterterrorism training to several American Special Operations groups, as well as foreign intelligence officers from more than fifty countries, including South Korea, Japan, France, Germany, Greece, and Israel.

As the Falcon 900 jet banked and came in over the water for its landing, Harvath watched Harvey Point’s runway magically materialize out of the dense cover of foliage. He knew it was only a trick of the landscape, but an uncomfortable feeling swept over him, nonetheless. Nothing was ever what it appeared to be with the CIA, and Harvath wasn’t looking forward to being a guest on their turf.

The plane touched down and taxied over to an aircraft parking revetment. When the copilot opened the Falcon’s door, the cabin immediately filled with the muggy, swampy air that Harvey Point was famous for. Harvath and Meg descended the metal stairway and found Rick Morrell on the tarmac waiting for them in front of a blacked-out Suburban.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Cassidy,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and we want you to know that your country appreciates your cooperation. I hope your flight was comfortable.”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Meg.

“Well, if you’ll follow me. We’ll get you settled in.” Morrell took Meg’s bags and loaded them into the back of the Suburban. He didn’t offer to help Harvath, nor did he even acknowledge his presence.

“What? No kiss? Not even a,
honey, I missed you?
I’m going to start thinking you don’t care,” said Harvath.

“I don’t,” responded Morrell as he helped Meg into the Suburban and closed the door behind her. “You’ve stepped on a lot of toes wiseguy. There are more than a few people at the Point who don’t like you, so as long as you’re on my playing field, you’ll keep your mouth shut and watch your act.”

“If that’s your idea of a warm welcome, it’s no wonder this resort has yet to rate five stars.”

Morrell climbed into the driver’s seat and expected Harvath to hop into the passenger seat next to him. Instead, Scot got in back and sat next to Meg, effectively reducing Morrell to chauffeur status. Morrell wanted to tell Harvath off right then and there, but he had been warned to be on his best behavior around Meg Cassidy.

For a while, it had looked as if they were not going to be able to bring her in, but somehow, Harvath had managed to swing it. That made Morrell dislike the Secret Service agent even more. Meg Cassidy was integral to the operation, that much was true, but Harvath was barely palatable baggage and would be treated as such.

They drove past a lodge, a gym, and a conference center before pulling up in front of a low-rise barracks-style building.

“Not exactly the most glamorous accommodations in the world, but I’m sure you’ll find it very comfortable,” said Morrell as he hopped out of the SUV and went around to open the door for Meg. After retrieving her bag, he led them up a short flight of stairs and into the main door of the building. “Meals are served at the lodge, but there’s also a fully stocked kitchen at the end of the hall here. There’s a lounge with a big-screen TV, but you also have a television in your room.

“Okay, here we are. Ms. Cassidy, this is your room, number eleven, and you’re over there,” he said to Harvath as he jerked his head at the door across the hall.

“Would you be so kind as to hold my calls? It’s been a long day.”

Morrell ignored Harvath and said, “You’ll find your training schedules on your desks, as well a listing of when meals are served at the lodge. The conference center runs movies every night as long as there are no classes using the building. On Friday afternoons we normally do a barbecue, weather permitting, and then there are pickup softball games on Sunday—”

“When do we get to roast marshmallows and tell ghost stories?” interrupted Harvath.

Meg was trying her hardest to be polite, but started to laugh. She didn’t feel like laughing, not after everything that had happened to her, but she couldn’t help it. It was cathartic and she let it come.

Morrell had a short fuse and was trying to keep his temper in check. “We host a lot of international guests here, and it is the Agency’s wish that we convey a healthy and appealing American image. They like to call it
hearts and minds;
I call it bullshit. We’re not here to play games, and you’d do well to remember that.”

“Duly noted. Anything else?” asked Harvath, glad that Meg was still smiling.

“Yes,” said Morrell as he fished two ID badges from his pocket. “These are to be worn at all times. If you’re caught without one, you’ll be detained, and it’ll be my responsibility to come and get you. I don’t want to have to come get you—
either
of you,” he stressed, staring at Harvath. “You are not to speak with anyone other than me and the rest of my team. We all have rooms in this building—”

“Which one’s yours?” asked Harvath.

“Not a chance,” said Morrell. “Ms. Cassidy, if you should need anything from me, there’s a phone in your room or you can use any of the facility phones and dial the operator. Wherever I am, I’ll be found and will return your call as soon as possible.”

“Got it. Thank you,” said Meg politely.

