Path of the Assassin (34 page)

The embassy’s CIA station chief found Meg Cassidy’s insights only somewhat interesting and said as much to Harvath. He reiterated that the CIA’s primary efforts were focused, exactly as they were before, on stopping Hashim Nidal, period.

When it became obvious that the station chief wasn’t going to be of any help, Harvath asked where he could find Morrell.

“He and his team left three hours ago.”

Harvath got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Where did they go? Back to the Point?”

“Actually, we received reliable intelligence that Nidal may be headed for Syria.”

“Where’d that intelligence come from?”

“That’s classified,” replied the station chief.

“I’m part of this operation as well, so you can go ahead and fill me right in.”

“Not anymore you’re not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You and Miss Cassidy have been officially retired from Operation Phantom.”

“By whom?”

“It came down from D.C. You’re done. You’re to stay here and review the Oxford material to try and ID Hashim Nidal’s female accomplice—”

“You mean his sister.”

“That has yet to be proven.”

“And proof is exactly why Miss Cassidy in particular was brought onboard this operation. How are Morrell and his team going to be one hundred percent sure they’ve got Hashim, even if they do find him in Syria?”

“We have a photograph.”

“From where?” said Harvath with a certain degree of amazement.

“Morrell’s team got a few still frames of video from the Robofly during the meeting at the Hijrah Oasis.”

“I didn’t hear anything about that in the debriefing.”

“It came up after you left.”

“Was asked to leave,” corrected Harvath.

“Nevertheless, based on the video stills and what the CIA has been able to gather, Mr. Morrell is confident that his team will be able to take care of Nidal. So, as you can see, they are no longer in need of your assistance.”

“You guys have no idea of the mistake you’re making.”

“Be that as it may, you’re to stay and review the Oxford material in an attempt to identify the woman in question, and then you’ll be flown back to the States via military transport.”

“First class all the way. That’s great. Fine. You guys do it your way. I need to use the bubble.”

“Again? What for this time?”

“I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “That’s classified.”

By the time Harvath was finally able to get through to Lawlor in the situation room at the White House, he had a lot to tell him. Their conversation took over half an hour, during which time Lawlor put Harvath on hold six times while he quickly placed other calls.

Within forty-five minutes of hanging up, an embassy staffer was driving Harvath and Meg to the port at La Goulette. Because of an Italian aviation strike, they had been booked on the
Linee Lauro
overnight ferry to Naples. That was something that never ceased to amaze Harvath about Europe. France, Italy, Greece—they all chose to strike at the busiest times of year, thereby inconveniencing the largest number of people.
But at least the ferries were running,
reasoned Harvath.

Buying a ferry ticket in Tunis on short notice, especially in the summer, was normally an impossibility, but the embassy was able to slice through the red tape. A local Tunisian official met the party at the port and sped Harvath and Meg, along with their new passports, right through passport control and customs.

Onboard, they were shown to a sizable first-class suite, with two double beds, overlooking the bow of the ship. By the time the vessel left port at nine
P.M.
and sailed out of the Gulf of Tunis, Harvath and Meg were already in the main dining room having dinner.

They made small talk as they ate. Harvath was a million miles away. She knew that in his mind he had already landed in Naples and was trying to plot their next move. Wanting to be respectful of his need for space, when dinner was finished, Meg excused herself and returned to their cabin.

Harvath downed a strong espresso and then found his way onto the deserted deck outside. The warm night air was still and smelled of the sea. Far below the railing, where Harvath rested his arms, the ship’s hull displaced a phosphorescent wake of foam. It was the only indication that they were moving. No lights ahead or astern of the ferry were visible. There was nothing but the empty blackness of the wide Mediterranean Sea.

Harvath closed his eyes and listened to the steady rush of water as the vessel plowed through the night toward Italy. He tried to fit together the pieces of everything that had happened. He was looking for a common theme, a thread of some sort. While they had learned a lot, they were still no closer to discovering what Adara Nidal and her brother had planned.

Scot Harvath and Meg Cassidy were still running far behind, playing a losing game of catch-up.

