The First Commandment

CHAPTER 54

Tell him the imam is not well. He must come quickly so that they may read from the Koran one last time together.”

When Tammam Al-Tal’s wife finished delivering the carefully scripted message, Harvath pulled the phone away from her ear and hung up. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Mrs. Al-Tal didn’t need to be reminded about what would happen if she didn’t do and say everything exactly as they had rehearsed.

Harvath lifted the phone back up to her ear and leaned in to listen.

Abdel Salam Najib had a deep, penetrating voice. He spoke in quick, authoritative clips and was every bit as arrogant as his mentor. “Why did the imam not call himself?”

“He is too weak,” Al-Tal’s wife responded in Arabic. Her words were thick with panic and fear.

“He is dying, then.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“How much longer does he have?” asked the man.

“We have been told he will probably not live through the night.”

“You are still at the apartment?”

“Yes. The doctors wanted to move him to the hospital, but Tammam refused.”

Najib scolded her. “You should know better than to use his name over the phone.”

Harvath tensed. Was she trying to tip Najib or was it an honest mistake? Harvath had no way of knowing. Pulling a tactical MOD fighting knife from his pocket, he opened the blade and pressed it against the woman’s throat. Harvath agreed with Najib. She should know better, much better.

Al-Tal’s wife choked back a terrified sob. “He wishes to be taken back to Syria, but the doctors have told us the journey would only hasten his passing.”

“The doctors are right,” said the operative. “The imam should not be moved. Who is in the house with you?”

The woman spoke slowly, careful not to phrase the information in any way that might get her into trouble. “Our son is here, of course, as is the imam’s nurse. There is also another friend who came with us from home and attends to the imam’s safety and comfort.”

Najib knew both the bodyguard and the son. They could be trusted. The nurse, though, he didn’t know. “Have you learned how to administer your husband’s medications?”

The question took her by surprise. “His medications?”

“Yes. His morphine.”

She had no idea how to answer. It wasn’t a question she had been expecting. She looked to Harvath, who firmly shook his head no.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she answered.

“Well, you must learn,” replied Najib. “There will not be much to do, not if the imam is actively dying. Command the nurse to teach you what to do and then let him go. The imam and I have important things to discuss before he leaves to see the Prophet, may peace be upon Him. I do not want the nurse in the apartment when we speak.”

Harvath nodded and Mrs. Al-Tal’s voice cracked, “It will be done.”

Najib was silent for several moments. Harvath began to worry that he might suspect something. He’d come too far to lose him. What the hell was he waiting for?

Finally, Najib said, “I will be there by the evening prayer service. Is there anything special the imam would like me to bring to him?”

Unsure of how to respond, the woman looked at Harvath, who shook his head. “Nothing,” she answered. “Just come quickly.”

“Tell the imam that he must wait for me.”

“I will,” responded the woman, the tears welling up in her eyes.

The conversation over, Harvath took the phone and replaced it in its cradle. Najib had taken the bait and the hook was set. All that was left to do was to reel him in. But Harvath knew all too well that you never celebrated until the fish was actually in the boat.