Path of the Assassin (38 page)

The Italian Rapid Reaction Force Augusta A 109A helicopter that touched down in the wide piazza to pick up Harvath and Meg flew south southeast at over one hundred eighty miles per hour and was able to cover the distance between Rome and the hilltop town of Frascati in less than ten minutes. The sleek chopper circled in over the sixteenth-century Villa Aldobrandini and landed in the ornate gardens before a large statue of Atlas holding up the world.

Heavily armed Carabinieri met Harvath, Meg, and the six Italian Special Forces soldiers when they landed. The soldiers carried a wide array of sensors, which they hoped would help them locate any radioactive or explosive device inside the villa. With more of the property dedicated to the expansive gardens than to the actual buildings themselves, the helicopter lifted off again to conduct a coordinated search of the grounds.

While the soldiers swept the buildings, Harvath had Meg translate his questions to the staff, including questions about deliveries, probing for anything that might be out of the ordinary. What came back was that the level of security in place for this summit was unprecedented. No one could remember security ever being so high. The Rapid Reaction Force soldiers were not finding anything either. In fact, as they talked with the Carabinieri, they were convinced that every conceivable measure had been taken to protect the summit members.

Harvath was quickly running out of answers. As the soldiers moved outside the villa to sweep the nearby shops, parked cars, restaurants, and other buildings, Harvath had a moment to talk with the summit’s chief of security, who had been guiding the soldiers through the different rooms inside. When Harvath showed him the map, the man’s eyes instantly widened.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

“Why? What do you see?”

“Those three letters followed by the numbers,” he replied, jabbing his finger at the upper-left-hand corner of the map. “And this blue line.”

“What is it?” asked Harvath as he stared at the map.

“That is a frequency designator for the helicopter transporting guests from the airport in Rome.”

“And the blue line is the flight pattern, correct?”

The man nodded his head and said, “You hold in your hand one of the most closely guarded secrets of this summit.”

“So if the helicopter is the target, it could be anybody they’re after.”

“No. Only the Palestinians are using the helicopter. The Israeli prime minister arrived in Rome with his people yesterday and is staying with the Israeli ambassador. As today is the Sabbath, he is not traveling. He arrives tomorrow by car. There is only one guest arriving in the helicopter and he arrives this evening—Ali Hasan, the chief Palestinian negotiator. We must change the flight pattern immediately.”

“Maybe not,” said Harvath.

“What are you saying?” asked the security chief. “We are trying to prevent a war here, not start one. The security of the summit participants is our highest priority.”

“How much time do we have until Ali Hasan is expected to arrive?”

The security chief looked at his watch and said, “Two hours.”

“Do you have a more detailed map of the area we can compare this one to?” asked Harvath as he pointed at the map Meg had taken from the catacombs.

The security chief shouted to one of his men, who quickly brought over a detailed map and laid it on the table in front of them. Harvath took a pencil and, using the straight edge of a clipboard, drew an identical line from Rome to Frascati, reproducing the flight pattern. “Just because we haven’t been able to find any explosive device at the villa or in the surrounding area doesn’t mean that the summit itself still isn’t the target. Your men need to keep looking. At the same time, I think we need to consider the very likely possibility that there is going to be an attack on the helicopter which will happen somewhere along this line.” Harvath retraced it with his pencil. “The question is, though, where?”

“It could happen anywhere during the flight,” replied the security chief.

“True, but there is a lot of air traffic around Rome. With only the frequency designator to go on, it would hard to get a visual lock on the target. If I was doing it, I would wait for the helicopter to get out here into the countryside, where it’s an easy mark.”

“Of course,” replied the man as he pointed to a section of the flight path. “This corridor along here has been set aside as restricted airspace.”

“So the only aircraft coming through there—”

“Is going to be the summit helicopter,” answered the security chief, finishing Harvath’s sentence.

“That narrows things down, but where along this line am I going to get the cleanest shot?” wondered Harvath aloud. “I would have spent a lot of time studying the area. I need a big open space, not a lot of trees. Something easy. I want to give myself plenty of time to be able to identify the helicopter and launch my attack. Where can I do that?”