At three o’clock the next afternoon, the
Linee Lauro
ferry sailed into Naples’s harbor and docked at the Stazione Marittima opposite the Piazza Municipo. Harvath and Meg were among the first passengers to disembark.

Outside the terminal they quickly hailed a taxi. Harvath gave the driver the name of the Hotel Santa Lucia, and the cab swung out of the port and headed southwest beneath the shadow of the enormous Castel Nuovo.

Like many international port cities, Naples had more than its fair share of crime. Tourists found themselves preyed upon by everyone from strung-out drug addicts who reached into car windows at stoplights to steal watches and purses, to unscrupulous restaurateurs who mercilessly padded dinner bills. Most of the city’s neighborhoods were shabby and run-down, with laundry hanging from every balcony, window, and dingy alleyway. Pollution, poverty, and chaos held sway over the entire city.

One of Naples’s few redeeming areas was the neighborhood fronting the small fisherman’s marina of Santa Lucia. When the taxi stopped at 46 Via Partenope, Harvath paid the driver with the few remaining Euros he had been given at the embassy in Tunisia, and he and Meg pushed through the revolving door into the lobby of the grand hotel.

Harvath steered Meg toward the lobby bar and told her to order sandwiches while he picked up something from the front desk. He gave the concierge his name, and she disappeared into the office, returning moments later with a large, padded manila envelope. Taped to the envelope was a confirmation form for a private water taxi to the island of Capri with a company called Taxi Del Mare. Harvath thanked the concierge and silently said a thank-you to Gary Lawlor. Lawlor had dispatched an agent from the FBI’s legal attaché office at the U.S. Embassy in Rome with exactly what he needed. Judging by the heft of the envelope, it was all there.

Harvath made his way to the men’s room and, once he was sure he was alone, entered the last stall and locked the door. He tore open the top of the envelope and removed a smaller envelope filled with European currency. He broke the stack of bills into small piles and slid them into various pockets. Then he removed a blue black nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power pistol with two extra clips of ammunition and a small holster. He clipped the Browning to the inside of his waistband at the small of his back, covered it with his shirt and left the men’s room.

The Bay of Naples was known for its often roiling seas, and today was no exception. The sleek, sunburst yellow Taxi Del Mare yacht pounded over the crest of each wave, slamming down into the troughs on the other side. Sea spray covered the boat, along with its crew and two passengers. Though it was a perfectly sunny late afternoon, the captain kept the windshield wipers at full speed as sheets of warm water blasted over the bow and splashed down the wide expanse of deck.

Harvath was in his element. He had always loved the water. He watched the city of Naples recede into the distance and then looked off to the east, where he watched Mount Vesuvius, towering high above Pompeii, grow smaller and smaller. Off the port bow was Sorrento and dead ahead, the island of Capri.

The six-mile trip from Naples had taken nearly forty-five minutes. As the boat pulled into Capri’s Marina Grande, the first mate hopped onto the pier with a long white line in each hand. Once the lines were secure, he ran off in search of a taxicab for his passengers.

Harvath helped Meg onto the pier and then stood next to her, to experience his first glimpse of Capri. The water of the harbor was a deep azure blue, punctuated by rows of brightly colored fishing boats. Short green trees clung tightly to the island’s rocky limestone cliffs, which rose in two distinct peaks marking the tiny towns of Capri and Anacapri.

The first mate quickly returned with one of Capri’s signature taxis—a convertible minivan. It drove up a long and winding switchback along which throngs of tourists slowly made their way downhill to the marina to catch the last ferry of the evening.

When they arrived at the four-star Hotel Capri, Meg went up to the room to freshen up while Harvath convinced the manager to allow him a few minutes on the hotel’s computer to check his e-mail. Alone in the manager’s office, Harvath logged on to the seemingly innocuous web site of an Israeli drywall manufacturer. Having been instructed by Schoen on how to navigate the site, he quickly found what he was looking for. Buried several layers down and accessible only by clicking on sections of seemingly random web images, Harvath found the surveillance photos taken by Schoen’s associates in Marbella of Marcel Hamdi and his two-hundred-fifty-foot Feadship yacht, the
Belle Étoile
. It was just as Schoen had described it. Something that big would not be hard to spot, even off Capri.

