Path of the Assassin (18 page)

Harvath had thought he would sleep all the way back to Chicago, but instead, spent most of the trip talking with Meg Cassidy. She was a fascinating woman—very driven, very outgoing, but underneath it all there was something else. There was a vulnerability that Scot could sense and which he was sure Meg shared with few people, if any at all. No, the image she portrayed and wanted everyone to see was the superachiever, a woman who had her act together and did anything she set her mind to.

For Meg’s part, she saw in Scot Harvath all of the things that most women immediately noticed in him. He was handsome, intelligent, and had a great sense of humor. Those were all excellent qualities in Meg’s book, but what she really liked about him was that he made her feel safe. From the moment he had placed the blankets around her on the hijacked plane and had helped her to the EgyptAir clubroom, she somehow believed that no one could harm her with this man around. It had been a long time since she had felt that way. No matter how many self-defense classes she took, no matter how near the gun on her nightstand, after her attack, she had never really felt safe again. Meg had learned that she could rely only on herself, but the weight of that responsibility never allowed anyone else to get close. Scot Harvath, though, made her think of changing.

When the plane landed at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport, security was tight, and the flight was met by a contingent of Chicago’s top cops. The area outside the security checkpoint was crowded with media. While Bob Lawrence and Mayor Fellinger stopped to make statements to the press, Scot and Meg quietly stole away with the rest of the crew.

Meg tried to convince Harvath to stay a few days in Chicago. Though he was tempted, both by his love for the town and his growing interest in Meg Cassidy, he knew he needed to get back to D.C. He couldn’t keep avoiding the president and the White House forever. Besides, Bob Lawrence had arranged for a private plane to fly him back to Washington.

Because the plane was going to be leaving from Meig’s Field, not far from where Meg lived downtown, Lawrence had also arranged for a limo to get both of them into the city. Scot and Meg decided that though they were wiped out, there still was enough time to grab a late lunch, and they had the driver swing them by Gino’s Pizzeria on Rush Street.

Scot liked Meg’s style. Here was this popular, powerful Chicago businesswoman who could have had a table at any restaurant in town and she wanted to go for pizza. Not just any pizza, mind you, but the best deep-dish pizza Chicago had to offer at one of Harvath’s favorite places in town.

Meg’s face still bore discernable marks where she had been struck by her attacker. Harvath wondered if she had chosen the dimly lit, graffiti-plagued restaurant out of a hope that nobody she knew would see her, but then he watched her order. She waved away the menus when the waiter approached. She didn’t need a menu because she already knew exactly what she wanted. With Scot’s permission, she ordered for both of them. Meg hadn’t suggested Gino’s so she could hide out. She actually liked eating there. If it weren’t for the fabulous shape she was in, Scot might have thought she was a regular.

To finish it all off, Meg asked the waiter to bring them two of the coldest Sam Adamses they had. Once the waiter had left the table, Meg said that it was a shame that Gino’s didn’t serve Moretti beer. She knew that deep-dish wasn’t exactly authentic Italian pizza, but she really liked the way a cold Moretti went with even quasi-Italian food. The fact that Meg liked Moretti’s, not to mention even knew what they were, raised Scot’s interest in her even further. Meg explained that in college she had spent her junior year studying in Rome. She loved everything Italian, except the drivers. It was the only country she had ever seen where people passed speeding ambulances because they thought they had more important places to be. Other than that, it was wonderful—the art, the history, the people, the food…

And on and on it went, the two of them falling into easy and boundless conversation, as if they had known each other for ages. Finally, Scot glanced at his watch and realized he had to get going.

Meg rode in the limo with him down outer Lake Shore Drive to Meig’s Field, where they lingered uncomfortably before shaking hands good-bye and Scot boarded the private jet. As the ground dropped away and the plane banked out over the sailboat-dotted waters of Lake Michigan, Harvath turned his thoughts away from Meg Cassidy and toward what the future held in store for him back in D.C.

By the time the jet touched down at Ronald Reagan International, Harvath knew he had to address his job situation with the Secret Service, and the sooner, the better.

