Path of the Assassin

CHAPTER 6

An hour and forty-five minutes later, Harvath was seated in the passenger seat of Claudia’s VW as they headed out of Bern on the short trip to the prison. The convoy consisted of eight vehicles. Two police motorcycles led the way, followed by two police cars, the transport van, two more marked police cars, and finally Claudia’s car, bringing up the rear.

Even in a country like Switzerland, where the inhabitants prided themselves on their obsession with organization, things could go amiss. Bern was constantly plagued with traffic jams, and today was no exception. Harvath didn’t enjoy being in the last vehicle of the convoy, and repeatedly asked Claudia to translate the dialogue with the lead vehicles that was going back and forth over her radio. Claudia assured him it was nothing more than normal Bernese traffic and that the motorcycle police were complaining that people weren’t responding quickly enough to their sirens. In all fairness to the people of Bern, it wasn’t easy to “hop to” when you heard a police siren, especially when you were stuck in traffic on a narrow, one-way medieval street with cars parked on both sides.

“We’re close now,” said Claudia, who then spoke rapid-fire Swiss German into her walkie-talkie before peeling off from the convoy.

“What are you doing?” asked Harvath, who immediately sat up straighter in his seat as Claudia broke formation.

“The courthouse is just down a little farther. The press has gotten wind that Miner is appearing today, and they are out in full force. I don’t want anyone to see you going in the front, so I will take you in another way. You still want to check out the courtroom, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but how did the press get wind of the proceeding being changed to today?”

“How do they find things out in America? People talk.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Of course it does, but that’s the way the press is. They pay everybody and have sources everywhere, but what can I do about it? Listen, including the personnel in that van, Gerhard Miner is being guarded by over twenty-five of some of the meanest and most heavily armed members of the police and Swiss military. Whether you have noticed it or not, there has been a military helicopter shadowing us the entire time Miner has been outside the prison’s walls.”

Scot had noticed the helicopter. He was impressed that Claudia had thought so far ahead, but he was still concerned.

“There are additional men posted within the courtroom itself, throughout the building, and even in plain clothes outside among members of the press. Now, Agent Harvath, how would you rate my security?”

“So far I’d have to say you’ve been pretty thorough—”

“It would take an army to get to Miner.”

Scot knew she was wrong. It was dangerous to believe that you were fully prepared. If one person was determined to do harm at any cost, there really was nothing any organization could do to stop him or her. This was the fear the Secret Service lived with twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Scot was about to share this with Claudia when her radio crackled to life with frantic shouts from one of the lead vehicles.

“What’s going on?” Scot asked.

“Some sort of accident,” she replied.

“Accident? What kind of accident?”

Claudia had already slammed on her brakes and was reversing full speed back toward where she had pulled off from the convoy. “I don’t know. Both motorcycle drivers are down. I can’t work the radio and drive backward at the same time.”

Harvath was about to suggest they trade places when an enormous explosion tore through the warm morning air. The roiling thunderball of fire could be seen above the buildings to their right. The radio calls grew in intensity and added to the sounds of chaos throughout the neighborhood. Harvath could distinctly make out the whoomp whoomp whoomp of a heavy chopper coming in from above.

Harvath grabbed hold of the wheel from Claudia and turned it hard to the left as he pulled up on the VW’s emergency brake. The car spun 180 degrees, gashing the sides of three parked cars. Claudia was too startled by Harvath’s move to speak. At least now they were headed forward and could make better time. Scot could apologize later. “Step on it,” he said.

When they rounded the corner and came back down the street where they had left the convoy, it looked as if they had driven into a war zone. At least fifteen cars were burning out of control. Glass and flaming wreckage were scattered everywhere, and several shops and nearby buildings were also engulfed in flames.

Claudia drove in as close as she could, and then she and Harvath jumped out of the car and began running. It was immediately evident that this had been no accident. A very large explosive device had been detonated right when the motorcade passed. Harvath saw Claudia draw her weapon.

“How about me?” he asked.

Without breaking stride, Claudia reached underneath her blazer, withdrew a short Walther P38K and tossed it to Harvath. She pressed her walkie-talkie against her mouth and began shouting orders.

When she finally came up for air, she turned to Harvath and said, “One of the plainclothes men said he thinks the motorcycles were taken out by a sniper. When they went down, the convoy stopped and that’s when the explosion happened. I have the helicopter searching the area, and the city police are setting up roadblocks.”