But there had been no sign of any yacht as large as the
Belle Étoile
in the Marina Grande. From what the captain of the Taxi Del Mare said, the big boats preferred the privacy and exclusivity of the Marina Piccola, on the other side of the island. Harvath had shared Schoen’s description of the
Belle Étoile
with the captain, who had picked up passengers from the Marina Piccola earlier that afternoon, but he replied he had not seen a vessel of that size anywhere around Capri that day.
Maybe,
thought Harvath,
they had finally arrived somewhere first
.
Or maybe they were on a wild-goose chase
.

He logged off the manager’s computer and went upstairs to the room. Large French windows gave onto an incredible view of the sea, with Sorrento off in the distance. A light breeze stirred the curtains and cooled the room. The sun was starting to set, and Harvath was anxious to get moving. He was about to knock on the bathroom door when Meg stepped out. She was still wearing the same clothes she had had on since boarding the ferry in Tunisia, but even wrinkled and two days old, they couldn’t diminish how beautiful she was.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” he said as he squeezed past her into the bathroom to examine his tired face in the mirror. He splashed cold water on his face and ran his fingers through his short brown hair.

“Where do you want to start?” asked Meg as she crossed to the minibar and retrieved a bottle of mineral water.

“Even though the captain said he hadn’t seen Hamdi’s yacht on the Marina Piccola side of the island, I want to give it a shot, especially since that’s where the picture you saw of Adara was taken,” said Harvath as he came out of the bathroom. “There are some brochures and tourist maps in the lobby. We’ll get somebody behind the desk to help mark all the spots that sell Caprissimo perfume.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll go to each one and inquire as to whether or not they are familiar with our little friend.”

“We’ll also need a pair of binoculars if we’re going looking for that yacht, but there’ll be a shop with them every fifteen feet. What we really need is some new clothes. I’m not wearing these another day,” said Meg as she pulled her shirt away from her body. “If we’re going to go around asking questions about the well-heeled Adara Nidal, we’d better look like we belong here. The last thing we want is for her to see us coming.”

Meg Cassidy had no idea how right she really was.

Going to the marina first was the right decision. By the time the hotel manager had marked a map with all of the shops they were interested in visiting and they had bought a pair of binoculars, the sun was almost gone. The low light sparkling on the water cast every boat in shadow. Even so, there was nothing even remotely the size of the
Belle Étoile
at anchor.

As they returned to Capri Town, tourists, honeymooners, and young Italian couples strolled slowly past walled villas spilling over with bougainvillea and other fragrant flowers. A large part of the island’s charm was that most of it was pedestrianized, but every once and a while a little motorized cart drove by with a porter, carrying luggage for one of the island’s many hotels.

When they arrived back in the heart of Capri Town, Harvath didn’t need to enter any of the boutiques. Just seeing the names Fendi, Gucci, Ferragamo and Hermès were enough to give any man, even one with pockets stuffed full of cash, sticker shock. To her credit, Meg was an incredible bargain hunter. She knew exactly where to look and what to ask for. It wasn’t the labels she wanted, it was the look. She shopped faster than anyone Harvath had ever known. When it was all said and done, they looked like a handsome jet-set couple with lots of money to spend as they carried several bags from Capri’s more upscale shops. Better yet, they now were able to completely blend in.

The first place on their list was the Carthusia perfume showroom at number 10 Via Camerelle. Harvath had agreed with Meg that it would seem less suspicious if she asked the questions and he looked like the bored husband being dragged around on a day of shopping.

Meg approached the counter, where an attractive, very tastefully dressed blond woman in her late forties was patiently waiting as a salesgirl made a phone call to one of the other shops on her behalf.

“May I help you?” said a second salesgirl who came around behind the counter from the showroom floor. Her English had a heavy Italian accent, and “help” sound more like “elp.”

