Path of the Assassin

CHAPTER 9

Back at the Jerusalem Hotel, Scot Harvath was sitting outside at the hotel’s sunny garden patio restaurant reading The International Herald Tribune when the machine gun fire started. Even at this distance, he could tell it was from a heavy-caliber weapon and it was lasting far longer than most such incidents. Jerusalem was not normally the site of prolonged firefights. Those were reserved for the occupied territories, but even they were carried out in bursts, not a continuous stream of fire.

Then came the explosions from the mortar fire — the third and final explosion sounding too close to the hotel for Harvath’s liking. So much for his theory of being safe at a minority-owned-and-operated hotel. All at once, the air was filled with the desperate sound of sirens rushing to the scene. Harvath was tempted to investigate, but then thought better of it. He needed to stay put and wait for the man he was hoping would make contact with him.

Before leaving Switzerland, Harvath had spent days making phone calls and had sent countless e-mails trying to track down a man named Ari Schoen. He had been one of the Mossad’s top agents and part of the Israeli contingent assigned to Operation Rapid Return. Shortly after the mission, the Israelis claimed that he had died, but Harvath believed otherwise. Through his extensive network of contacts, Harvath had been able to locate the elusive man, who appeared to be very much alive. It was Harvath’s hope that Schoen might be able to tell him something, anything, about what had happened that night and who had coordinated the ambush.

After the incident at the Temple Mount, Harvath passed the rest of the day and most of the night inside the hotel glued to either the television set that had been placed in the garden restaurant, or the one in his room.

The next afternoon, halfway through his lunch, a bellboy brought a package to his table. Harvath tipped him a few shekels and, once the boy had walked back inside, carefully opened it. Inside was a digital phone. No note and no number, just the phone. As it was already turned on, Harvath placed it on the table next to him and waited.

Within minutes, the phone rang.

“Shalom,” said Harvath as he opened the phone and raised it to his ear.

“Mr. Harvath, how nice that you speak our language,” replied the man on the other end. He had a deep voice accentuated by a thick lisp.

“I know enough to get by.”

“And enough to choose an inconspicuous, yet excellent hotel.”

“I’m starting to have my doubts about its location.”

“No doubt you are referring to the attack at the Temple Mount,” said the voice.

“No doubt.”

“An unfortunate incident and one that I am afraid kept me from contacting you earlier; but, in the face of Arab terror and aggression against the Israeli people, it was inevitable that the Israelis would eventually employ the same tactics.”

“So, this was an Israeli attack against Arabs?” asked Harvath.

“Indeed. Two remote-controlled machine guns on the Temple Mount opened fire on a large crowd of Muslims leaving the noon service at the al-Aqsa Mosque.”

“Opening fire on a group of innocent people doesn’t sound very civilized to me. Is this what Israel has come to?”

“For some, yes.”

“Who? The Hand of God?”

“I am confident that sometime today the newspapers and TV stations will break the news that the Hand of God is taking credit for this recent attack. Though many Israelis abhor violence, this group is reaching almost a cultlike status among the young and old alike.”

“You seem very well informed, Mr. Schoen.”

“You’ll find I am extremely well informed, but please refrain from speaking my name in public. I know the phone is digital, but we must still be careful. Now, I trust you had a good lunch?”

“Good enough.”

“Excellent. There will be a white taxi waiting for you outside the Damascus Gate to the Old City. The driver is wearing a brown sport coat. Tell him you wish to be taken to a reputable antiques shop, and he will bring you to me.”

“And where, exactly, are you?”

“I’d rather not say, Mr. Harvath. My security precautions may seem a bit extreme, but believe me, they are in my own best interest. Please, let’s not waste any time. The driver has been instructed to wait no more than five minutes. I will explain everything once you are here.”

Harvath didn’t like the cloak-and-dagger routine, but he had little choice but to comply.

The driver never said a word as he headed northwest along the Jaffa Road away from the Old City. Harvath noticed the bulge of a rather large weapon beneath his sport coat and guessed that this was no ordinary taxi driver.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of an old four-story building in the popular Ben Yehuda district. The storefront consisted chiefly of two large windows crammed full of antique furniture, paintings, and fixtures. The gilded sign above the entryway read, “Thames & Cherwell Antiques,” followed by translations in Hebrew and Arabic.

With an utter lack of ceremony, the driver popped the power locks and jerked his head toward the left, indicating that Scot should get out of his cab and enter the shop.

“I guess you’re not going to get the door for me, so this is probably good-bye. It was a pleasure chatting with you,” said Harvath as he climbed out of the taxi. Once his passenger was on the pavement, the driver flipped a switch beneath the dash and the door automatically slammed shut.

Neat trick, thought Harvath as the cab sped away down the street.