He caught a cab for the short ride back to Alexandria and, after emptying the stack of junk mail from his mailbox, climbed the stairs to his apartment. He removed the hair from the upper-right corner of the doorframe, less confident in this security measure ever since Rick Morrell had slipped into his place undetected to drink his beer and short-sheet his bed. Because he hadn’t taken any bags with him to Cairo, there was nothing to unpack. So much the better. He was exhausted. He’d gone longer without sleep in the past, his Navy SEAL training had seen to that, but as adept as he was at operating on little to no shut-eye, he also knew that sleep was a weapon that sharpened the mind and fine-tuned the reflexes. Whatever the rationale, at this point Harvath didn’t care. He was just glad to be home. After leaving a message for Secret Service director Stan Jameson, who had already gone home for the evening, Scot was happy to get undressed and slide into his own bed for a night of well-earned sleep.

Harvath awoke early the next morning semirested and refreshed. He put on shorts, a T-shirt, and his Nikes. He was glad he got up when he did. The air outside was still cool and not overly humid.

He ran to a café he frequented in Old Town, ordered a house brew, and found a quiet table, upon which someone had left a copy of
The Washington Post
. He set his coffee down and turned the paper over. Front and center was a picture of Meg Cassidy with the headline, “The Woman Who Saved Flight 7755.” Scot sat down and began reading the article. The details were sketchy at best, but Meg was being credited with leading the passenger revolt that helped bring the hijacking to an end. There was no mention of Hashim Nidal and another hijacker escaping.

So, the cat was officially out of the bag. Meg was being heralded as an international hero. She had been extremely courageous and deserved the praise, but Harvath wondered if it was such a good idea to go public with her identity while Nidal was still at large. He tried to console himself with the thought that Hashim Nidal was half a world away and hunting down Meg Cassidy would not be worth his while. Or would it?

Now that Meg’s full name, occupation, and location were out in the open, she made a much easier target. Scot made a mental note to speak to Gary Lawlor about protection for her back in Chicago and then finished his coffee before heading back to his apartment.

When he got home, there were two messages on his voice mail. The first was from Director Jameson. The president would be returning to the White House tomorrow afternoon and wanted to see Harvath personally. A time had been set, and Jameson said he would be there as well. Harvath knew that the meeting would be about his new position as director of Secret Service Operations at the White House and how soon he would be expected to start. Ever since the former head of White House Sercret Service Ops, Bill Shaw, had been arrested for his involvement in the president’s kidnapping, an interim director had been minding the store until Harvath could move into the position and take over full-time.

The second message was from Frank Mraz, the deputy director of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations.
God, what a title,
thought Harvath as he reminded himself who Mraz was. The message was succinct and to the point. Mraz wanted to see Scot at Langley today for a debriefing on everything that had happened in Cairo. The Agency would send a car for him at nine o’clock. Business casual attire was fine and the Agency would see to his lunch.

Business casual? Lunch?
Mraz made it sound more like a social invitation than a debriefing. Harvath hopped in the shower, shaved, and then put on one of his dark Brooks Brothers suits with a white shirt and gold tie. He didn’t know what Mraz’s game was, but he wasn’t about to let the CIA dictate to him how to dress. He had half a mind to pack his own lunch, but decided against it. He’d been to Langley before and they had a relatively decent cafeteria. Buying him lunch was the least the CIA could do, especially as he was going to fill them in on all of the mistakes their “Special” Activities Staff had made over the past two days.

Even though he knew he’d never be allowed into the building with it, he brought along the H&K USP pistol he had been issued in Cairo. It was just another way to reiterate to Mraz that Harvath didn’t trust him or anyone working for him.

The last thing Harvath did before leaving his apartment was call Lawlor’s office regarding a protective detail for Meg. Neither Lawlor, nor his secretary were in, so Harvath left a message on his voice mail.

At precisely nine o’clock a navy blue Ford Crown Victoria pulled up in front of Harvath’s building. The driver didn’t have to bother ringing the bell. Scot knew the man would be right on time and he was already waiting for him. Normally, Harvath would have sat in the front seat and made conversation with whoever was driving, but this guy didn’t look like much of a talker, so Scot sat in back. As it turned out, he was right. The driver didn’t say a single thing during the entire drive to Langley.