The man surveyed the map for several moments and then, pulling out a red pen, circled the location he felt would be the most likely. “Here.”

“What’s that?” asked Harvath.

“The perfect place. They would be able to see the helicopter coming from almost two kilometers and would have plenty of time to prepare. The Fontana Candida vineyard.

The fact that there was a Buon Ricordo restaurant within driving distance of the vineyard was simply icing on the cake for Harvath. When Adara Nidal had tried to impress Scot and Meg with her worldliness and lull them into cooperating, little had she known that the dinner would come back to haunt her.

The crew of the Rapid Reaction Force helicopter had gotten in as close as they dared, dropping off their passengers on a small access road five miles away. The Frascati vineyards of the Fontana Candida estate were shrouded in an ever-deepening mist, and the night air had an unnerving chill as Harvath and Meg crept slowly over the rich volcanic soil and down perfectly manicured rows of vines. Once they had penetrated far enough into the vineyard and had covered the appropriate distance, they stopped. Harvath pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch. It had taken almost the entire two hours to coordinate his plan and put it into effect. Now it was all just a waiting game.

Scot picked up the sound of the approaching helicopter and pulled the slide back on his Browning to double-check that he had a round chambered. Meg did the same with the nine-millimeter Beretta she had been given by one of the Italian Special Forces soldiers. She was still amazed at how the men had simply seemed to vanish as they entered the first row of vines.

As the sound of the helicopter grew louder, Harvath’s body tensed. He knew it would happen at any moment. The large helicopter appeared over a far hill and banked to make its pass over the vineyard. Harvath held his breath and counted the seconds.

As he reached five, a bright flash, two hundred yards to their left, lit up the night sky. A streak of fire raced toward the helicopter. Immediately, the pilots of the Rapid Reaction Force Augusta took dramatic evasive action and deployed their countermeasures. The Stinger missile took the bait and veered dramatically off course. Arriving in advance and posing as the Palestinian leader’s helicopter by emitting the same radio frequency had worked.

Harvath’s victory was cut short by an off-pitch whine from the Rapid Reaction Force Augusta. It was losing altitude fast. The pilot had banked too hard to avoid the Stinger and had lost control. It was going down hard. As the helicopter disappeared over a nearby hill, Harvath heard the sound of heavy machine gun fire erupt from within the vineyard.

Because the Italian Special Forces soldiers had only a rudimentary grasp of English, Harvath had decided that Meg should carry the headset and radio they had offered. Reports, and not good ones, starting coming in the minute the shooting started.

“Man down,” translated Meg as they hurried in the direction of the area from which they had seen the Stinger launched.

A minute later, Meg again announced, “Man down. That’s two men down. And the pilots are not responding.”

Bursts of weapons fire echoed throughout the vineyard and seemed to be coming from all directions. Meg reported two more men getting hit and that the soldiers couldn’t get a fix on their target. Whoever was shooting at them kept changing position.

“Ask them if there’s a pattern. Does the shooter seem to be moving in any one direction?”

Meg asked, and once she had her answer, replied, “They thought it was toward the southwestern edge of the estate, but now it looks like the main buildings.”

“Tell them we’re going along the outside and will try to get there first.”

Meg relayed their plans and then ran with Harvath toward the main Fontana Candida buildings. There was a fierce barrage of fire as they reached the bottling plant followed by total silence. Harvath and Meg crouched against a wall and tried to catch their breath. Moments passed. The night was quiet, too quiet.

“Ask them for a sit rep,” whispered Harvath.

Meg tried to raise the soldiers, but not a single one responded. Meg tried again, but still there was nothing. It was as if no one was there.

Harvath peered into the misty night and thought he saw movement at the edge of the vineyard. As he squinted his eyes to get a better look, a form completely wrapped in shadow raced out from behind the last row of vines and began running across the driveway. Having not heard from any of the Italian Special Forces members and assuming the worst, Harvath decided to open fire. He took three quick shots, aiming low. The figure stumbled and then pitched forward behind a short rock wall. Harvath heard what sounded like a weapon clatter onto the driveway.