When he entered the store, a small brass bell above the door announced Harvath’s arrival. He waited a beat, and when no one appeared, began to look around the dimly lit room. It was packed with tapestries, furniture, and no end of faded bric-a-brac.

When he neared a narrow mahogany door, a series of small bulbs in a brass plaque changed from red to green and the door clicked open.

Another neat trick, Harvath thought as he pulled the door toward him to reveal a small, wood-paneled elevator. Once inside, he waited for the door to close on its own, which it did, and then the elevator slowly started to rise. He waited a second for elevator music to kick in and when it didn’t, he started humming “The Girl from Ipanema” to himself.

He was still humming when the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a long hallway, its floor covered by an intricately patterned oriental runner. The walls were painted a deep forest green and were lined with framed prints of foxhunting, fly-fishing, and crumbling abbeys. As Scot walked forward, he noticed infrared sensors placed every few feet and guessed that there were probably pressure sensitive plates beneath the runner. This was one man who took his security precautions very seriously.

At the end of the hall, Scot found himself in a very large room, more dimly lit than the shop downstairs. It was paneled from floor to ceiling, like the elevator, with a rich, deeply colored wood. With its fireplace, billiards table, overstuffed leather chairs and couches, it felt more like a British gentleman’s club than the upper-floor office of a shop in West Jerusalem.

“I apologize for the subterfuge, Mr. Harvath,” came Schoen’s voice from the far corner of the room.

Harvath peered through the semidarkness and could barely make him out. He was sitting near a pair of heavy silk draperies, which had been drawn tight against the windows.

“There are certain people who, if they knew I was still alive, would very much want me dead. So, I do what I have to do,” he continued. “I would be happy to bring the lights up a little, but I want to warn you that you may find my appearance a bit difficult.”

“I think I can handle it,” replied Harvath.

“Lights!” commanded Schoen, and the light level in the room slowly began to increase until he said, “Enough.”

Harvath’s eyes were now able to see that the man was sitting in a wheelchair. As Schoen rolled himself closer, Scot could see that the man’s hands, face, and neck had been terribly burned. Even though Harvath was slightly taken aback by his appearance, he did not allow his face to show what he was feeling.

Schoen’s suit was navy blue, and he wore a white shirt with a British regimental tie. A blue-and-green tartan blanket lay across his legs. Now that he saw the man in person, Harvath realized that his lisp sprang from the fact that a good part of his lips had been burned away from his face.

“Please, Mr. Harvath. Take a seat.” Pleeth, Mr. Harvath…

“Thank you,” Scot replied as he sat down in one of the oxblood leather club chairs and glanced at the silver-framed photographs the man had positioned on an adjacent console table.

“Are you a whiskey man, Mr. Harvath?”

“Scotch whiskey, yes.”

“A man after my own heart.”

Schoen wheeled himself over to an antique globe and lifted the hinged northern hemisphere. He retrieved two glasses and a bottle, placed them on a tray across the arms of his wheelchair, and wheeled himself back over next to the chair Harvath was sitting in.

“Nineteen sixty-three Black Bowmore,” he said as he placed the tray on the small end table between them. “Look at that color, Mr. Harvath. Black as pitch, as my British friends would say.”

“Very nice,” replied Harvath as the man began to pour.

“The whiskey was heavily sherried and aged for a very long time. That’s where this magnificent color comes from.”

“L’chaim,” said Harvath, raising his glass in toast.

“God bless America and may he also save the queen,” said Schoen with a deformed smile.

They savored the rare scotch in silence for a moment. Such was the nature of doing business in the Middle East. First a refreshment was offered and then polite conversation was made until finally the participants arrived at the point. Negotiations over even the smallest of items could take days. But, as the man who sat next to him was a former intelligence agent, Harvath hoped things would move a bit faster.

“You’re quite the anglophile, I notice,” said Scot.

“I was based in London for a very long time.”

“It’s a beautiful city.”

“Indeed. And the countryside is amazing. Especially the Cotswolds.”

“Did you spend a lot of time in the countryside while in England?”

“Yes, I visited my son quite often.”

“Really? What does he do?”

“He rowed at university there, but now he’s deceased.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too. All in good time are called to God. Some, though, are called too soon and for the wrong reasons. My son’s loss is the hardest thing I have ever had to bear, but that’s not why you are here. It’s a funny characteristic of the infirm; we learn to live within our memories, the past often being the most pleasant part of our lives, and often forget ourselves in the presence of guests. My day will eventually come, but while I am waiting, let’s talk about why you are here.”

“I’m here because I need information.”

“You want to know what happened that night in Sidon?”

“Yes.”

“To save us both some time, why don’t you tell me what you already know.”

“The night Operation Rapid Return was ambushed, I was in the situation room at the White House. I saw everything up to and including our Special Operations team entering the building where it was thought the president was being held. Then there was the explosion. You were part of the Israeli team on the ground lending logistical support and were the only survivor. Shortly thereafter, the Mossad declared you dead. Why?”