The fire eventually stopped them from getting any closer, and Scot stood by while Claudia tried to coordinate the collective efforts of the police and military personnel via walkie-talkie. When emergency crews arrived on the scene, it took them over three hours to get the fires under control. It was another four hours before the techs had accumulated any evidence.

The explosive device had been a car bomb. Based on the make and model of the car, residents said they thought it had been parked on the street for at least two days, but nobody was certain, nor could they come up with a description of who had been driving it. The police had only one witness, but they immediately discounted her. She was an old gypsy who roamed the neighborhood poking through garbage cans with a stick, and was thought to be quite mad. She said she had seen the driver and, when asked to describe him, replied simply that it was none other than Satan. The Devil had looked at her with eyes that could change colors — from silver to black, like the moon turning into slate.

Standing nearby, Harvath could make out enough of the woman’s heavily accented German, along with her gestures, to pick up on what she was talking about. His suspicions had been right on the mark. The same person who had killed Philip Jamek wanted Gerhard Miner dead. The Lions had known something, and someone had wanted to make sure they were kept quiet — permanently.

Harvath was trying to connect the loose array of dots in his mind when Claudia came over and spoke to him. “There’s something up the street I’d like you to take a look at.”

“What?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. She began walking and Scot followed.

Harvath did not believe in coincidences. As a matter of fact, swearing off coincidences was how you stayed alive in his line of work. They just simply didn’t exist. That was what made the attack on the convoy all the more disturbing. His two best leads were now dead. What were the odds that Jamek and Miner had intentionally been killed before they could tell Harvath, or anyone else for that matter, what they knew about that fateful night the Spec Ops team was taken out?

Claudia led him into a narrow apartment building and up several flights of stairs. In typical European fashion, there was no elevator, and they had to hoof it all the way up.

On the top landing, she motioned toward an open apartment door, where inside a team of crime-scene technicians was busy at work. Claudia spoke briefly with the lead investigator and then translated for Scot.

“According to the landlady, the occupant of this flat has been out of town on vacation for the last week. The door shows signs of forced entry, but nothing appears to have been taken.”

“And?”

“And wait till you see what’s in the bedroom.”

Claudia led Harvath past the photographers and men dusting for fingerprints. In the bedroom lying on the bed, next to a pane of glass that had been surgically removed from the window, was a long, black rifle.

“Do you recognize that?” asked Claudia.

“It looks like a fifty-caliber Barrett sniper rifle. One of the best money can buy.”

“Very good. Ever seen one of these before?” asked Claudia as she ejected a round from the five-round detachable magazine. “They’ve already been dusted for prints. There’s nothing on them.”

Harvath accepted the almost six-inch-long projectile and held it up to the light coming in through the window. “This is a Barnes bullet.”

“You can tell the manufacturer just by looking at it?”

“There’s nothing else like it. It has a very distinct shape. The U.S. Navy had it developed for use by their SEAL snipers in the Gulf War. This bullet holds the world record at one thousand meters, and SEALs have even reported confirmed kills with it at over two thousand.”

“So taking out the motorcycle escorts with head shots at four hundred meters would have been easy.”

“I wouldn’t say easy. My guess is the shooter used the attached bipod for added stability and was obviously careful with his ammunition selection. If you look here, you can see that he also used a top-of-the-line Leupold scope with an optical filter to reduce sun glare.”

“What about a laser range finder?”

“Did your people find one in the apartment?”

“No, it just seems like it would have been helpful for a shot like this.”

“Probably, but to tell you the truth, range finder or not, whoever we’re dealing with is one incredibly skilled marksman who really knows his equipment.”

“Who would want to kill Miner?” Claudia asked as she took back the fifty-caliber bullet from Harvath.

“Where do you want me to start, and how much time do you have? His group did a lot of murder for hire before kidnapping President Rutledge.”

“I know, but it was common knowledge that we were going to lock him up and throw away the key. His trial was nothing more than a formality. He was essentially finished for life. Why go to all this trouble?”

“Maybe somebody thought jail was too good for him,” Scot offered.

“Maybe. But someone also went to a lot of trouble in Macau to kill Jamek as well. Someone wanted to make sure both Miner and Jamek were definitely dead. Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

Maybe it didn’t make sense to Claudia, but a picture was beginning to form in Harvath’s mind.

While Claudia returned to conducting her investigation, Harvath made plans to leave Switzerland. Where he was headed next was one of the last places he thought he would ever see again.