Carefully, Harvath and Meg made their way forward to where the figure had fallen. Meg covered his back as Harvath swung around the wall and pointed the Browning, ready to fire. There was no one there. He bent down to examine the path of crushed gravel behind the wall. There were splatters of blood leading toward the villa, which served as the estate’s main offices. Several feet away, on the edge of the driveway, Harvath discovered an Israeli Galil assault rifle.
What the hell is that doing here?
he wondered.

They followed the gravel path, but soon lost track of the blood. Harvath tried the main office doors, as well as several of the windows, but everything was locked up tight, and there was no sign of any forced entry. Whoever he had shot was not inside the villa. That meant they had to be somewhere on the grounds outside.

Harvath and Meg hugged the building’s stone walls as they slowly worked their way around to the back. They kept trying every door and every window they came across, but just as in front, they were all securely locked.

Suddenly, as they neared the rear of the villa, they heard a shot, followed quickly by a muffled scream. It almost didn’t sound human. It was wild and fierce, like a trapped animal.

Harvath instructed Meg to try and raise the Italian Special Forces soldiers again. There was still no answer from them or the pilots.

They peered around the corner of the villa toward where the scream had come from. An enormous terra-cotta urn stood next to a short flight of flagstone steps. As they approached they could see the steps led down to a huge, half-open wooden door with its lock blown off.

“Wonderful,” whispered Harvath. “Another catacomb.”

He was half right. The door marked the entrance to the vineyard’s ancient cellar, where vintners used to store their wine until the maturation process was complete.

The lightbulbs, which hung over the steep stone steps leading to the cellar floor, had all been broken. Harvath used his free hand to feel along the wall as they descended, their shoes crunching on the shards of broken glass. At the bottom of the steps, the cellar branched out into two long, parallel corridors, one to the right and one to the left. Orderly rows of old wooden casks lined both sides. A faint light glowed from the end of the corridor on the right, where sounds of a scuffle could be heard. As quietly as they could, Harvath and Meg made their way in that direction.

They tried to stay within the shadows and protective cover of the casks for as long as possible. When they came to the end of the corridor, the tunnel widened briefly, and Harvath and Meg were met with an unbelievable sight.

Adara Nidal was on her hands and knees on the rough stone floor with a gun to the back of her head. The man holding the pistol was the most hideous thing Meg Cassidy had ever seen. His face was so deformed it seemed scarcely human. Harvath had no difficulty gazing on the man. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the face of Ari Schoen.

“Agent Harvath,” said Schoen as Harvath and Meg stepped out of the shadows and walked closer. “Israel owes you a great debt.”

“Last time I saw you, Ari, you were in a wheelchair. Helluva quick recovery, wouldn’t you say?”

“I have found that with my deformities, using the wheelchair makes me pitiable, as opposed to just being unbearable to look upon,” he replied.

“Your appearance and ambulatory abilities aside, I can’t help but feel I’ve been played here,” said Harvath, the Browning still grasped tightly in his hand.

“I don’t like to use the word
play,
Agent Harvath. It sounds so manipulative. I’d rather say that we have had a successful collaboration.”

“Collaboration?” said Harvath. “You
used
me to get to Adara.”

“If that’s the word you want to use, then we used each other.”

Harvath was nearing his limit. “What the hell you are doing here?”

“I’m here for the same reason you are. I followed a string of clues—”

“Bullshit. I don’t know how, but somehow you followed us.”

“I will admit, Agent Harvath, that when you logged on to the web site I gave you for the surveillance photos of Marcel Hamdi from your hotel on Capri, it made it easier for us to locate the island he was traveling to and of course to listen in on your conversations. That being said, I can’t give you all the credit. I have had a team very hard at work, tracking down every lead.”

Something was pounding at the back of Harvath’s mind. There was something about seeing Adara and Schoen together. There was a link somehow between them. Something about the photograph he had seen in Adara’s study in Libya and a photograph he had seen somewhere else flashed in Harvath’s mind. Could the other have been in Schoen’s office?
That was it!
Both Schoen and Adara had the same photograph. But why? What was the significance? What was the connection between these two?

