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After parting with Kalachka, Harvath had needed only one phone call to the Cyprus office of DEA agent Nick Kampos to get his answer. When his cab dropped him later that night at an outdoor taverna near the port of Kyrenia, Kampos was already sitting at a table by the water.

“Classy,” said Harvath as he pulled out the plastic chair opposite the man and sat down. The squat wooden table was covered with a redand-white-checkered tablecloth, complete with paper napkins, dirty flatware, and a chipped hurricane lamp. “If I didn’t know you better, Nick, I’d swear you were just trying to impress me.”

“Are you kidding me?” said the DEA agent as he swept his arm toward the harbor and its brightly colored fishing boats. “Look at this view.”

“It’s terrific,” replied Harvath as he leaned over and shoved a stack of napkins under one of his chair legs to even it out.

“If I really cared about impressing you, we would have eaten at one of the fancy joints up the road. It would have cost twice as much, but the food wouldn’t have been half as good.”

“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” said Harvath as a waiter arrived with an ice bucket and a bottle of white wine.

“I took the liberty of ordering us something to drink.”

“I can see that.”

“You’re not going to give me any macho bullshit about only being a beer drinker, are you?” asked Kampos.

Harvath laughed and shook his head. It was funny to hear Nick pimping him about being macho. The man was a six-foot-four solid wall of muscle with gray hair, a thick mustache, and a craggy face weathered with a permanent tan from a lifetime spent out-of-doors. Divorced, with two daughters in college back in the States, Kampos liked to joke that it was the women in his life who had grayed his hair, but Harvath knew better. Nick and his ex were still on good terms, and he adored his daughters more than anything else in the world. He put up a pretty tough front, but underneath it all, the guy was a complete teddy bear.

“Good,” replied the DEA agent as he politely waved the waiter away and poured full glasses for both of them. “Local stuff. A little rough at first, but you get used to it. Cheers.”

Harvath regretted not chickening out and ordering a beer the minute the wine hit his taste buds. “Smooth, “He said between coughing fits.

“You’re getting weak, sister. Too much time in DC and not enough in the field.”

“I’m never out of the field, it seems,” replied Harvath as he took another swig and this time managed to get it down without registering how bad it tasted.

“There you go. That’s the Scot Harvath I know and love,” said Kampos with a wide grin. “After this, we’ll move you onto the hard stuff.”

“Bring it on,” Harvath stated with a smile.

Kampos discreetly belted out the army yell, “Hooyah!” and took another long swallow of local vintage.

Scot couldn’t help liking the guy. In fact, when he thought about it, the DEA was one of the only agencies he’d ever worked with where he’d actually liked every single person he’d come in contact with. Though they shared many of the same facilities as the FBI training academy at Quantico, the two cultures couldn’t have been more different. While the FBI focused on hiring lawyers and accountants, most DEA agents were ex-cops, or ex-military like Kampos. What’s more, they were the best close-range shooters in the business. In fact, the DEA was so good at close-quarters battle, or CQB as it was more commonly known, that they trained all of the president’s Marine One helicopter flight crews.

When Harvath transferred from the SEALs to White House Secret Service operations, he’d been so impressed with the HMX-1 Nighthawks’ level of CQB proficiency that he had asked if he could train with them in his off time. Shooting, after all, was a perishable skill, and any law enforcement officer who carried a gun was always encouraged to log as much range time as he could-especially in his off time. The bottom line was that the more you fired your weapon, the better shooter you became, and that was certainly true in Harvath’s case, especially while Nick Kampos was his instructor.

Harvath had learned a lot about the DEA, both on and off the range. What struck him the most was their dedication not just to their jobs but to each other. One of the guys told him a story about how they had turned a founder member of one of Colombia’s largest drug cartels and while they had him in a hotel awaiting a trial he was set to testify at, he regaled his two DEA protective agents with stories of what his immense wealth had been able to buy-local cops, state cops, judges, politicians, but never a single DEA agent.

