Path of the Assassin

CHAPTER 25

Bernard Walsh, the navigator, and the badly beaten flight attendant were immediately choppered to El Salam International Hospital, but Rick Morrell had other plans for Meg Cassidy. After Harvath had escorted all of the VIPs to the EgyptAir clubroom, Morrell magically appeared with his SAS medic in tow. They made a beeline for the leather couch where Scot had laid Meg down and was conducting a cursory assessment.

“Okay, Harvath, we’ll take it from here,” said Morrell, who indicated to the medic to take Scot’s place. The SAS man was apprehensive. He was already sporting two butterfly bandages above his eye and had no desire to add to them. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Harvath.

Morrell sensed his operative’s trepidation and said, “Clear the way, Harvath. I’ve got some questions for this woman.”

“I’m sure you do, but she’s in no condition to talk. I told you, she needs medical attention,” replied Harvath.

“Why do you think I brought my medic with me?”

“Listen, Rick. I can appreciate that you want to find out what she saw, but she needs to be seen by a real doctor in a real hospital.”

“If she was that bad, why didn’t she go out on the chopper with the other wounded?”

“Because when the Delta medic triaged the injuries on the plane, there were plenty more serious than her. They were barely able to squeeze your injured men into the Black Hawk along with the civilians. Now, we need to get an IV started on her, and then—”

“What we need,” said Morrell, cutting Scot off, “is a description of the man she saw. I’ve got every person from that flight being held in a containment area. If Hashim Nidal is among them and she can ID him, then that’s what we need done.”

“And what if he’s not?”

“Then she’s going to need to view the bodies and tell me he’s among the dead.”

“Jesus, Morrell. We don’t even know the extent of her injuries and you want her to sit through a lineup of hundreds of people? For Christ’s sake, the woman can’t even speak. What’s she supposed to do, blink once for yes, twice for no?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen. An As-Salam ambulance has already been called.”

“As-Salam? You mean El Salam.”

“No, I mean As-Salam. It’s a private ambulance service. If you dial Egypt’s version of nine-one-one, they only send out a public ambulance that’ll transport to the nearest hospital. I figured we would want her to be taken to the El Salam hospital where the other injured are.”

“No way. If she’s not talking now, I want her close when she starts. Have her taken to the Anglo-American Hospital.”

“But that’s not close. That’s the other side of town.”

“It’s close to the embassy, and that’s where I want her.”

“Fine,” said Harvath, anxious to be rid of Morrell so he could tend to Meg Cassidy. “I’ll ride over in the ambulance with her.”

“No you won’t. I’ll send one of my people to keep an eye on her. I want you down in the containment area conducting interviews right now. And don’t try to buck me on this one.”

Harvath knew why Morrell wanted him interviewing the passengers. As a matter of fact, there were probably two reasons. Number one, it was tedious as hell and Morrell wanted to stick it to him. Number two, it had been scientifically proven that the highly and specially trained U.S. Secret Service agents were exceptionally capable of detecting microexpressions. These were facial expressions that manifested themselves when a person was under psychological stress, such as from lying, harboring an intent to do harm, or, most pertinent to the current situation, trying to conceal one’s true identity. The expressions lasted for only a fraction of a second and were therefore incredibly difficult to detect. The Secret Service had never revealed how their agents were trained to pick up on these subtle facial cues. It was a closely guarded secret and part of what made the U.S. Secret Service the greatest protective force in the world. Obviously, Morrell planned to get his money’s worth out of Harvath.

The interview process was long and drawn out. At one point, Harvath thought they had a hit, but it turned out to only be a passenger hiding the fact that he was smuggling American cigarettes and whiskey in his suitcase. Judging by the looks on the faces of the Egyptian customs officers, Harvath figured the contraband would never make it as far as the evidence locker.

Once all of the passengers had been interviewed, Scot wandered over to the adjacent hangar, where the bodies of the hijackers were lined up along the floor, covered by tarps. He looked each one over. What he saw didn’t surprise him. The bodies were all those of Middle Eastern men in their twenties to thirties, with dark hair, dark skin and eyes. He was sure that if he went through their pockets, each would have a copy of the Koran. Harvath felt for the Muslim people. Islam was an honorable religion that was unfortunately rotting from within. Like it or not, the radicals gave all Muslims a bad name.

In fact, if blame had to be laid for the modern decay of Islam, the Saudi royal family was the perfect group to begin pointing the finger at. In an attempt to shore up their sovereignty, the Saudis had helped to promote one of the most radical forms of Islam, which an overwhelming majority of the world’s Islamic terrorists followed.

Harvath continued to look at the bodies, wondering if one of the men was Hashim Nidal himself. Something — he didn’t know what — told him he was wasting his time.

Scot was interrupted by a Delta operative, who told him that the Delta commander wanted him in the EgyptAir clubroom for a debriefing. When Harvath arrived, Morrell and his people were nowhere to be found. “Where’s the SAS team?” he asked.

“Back at the embassy. They took the mayor and Bob Lawrence with them,” said the CO.

“What about Ms. Cassidy?”

“They were going to take her to a nearby hospital for further observation.”

“And the debriefing?”

“We’ve already got a statement from Morrell, so I guess they plan to do their own debriefing at the embassy.”

“That’s just great. What about the rest of the passengers? What if there’s a hijacker mixed in there, after all?”

“Apparently, a few consular affairs officers have already been dispatched from the embassy to sift through them once again.”

Consular affairs officer was one of the CIA’s smokescreen titles for U.S. Embassy employees who were really covert, CIA in-country operatives.

“Those guys are as thick as thieves,” said Harvath.

“Yup, and they don’t play well with others.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve gotten to see it firsthand.”

“That’s exactly what we are going to talk about,” said the CO as he gestured for his men to take their seats. “All right, let’s get this coffee klatch rolling. I’ve got a feeling the after-action report from this job, especially Agent Harvath’s actions, will be studied for a long, long time.”

When the debriefing was over, Bullet Bob and some of the other Delta operatives were preparing to take the remainder of the SAS team’s gear over to the embassy and they offered Harvath a ride. As far as Scot could tell, his job at the airport was done. Morrell had left without giving him any further instructions, so the embassy sounded like as good a place as any to find out what their next move would be. Harvath retrieved his duffel from the back of Bullet Bob’s Suburban, changed back into his civilian clothes, and tucked his pistol into his waistband beneath his shirt.