The silence suited him just fine. It was a beautiful summer day, and Harvath sat back and watched the gently rolling countryside through the smoked windows of the car as they made their way northwest along the Potomac.

When they arrived at the main entrance of the sprawling CIA campus, the driver pulled into the employee lane. At the cinderblock checkpoint, black-clad, submachine-gun-toting operatives from the Office of Security Operations checked the driver’s identification and gave the entire vehicle the once-over. The Central Intelligence Agency was more vigilant about security now than ever before. For every security measure a visitor or employee of the CIA saw, there were hundreds more they didn’t. For instance, Harvath knew that unseen behind the bulletproof, tinted glass of the checkpoint house was a fully armed and armored tactical unit ready to meet any assault head-on.

They were outfitted with nothing but the best weapons, including .45 and .357 pistols with hollow-point Hydra-Shok bullets; H&K 21E fully automatic machine guns, effective out to half a mile; custom-made Robar .50-caliber sniper rifles capable of knocking out aircraft, vehicles, and even terrorists at well over a mile; M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, known as SAWs; M203 40-millimeter grenade launchers; as well as shoulder-fired antiaircraft and antitank missiles. There were also the concrete-and-steel bollards recessed just beneath the surface of each lane resting upon high-tensile industrial-strength coils that in a fraction of a second could be “popped” up in case a car tried to rush through the checkpoint and into the CIA’s compound.

Once cleared at the main entrance, the driver proceeded to the underground parking garage of the Old Headquarters Building, where he was again required to show his ID before being allowed to enter. The car rolled down the concrete ramp and once the driver had parked, he opened his door and motioned for Harvath to follow. They passed through a series of steel fire doors and emerged into a small service corridor and another security checkpoint. This time, Harvath was also asked to present identification and to sign in. Next, he was instructed to pass through a metal detector, which immediately went off.

Slowly and with a wide grin, Harvath unbuttoned his suit coat and drew it back to reveal the butt of his semiautomatic. “Just like my American Express card. I never leave home without it.” No one laughed.

Harvath carefully withdrew the weapon and handed it to the security guard, who ejected the magazine, cleared the chambered round, and handed the whole lot over to Harvath’s driver. In the next machine, an explosives “sniffer,” Harvath was required to stand still as small puffs of air were bounced against his clothes and returned to the machine for analysis.

“You guys get HBO on this?” asked Harvath

Again, none of the security staff said a word. Harvath figured they had probably had the same sense-of-humor-gland removal that Morrell’s people had had.

After Harvath had been handed his ID badge, the driver led him into a waiting elevator and punched the button for the sixth floor. “So this is it? We just zip right up in the elevator?” asked Harvath as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise. “No tour? What about the Berlin Wall Monument? Or the sculpture in the New Headquarters courtyard? You gotta promise me you’ll at least walk me through the directors’ portrait gallery on our way out. Okay? You promise?”

“Shut the fuck up,” replied the rather surly operative.

Finally, Harvath had gotten to him, and he smiled to himself.

When the doors of the elevator opened, they walked down a short hall and entered the CIA’s highly vaunted Counter Terrorist Center, known as the CTC. Predominantly windowless, the center was composed of groupings of hundreds upon hundreds of cubicles. Street signs proclaiming, “Osama bin Lane,” “Saddam Street,” and “Qadhafi Qourt” informed passersby what area of expertise they were entering.
So the CIA did have a sense of humor after all.

Signs and placards were everywhere with pictures of the smoking World Trade Center on one side, a badly damaged Pentagon on the other, and in the middle a billowing American flag with the words “Let’s Roll.” Harvath knew that coffeepots percolated around the clock and dedicated CTC operatives often slept on mattresses laid out in the hallways. This was one of the key nerve centers in America’s war on terrorism, and it looked every bit the part. For a moment, Harvath almost felt guilty for razzing the always serious CIA, but then he changed his mind. Yes, they had a tough job to do, but so did he. People who took themselves too seriously not only were no fun, but could also be very dangerous.