“Most of the details of this woman’s life are inconsequential and reprehensible at best, but we all know where they lead. The records of her birth and her twin brother’s in an East German hospital were conveniently destroyed. As she showed the greatest promise of the two monster children, her private education in the West was secured and funded by her father—”

“You are not fit to speak of my father,” spat Adara.

Schoen ignored her and continued. “Are you aware, Agent Harvath,” he asked, “of this woman’s other recent accomplishments?”

“What are you talking about?”

“She has been quite busy. In addition to reviving her father’s ailing organization, she has started another of her own. Why don’t you tell our American friends what you have been up to?”

“Go to hell,” she said.

“I will, don’t worry. And you are coming with me, but if you don’t feel like talking, maybe I should tell them.” Schoen pushed the pistol harder into the back of Adara’s head for emphasis as he said, “I’d like you to meet the mastermind, as well as the sole member of, the Hand of God organization.”

Harvath was floored, and Schoen saw it written across his face.

“Yes,” said Schoen, “she wasn’t above killing multitudes of her own people, as long as it united the Arab world against the Jews.”

“And killing Ali Hasan?”

“Would have all but assured the unity of the Arab states in a war against Israel. It was all very ingenious. Incredibly well thought out. It is a shame a woman this talented wasn’t working for us.”

“So, that explains the Galil I found outside,” said Harvath. “It would have been left behind for the Italian police as an added piece of evidence that an Israeli terrorist organization was behind the attack.”

“As well as this letter she was carrying,” said Schoen, removing it from his pocket and holding it up with his free hand for Harvath to see. “In it, the Hand of God organization takes full credit for killing Hasan. The world would have had no choice but to blame Israel for the assassination, and war would have been all but guaranteed.” Schoen placed the letter back in his pocket and cocked his pistol.

“Take it easy, Ari,” said Harvath.

“You think garbage like this deserves mercy?” asked Schoen.

There was no question that Schoen’s life had been ruined by the injuries he had suffered in operation Rapid Return, but there was something else happening here. There was something deeper about Adara Nidal that had unhinged him. Finally, it all made sense to Harvath.

“I want you to explain something to me.”

“First you explain something to me, Agent Harvath. Why do you pity her? How many of your people are dead because of what this animal and her brother have done?”

“Too many. Too many people who were important to me. How many people who were important to you?” said Harvath.

“Every Israeli who has died because of her is important to me,” replied Schoen, his body beginning to tremble with rage.

“But there is no one in particular. Your son went to Oxford, didn’t he? What was his name?”

“I don’t want to talk about my son.”

“What was his name?” repeated Harvath.

“No!” screamed Schoen.

“Daniel,” rasped Adara, so quietly at first no one could hear her. Then she spoke louder until there was no mistaking what she had said, “He was named Daniel!”

“How dare you speak his name!” yelled Schoen as he jerked his pistol back and struck her across the jaw.

“That’s enough,” said Harvath, raising his Browning and pointing it at Schoen’s head.

“I don’t think so, Agent Harvath,” answered Schoen as several heavily armed men sprung from behind the casks.

“What the hell is this?” demanded Harvath as one of Schoen’s operatives took his Browning, as well as the Beretta from Meg.

“We were also hoping to take the brother,” said Schoen. “But for the time being, one out of two will have to do.”

“The brother is dead. I saw to it myself,” replied Harvath.

“We have also been to the catacombs beneath the fabric shop and while, yes, there were several bodies, there was not one that could be identified as the brother,” said Schoen.

“Impossible. The Italian authorities sealed it off.”

“After we had been there. There were still several men alive. Some, weren’t even wounded. I can only assume they were trying to regroup. You have to learn to finish what you start, Agent Harvath.”

Schoen had been shadowing him the entire time. Harvath had no choice but to believe him. “What’s this all about, Ari? Revenge?”

“Look at me,” said Schoen. “Wouldn’t you want revenge for this?”

“But this isn’t about you. It is about your son, Daniel. Isn’t it? Tell me why you and Adara Nidal have the same rowing club picture.”

“It’s not true.”

“One of the men in that picture was your son, wasn’t it? This woman, the daughter of Abu Nidal, and your son were somehow connected. Were they friends? Was it more? Were they lovers?”