Though they had boots on the ground in fifty-eight countries around the world, including those of Kampos, who had put in for the Cyprus position just before Harvath left the White House, for some reason, the powers that be in Washington had never invited the Drug Enforcement Administration to sit at the big kids’ table when it came to sharing intelligence. This oddity had its pros and its cons, but for the most part, the DEA agents Harvath knew were okay with it. It meant they weren’t bound by a lot of the same rules, requirements, and restrictions as other federal agencies. It also meant, at least for right now, that Harvath had someone he could reach out to for help and be one hundred percent certain that it wouldn’t get back to Senator Helen Remington Carmichael.

“If you don’t mind my saying so,” said Kampos as he put a little float atop each of their glasses, “you look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot,” replied Harvath.

“If the job’s gotten too much for you, maybe you ought to think about getting out.”

“What are you, a career counselor now?”

“Nope. I’m just a Wal-Mart greeter currently employed by the DEA.”

“Get serious,” said Harvath.

“I am being serious. If things ever get to the point where I don’t want to do the job anymore, I’m going to be the best damn greeter Wal-Mart has ever seen. But you didn’t come all this way to talk about my employment prospects. Why don’t we talk about why you’re really here.”

“I’m visiting an old friend.”

“Let me guess,” said Kampos. “A big fat guy who walks with a very pronounced limp.”

“Hey, go easy on the limp,” responded Harvath. “That’s some of my best work.”

“What could you possibly want with him?”

Harvath tore off a piece of bread and dragged it through one of the dips the waiter had brought out. “He’s got some info related to a case I’m working on.”

“The case you can’t talk to me about.”

“Right.”

“The one where you have to ask me to do your scut work for you because apparently you can’t go to anyone in DC.”

“Right again.”

Kampos looked at his old friend and said, “Scot, what are you into?”

“Nothing illegal, I can promise you that.”

“Can you? I haven’t talked to you in at least a year, and all of a sudden you pop up out of nowhere, balls-to-the-wall cloak and dagger, and ask me to run names for you on the QT because you’re persona non grata back home? What would you think if you were in my shoes?”

“I’d think I must be pretty special for Scot Harvath to come to me for help.”

“Bullshit. You’d have just as many questions, if not more than I do,” replied Kampos. “What the hell is going on? And don’t give me any I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you secret agent crap either. The reason the DEA is able to work in so many countries around the world is because we don’t do any spy shit. We only work in the drug world.”

“I know, and I’m not asking you to do any spy stuff.”

“You asked me to compile two dossiers for you. That’s a pretty big favor. Granted it wasn’t like sneaking microfilm across the border, but we’re getting into semantics here. Why did you come to me instead of going to somebody at your own agency?”

Harvath had a tough decision to make. Sure, Kampos liked him, but the man probably liked his career and his pension a hell of a lot more. Kampos wasn’t about to stick his neck out for Harvath without having a good reason. If Harvath was asking the man to trust him, he was going to have to do the same thing in return. His gut told him the DEA agent could keep his secret, and Harvath always went with his gut. “Have you seen the al-Jazeera footage they’ve been running from Baghdad?”

“Where that GI is beating the camel humps off that poor fruit stall vendor?”

“There was nothing poor about him, but yeah, that’s the footage I’m talking about,” said Harvath.

“What a fucking mess. You know they’re going to fry that GI once they figure out who he is.”

“Right after they use a very big axe to chop off his wee-wee.”

“Hold on a sec,” said Kampos. “Are you telling me that-”

Harvath put on the best grin he could muster considering the subject matter and said, “Yup. Yours truly.”

“Turn around.”

“What do you mean, turn around?”

“I’ve seen that video about a thousand times already. That GI had one badly shaped head. I want to see the back of your head to see if it matches up.”

“Fuck you,” replied Harvath.

Kampos checked him out from across the table. “I can tell from here. It’s you. Jesus, what a head. How many times did your momma drop you on it?”