“Yes,” said Meg, who pretended to be looking over the merchandise. “I am looking for a certain type of perfume.”

“Of course. We have many lovely perfumes. What are you looking for?”

“We had dinner with a woman who was wearing it. I think she said it was called Caprissimo?”

“Yes. This is a very nice perfume, but unfortunately we do not have it in this shop.”

“Do you ususally sell it here?” asked Meg.

“Yes, but right now we are out of it.”

“But they might be able to find it for you,” offered the blond lady standing next to Meg. “They’re calling the other shops for me right now. If you pay for it here, they’ll deliver it to your hotel.”

“Certainly,” returned the salesgirl. “You pay now and we will have it brought to the hotel. Are you staying at the Quisisana?”

Harvath shot Meg a look, but it was unnecessary. She would not needlessly divulge what hotel they were staying at. “Actually, we’re not. The woman who wore the perfume was very kind, and without our knowing it, paid for our dinner last night. I was hoping you might know who she is or possibly where she is staying so we could repay the favor.”

“Are you on your honeymoon?” interrupted the blond woman with a wide smile.

Meg looked at Harvath and he grinned. “Yes, we are,” she replied as she slid her left hand behind her back, hiding her naked ring finger.

“I knew it! I just knew it,” proclaimed the woman. “You two are just too adorable.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Meg, who turned her attention back to the salesgirl. “I’m sure you would know this woman if I described her. She is very beautiful, with long black hair.”

“Signora, you have just described over half the women in Italy,” replied the salesgirl.

“She is tall and has the most beautiful eyes. They look like silver. I’m sure very few women in Italy have eyes like that.”

“I do not know this woman. Maybe she has been here to buy perfume and she was wearing sunglasses. Maybe another girl in the shop was helping her. I’m sorry.”

Meg was disappointed. She sensed that this was going to be a losing battle, but she didn’t want to give up. It was one of the only leads they had. “Perhaps one of your colleagues assisted her. It would mean so much for us to repay her kindness. Would you ask your associates for us? We would be happy to wait.”

“Signora, tonight it is only two of us. Me and Francesca. During the day we have three different girls, sometimes others to help on the weekends. I cannot ask all of them. It would be too difficult. I am sorry. You understand I am sure, yes?”

Yes, Meg understood, but she didn’t like it. The blond woman could see the disappointment written on her face and said, “Why don’t you find a nice table at one of the cafés on the square and see if she walks by when everybody’s doing the
passeggiata
—the evening stroll? Anybody who is anybody on Capri eventually walks through the Piazzetta.”

The idea that Adara Nidal might just casually parade by them was about as far-fetched as tracking her down based on where she bought her perfume. Harvath and Meg thanked the woman and the salesgirl, and then left the shop.

They visited all of the other locations on their list only to find that no one they spoke to remembered ever having waited on a woman matching Adara’s description. The salespeople were always very apologetic and said that many of their customers wore sunglasses, even in the evening. This could account for their not remembering the stranger who had supposedly picked up Meg and Scot’s dinner check. They were repeatedly told that this was not unusual on Capri and that they should enjoy the mystery of it. One older gentleman went so far as to say the angels above had blessed their marriage with a complimentary meal. When pressed, they all returned to the same suggestion the blond woman at their first stop had made—to park themselves at a table on the Piazzetta and wait.

When they returned to Capri Town from Anacapri, Harvath was not in the best of moods. His feet were sore from his new shoes, and he hadn’t eaten since Naples. Meg suggested that they drop their shopping bags in the hotel and give the Piazzetta a shot. Harvath reluctantly agreed.

They found an outdoor table, several rows in, against the wall of one of the busy cafés, partially obscured from view by a row of potted trees.

After several hours of people watching and several tiny cups of high-octane Italian coffee, Harvath decided a new approach was in order. They drifted from disco to disco and high-end hotel lobby to high-end hotel lobby, hoping to get lucky. The sun was coming up when Harvath and Meg made one more fruitless trip to the marina, then finally headed back to the hotel to get some sleep.