“After the explosion, I tried to ascertain whether there were any other survivors. I didn’t see any, but I did see something else.”

“What?”

“Someone who didn’t belong there.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t part of the mission team and was acting far too calm, considering what had just taken place. I remember thinking he was somehow involved with the explosion and had probably remained behind to make sure the job was done.”

“What did you do?”

“There wasn’t much I could do. I was too badly injured. I raised my pistol and tried to shoot at him, but he got away.”

“What did he look like?” asked Harvath.

“I couldn’t see him very well, but he obviously got a good look at me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“After that night, I was subjected to many long and painful surgeries. To make a long story short, while I was convalescing, the man reappeared and tried to kill me.”

“How can you be sure it was the same person?”

“Because of the eyes.”

Harvath’s body tensed.

“Never in my life have I seen eyes like those,” continued Schoen in a slow, deliberate voice. “They were silver, like the color of cold, polished knife blades.”

Silence filled the room for several moments. Schoen had struck a nerve. Harvath’s silence was an admission that he knew those silver eyes all too well himself.

“But why would he want to kill you?” asked Harvath, trying to sort through the implications of Schoen’s account.

“I think he believes I saw his face and could identify him. Terrorists’ anonymity is often their best weapon, especially these days. The last thing they need is someone who can identify them in an international court or, worse still, mount a campaign to track them down and take them out. I was a loose end that needed to be tied up.”

“So what happened?”

“Two colleagues of mine happened to come to visit quite unexpectedly that evening. They arrived just in time. I was in no condition to defend myself. They surprised the killer, and he leapt from the second-story window of my hospital room. One of my colleagues chased him, but the man managed to escape. Shortly thereafter, I was moved to a secret facility to complete my rehabilitation.”

“And you’ve been in hiding ever since?”

“I don’t look at it as hiding, Mr. Harvath. I look at it as a sort of early retirement. I get to keep my hand in the game and sleep at night. Not a lot of people can do that.”

“That’s true, but if I found you, what’s to stop someone else?”

“You found me because I wanted you to find me. We have a common interest, you and I.”

“Which is?”

“We both want to get our hands on whoever was responsible for the explosion that killed your Special Operations team and turned me into the shell of a man you see before you.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Yes.”

“Have you acted on them?”

“In my own way, I have.”

“What about your government? You lost good agents on that assignment as well.”

“That is a sticky situation as you Americans say. My government seems either unable or unwilling to bring this matter to a close, even though I have been able to gather what I feel is considerable evidence.”

“I can’t understand why, but I can guarantee you that my government has every intention of bringing to justice whoever was involved in the murder of our operatives.”

“I was counting on that.”

“Well, keep on counting. I am going to personally see to it that each and every one of them pays. I made a promise, and I have the full backing of the United States.”

“Excellent. Why don’t you take your drink and follow me. I want to show you what I have been able to compile so far.”

Schoen took his time laying out the evidence he had gathered and his theory. When he was finished, Scot could understand why the Israeli government was skeptical. Any single piece of evidence examined by itself was nothing more than circumstantial. Even lumping it all together, there were still huge holes, but in Schoen’s defense, there was somewhat of a pattern, especially when he filled in the blanks and explained what he felt the real story was.

“Interesting,” said Harvath as he drained the last of his Bowmore.

“It’s more than interesting, Mr. Harvath; it’s conclusive.”

Scot knew it was a good hunch, but it was far from conclusive. Schoen wanted vengeance so badly he could taste it, like bile in his throat. Harvath felt sorry for him. His life was ruined. His only son was dead, and he wanted to hold somebody accountable for what had gone wrong with the world, his world. Somebody needed to pay. Harvath knew the feeling. There were some things in life that could never be forgiven or forgotten. The ambush that wiped out the Rapid Return team and burned Ari Schoen so terribly was one of those things.

“Ari, I give you my word. Whoever is behind this thing, I am going to take them down.”

“I want to be there when it happens,” said Schoen.

“That’s a promise I can’t make.”

“Then at least keep me in the loop. I have access to a lot of sources and a lot of information. I could be quite valuable to you. Think of me as kind of your man behind the curtain.”

“I’ll tell you what. I am going to look into this further and maybe I’d be willing to share information with you, but it’s a two-way street. I’d expect you to update me with anything you come across.”

“Deal.”

They traded secure phone numbers, and Scot thanked him again for the scotch. Schoen showed him to the elevator and they shook hands. Harvath wasn’t humming on the way down. He felt terrible for the man. That said, everyone knew there was an inherent risk in the job. It was one of those things operatives always thought about — “getting killed, or worse.” Schoen was a prime example of what “or worse” could be. Scot wondered if maybe Schoen would have been better off dying that night.