“Fuck you,” repeated Harvath.

“What’d she do? Use Crisco instead of baby lotion?” said Kampos as he pretended to have a baby that kept shooting out of his arms. “Whoops, there he goes again.”

Harvath held up his middle finger and went back to his food.

“Only you couldn’t have waited until the camera was off.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t help myself. Very funny, Nick.”

Kampos tried to put on a straight face. “No, you’re right. This is serious. Just let me ask you one thing.”

“What?”

“You were cussing that guy out pretty good while you were zip-tying him, right?”

“So?”

“So, technically I think that counts as a speaking role. You’ve arrived, son. You must be eligible for a Screen Actors Guild card now.”

“And I’m the wiseass. Listen, I told you this because I thought I could trust you to keep quiet about it. It’s for your ears only.”

“And I promise you it will go no further,” replied Kampos, who took a moment before continuing. “I’m not the only one who knows you’re the guy in that footage, am I?

“No, you’re not, and that’s why I’m having trouble at the office.”

“Is it the president?”

“No. It’s somebody who’s trying to get to him by burning me.”

“And they’re going to do it by going public with your identity?”

“I sure as hell hope not, but don’t be surprised if I end up joining you as a Wal-Mart greeter.”

“Junior greeter,” said Kampos. “I don’t share top billing with anybody, not even big TV stars like you.”

“Fine, junior greeter,” replied Harvath. “Now, are you going to help me out or not?”

Kampos reached down into the briefcase next to his chair, removed a thin manila envelope, and slid it across the table to his colleague. “That’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

Harvath removed the documents from the envelope as Kampos continued to speak. “After that Rayburn character got the boot from the Secret Service, the trail on him goes so cold it’s sub-Arctic. It’s like he just vanished. No tax returns, no passport renewal, no credit card activity, no hits on his social security number-nothing.”

“What about the other name I gave you? The one for the woman.”

“That one I had a little more luck with. Jillian Alcott. Age twenty-seven. Born in Cornwall, England. Attended Cambridge University and graduated with her undergraduate degree in biology and organic chemistry. Went on to attend the University of Durham, where she secured a graduate degree in molecular biology, followed by a PhD in paleopathology.”

“What the hell is paleopathology?” asked Harvath.

“Beats me,” replied Kampos, “but whatever it is, it apparently qualifies her for her current position, which is teaching chemistry at a very exclusive private high school in London called Abbey College. I never did understand the Brits. They call high-school college and college university. Anyway, it’s all there in the file. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can dig up anything else on Rayburn for you.”

“Thanks, Nick. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t appreciate it. Just get whatever’s screwed up straight and come out on the right side of it.”

Harvath’s attention drifted toward the water, and Kampos seemed to be able to read his mind. “You’re going to London, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Harvath.

“Well, if you need anything else, let me know.”

“Actually, there is,” said Harvath as he opened his wallet and counted several bills onto the table to pay for their dinner. “I need a ride to the airport and a gun.”

NIKOS TAVERNA

PLAKA DISTRICT

ATHENS

Khalid Alomari tried to keep his anger under control as he flipped his cell phone closed and tossed it onto the wooden table in front of him. As the noise of motorbikes whizzing past mingled with the sounds of shopkeepers hawking their wares to the tourists who crowded the dusty sidewalks, Alomari wondered once again why none of his contacts was producing. Secrets didn’t keep long in a country like Bangladesh, but for some reason this one was eluding him. As he tried to piece together what had happened, he thought seriously about having one or two of his lowlife associates there killed to help motivate the others.

None of it made any sense. Men like Emir Tokay didn’t simply vanish. They didn’t have the aptitude. Tokay was a scientist, after all, not a trained intelligence operative. There had to be a way to find him, thought Alomari. The assassin had gotten to all the other scientists on the list and didn’t like coming up one short. His situation was made even more difficult by the fact that there was very little time left.