“I want to remind you both that this is a highly classified operation,” continued Morrell. “We’ve done our best to isolate you, but should you choose to do something like use the gym or see one of the films, you will most likely come across other trainees. If you do, you are not to provide your names, personal history, or any information about the operation you’re involved with. Is that clear?”

Harvath and Meg both nodded their heads.

“Good. Now, you were both relieved of your cell phones and the in-room phones do not dial off the facility. If you feel you need to make a call, you are to contact me. If I feel the call is warranted, I will make arrangements for you to place said call. Is that understood?”

Once again Scot and Meg both nodded their heads.

“It may seem like I’m being a bit excessive—”

“You? Excessive? Never,” said Harvath.

“—but this is for your safety, Ms. Cassidy, and the security of this installation.”

“I understand,” said Meg, trying to make up for the ground she saw Harvath losing with Morrell every time he opened his mouth.

“That seems to be it, then. Tomorrow’s going to be a very busy day, so I suggest you get something to eat and get a good night’s sleep. If there’s anything you want that we don’t already have in our kitchen here, just let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do you have any beer in there?” asked Harvath.

“We don’t allow alcohol on the Point,” replied Morrell as he opened Meg Cassidy’s door and placed her bag inside.

Bullshit,
was what Harvath wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut and slung his bag into his room and closed the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, Meg knocked.

“What’s up? You’re not homesick already, are you? It’s only the first night of camp,” said Harvath.

Meg tried to force a smile.

“Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and the CIA has you right where they want you,” said Scot.

“Doesn’t it bother you that they don’t seem to like you very much?”

“Who? Morrell and company? Are you kidding? They love me.”

“They sure seem to have a hard time showing it.”

“That’s okay. As long as you and I get along, that’s all I care about.”

“So far so good, I guess.”

Harvath could tell by the tone of her voice that she was still upset and was reaching out to him. While he couldn’t go back in time and change what happened, he could at least try to take her mind off of things. “You ‘guess’? I’ll have you know there are many out there that consider me excellent company.”

“Out where? At Harvey Point?”

“You might have to go a bit further afield than that, but my legions of fans do exist.”

Meg was quiet.

“What about dinner? Are you hungry?” asked Harvath.

“Not really.”

“Sure you are. We’ll eat in. The kitchen’s stocked, and I’ll even cook.”

“I think I’ll just turn in early.”

“Meg,” said Harvath as he took her hand in his, “it’s been an overwhelming past couple of days for you, I know, but we’re going to come through this with flying colors, I promise you.”

“You sound so sure.”

“I am. Listen, I understand what you’re feeling and I want you to remember something.” Meg was silent. Harvath gently lifted her chin with his other hand until she was looking him in the eyes. “You are not alone in this. I’m going to be right next to you every step of the way. No matter what happens, you’ll only have to look over and there I’ll be.”

“You promise?” asked Meg as she wiped away the beginnings of the tears she was so desperately trying to keep at bay.

“I promise.”

Finally, she couldn’t hold back anymore and the tears came on full force. Harvath wrapped his arms tightly around her and held Meg Cassidy as she cried.

She felt so good in his arms—her hair against his neck, the smell of her skin. Harvath knew he was in dangerous territory. Eventually, the tears stopped, but neither wanted to break the embrace. Finally, Meg stepped back and reached for the box of Kleenex on his desk. “Able to take out a plane full of hijackers, but cries at the drop of a hat. What a lethal combination, huh?” said Meg, drying her eyes and feeling slightly embarrassed.

“I think you’re just hungry,” answered Harvath, realizing their moment had passed, angry with himself for what he was feeling. “What about dinner?”

“I guess I could eat something.”

“That’s the right attitude. Let’s see what’s in the kitchen,” said Harvath as he swept his hand in front of him and indicated that Meg should lead the way.

While Harvath rummaged through the cabinets, Meg had the base operator track down Rick Morrell. She requested he check on the condition of her people still in the hospital back in Chicago. Five minutes later, Morrell called back. The news was good. Their conditions remained guarded, but improved, especially Judy’s. Meg was relieved to hear it. They were overdue for a piece of good news.

As she hung up the phone, Meg filled Scot in on what she had been told. She then resolved that no matter how long it took, no matter what she had to do, she wouldn’t rest until Hashim Nidal had been put out of business.

Harvath nodded his head in agreement and went back to preparing dinner. Meg Cassidy had turned the corner, and that was good, but she had no idea what still lay ahead of them.