The last time he had spoken with his employer, who was known to him only as Akrep, or the Scorpion, the man had been enraged. He had chastised the assassin for moving too slowly with the kills and somehow knew, as he always seemed to know everything, that the last scientist had disappeared. Once more, Alomari questioned the benefit of ever having gotten involved with such a man.

True, Alomari specialized in killing for hire, but his targets had always been the obvious enemies of Islam. The only comfort he took in this assignment was that the Scorpion himself was a true believer and had pledged his life in service of the faith.

His faith notwithstanding, the Scorpion was known for being absolutely ruthless. Even bin Laden, a man not frightened by anyone, was said to conduct himself toward the Scorpion with an amazing degree of respect and admiration. It was even hinted that al-Qaeda had been the Scorpion’s idea, hatched in the mountains of Afghanistan with bin Laden during the great holy war against the Soviets.

In the end, Alomari held no illusions about why he had taken the assignment-he needed the money; or more importantly, al-Qaeda needed the money. With bin Laden cut off from a significant portion of his funds and forced into hiding along the Pakistan-Afghan border, the al-Qaeda organization was starved for cash. While the cell in Madrid might have sold drugs to keep themselves afloat and finance their spectacular train bombings, there were plenty of other good Muslim members of the organization who would not stoop to such a thing, and Alomari was one of them. He had had no choice but to take the Scorpion’s assignment.

It had been months since he had last been able to make contact with his mentor. Bin Laden was constantly on the move, and he expected his followers to be able to think on their own and make their own decisions. He couldn’t be expected to hold their hands like children. Throughout the grueling assignment, Alomari had tried to remind himself to be thankful. The Scorpion could have selected any number of other assassins to do this job. Alomari knew that bin Laden had played some part in recommending him, and that only made him feel doubly guilty for having failed. At first, it had seemed as if Allah himself was smiling down upon him by handing him this assignment. But he had no idea why Allah would want to halt his progress when he was so close to closing out his list and collecting his much-needed money.

The Scorpion was someone Alomari had never met face-to-face. They had only spoken by telephone. Any actual face-to-face contact was always through his second, a man named Gökhan Celik. As Alomari watched Celik enter the taverna and make his way toward the table, he slid his hand along the outside of his sport coat, just to reassure himself that the ultra-compact Taurus PT-111 pistol was still there. He cared little for whatever relationship existed between bin Laden and the Scorpion; he was taking no chances, not even with this wiry shadow of a man who was the Scorpion’s second.

Gökhan Celik was seventy-five years old if he was a day, with a pair of narrow, dark eyes and a long pointed nose that floated above a set of terrible teeth. The man was devoid of any chin, and as a result, his face seemed to be only an extension of an otherwise twig-thin neck.

Despite his appearance, Alomari knew the man was brilliant. It was said that Celik had been the Scorpion’s counselor since he was a teen, and almost everything the Scorpion had learned, he had learned from Gökhan Celik. In other words, Celik was not a man to be underestimated either.

Dressed in a chic linen suit, Celik could have been any aging Greek businessman out for an early, run-of-the-mill business lunch with a colleague, except that Celik was no Greek and this was no run-of-the-mill luncheon. Celik had come to pink-slip one of the world’s deadliest assassins.

Ever affected by his mother’s cultured influence on his upbringing, Alomari asked his guest if he cared for something to eat or drink before they began.

Celik looked at him and replied, “Let’s not waste any more time, Khalid. You know why I’m here.”

“To discuss the remaining scientist.”

“No. That subject is no longer open for discussion. I’m here to dismiss you. You’re fired.”

“Fired?”

“Of course you can keep the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar deposit you were paid, but that’s all you are going to receive.”

“But that doesn’t begin to even cover my expenses.”

“Too bad. You knew the deal when you took it-all the items on the list were to be taken care of. You failed.”

Alomari had suspected that this was the reason Celik had demanded the meeting, but true to his Arab heritage, he haggled desperately for a few moments in an attempt to keep the assignment alive.

“The contract is canceled, and that’s final,” said Celik as he placed his gnarled hands on the table and rose from his chair. “I thought we owed it to you to tell you in person.”

That was the least they owed him, and if nothing else, it should have been the Scorpion himself sitting across from him, but Alomari let it slide. “I can still finish the assignment, “He said. “There’s still time.”

“No, there isn’t, and this has gone far beyond your capabilities.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? I mean that if you had acted faster, maybe you would have gotten to Tokay before he talked.”

“He talked? To whom?”

“That’s what we’re going to have to find out. Now, we not only need to locate and silence Tokay, but we also need to silence anyone else he may have talked to. But we’re going to do that without you. Consider yourself lucky that your ineptitude isn’t getting you silenced as well.”

Alomari was seething, and subconsciously his hand began to move for his pistol. When he realized what he was doing, he tried to calm himself. Not here. Not now. It must be someplace else, away from witnesses.

As Gökhan Celik left the taverna, the assassin came to the conclusion that the Scorpion had made a very grave error in underestimating him. For that, Gökhan Celik was going to lose his life. The key would be in making it look like an accident, but accidents were the al-Qaeda operative’s specialty.

An hour later, his anger only partially cooled, Khalid Alomari crossed the lobby of the most elegant hotel in Athens, the Grande Bretagne. He was disgusted not only with how the Scorpion conducted business but also with how he protected, or more appropriately didn’t protect, his people. Gökhan Celik was supposed to be the man’s most important lieutenant, but the Scorpion allowed him to stay, unguarded, in the same suite of the same hotel every time he came to Athens. The Scorpion’s reputation might frighten most of the people who knew him, but it didn’t frighten Khalid Alomari, especially when so much money was on the line.

“How dare you?” demanded Celik as Alomari forced his way into the suite and knocked the old man to the floor.

“I want to know everything you know about Emir Tokay and who he was talking to before he disappeared.”

“You’ve already been told that’s no longer any of your concern.”

“You should have paid me what you owe me, Gökhan.”

“What do we owe you? You failed. We owe you nothing.”

“It was a small price compared to what it’s going to cost you now.”

“What do you mean, what it’s going to cost us now?”

“We both know that Emir Tokay has knowledge you don’t want anyone else to have. I’m going to find him, and when I do, I’m going to sell him back to the Scorpion at ten times what you should have paid me,” replied the assassin as he slammed his foot down into the old man’s hip and heard the bone snap like dry kindling.

“You are a dead man!” howled Celik.

“Everyone must die,” replied Alomari, “but not all of us get to choose when. Answer my question and I will let you live. Who was Emir talking to before he disappeared?”

Celik spat at the pants leg of his attacker. “I will see you dead. Do you understand me? Do you know what Akrep will do to you?”

Alomari shook the spit from his trouser leg and said, “You have cheated me out of what is rightfully mine. Do you just expect me to slink away? I will give you one last chance to answer my question. What do you know about Tokay?”

Celik glared at the man in defiance.

“You should have known I wouldn’t give up, Gökhan. Things will only get worse from here. If you do not answer me, I will track down your daughter and your grandchildren, and they will be next. I am a man of my word. You know I will do it. Even if it takes me the next five years of my life, I will not stop until I have visited upon them deaths more horrible than any you can possibly imagine.”

Celik’s body was trembling.

“What will it be, Gökhan?”

“Akrep will know you did this.”

“I don’t think so,” said Alomari as he withdrew an empty hypodermic syringe from his sport coat pocket. “Embolisms are quite regrettable, but not uncommon in men of your age. Our friend the Scorpion may have his suspicions, but with the fall you took that broke your hip, I don’t think they will trouble him for too long.”

“You will be punished for this,” moaned Celik.

“As you will have Allah’s ear in Paradise before I do, I am certain you will do all you can to make that so. In the meantime, it is not too late for you to save your family.”

Celik didn’t need any further convincing to know the man was telling the truth. The assassin’s reputation was assurance enough.