Brad Thor - Path Of The Assassin

The man stood up from his chair and removed a long knife from inside the folds of his robe. He spoke as he began to make his way around the desk, “You will find, Mr. Harvath, that I am quite good at getting what I want with a knife.”

“First of all, it’s Agent Harvath to you, and second of all-” Harvath was interrupted by an unseen backhand from the guard.

Harvath tasted blood in his mouth and spat onto the guard’s robes, saying in Arabic, “Let your mother clean that up for you.”

The guard was incensed, and as he raised his rifle to bring it crashing down upon Harvath’s head, a voice rang out from the back of the room.

“Enough!” it shouted. It was a woman’s voice, but it hadn’t come from Meg Cassidy.

The covered figure in the back of the room unwound a dusty kaffiyeh to reveal the face of one of the most beautiful women Scot Harvath had ever seen. Her long black hair tumbled down to her shoulders and framed the near perfect features of her face. She appeared neither Middle Eastern nor western, but somehow a mystical combination of the two that came together to form an otherworldly beauty.

Immediately, Harvath was drawn to her eyes, which had momentarily flashed deep black, but were now returning to an almost platinum color. The assassin! But she was a woman. Harvath didn’t believe what he was seeing.

In perfect English with a hint of a British accent, she said, “You must forgive my brother. He is sometimes overzealous in his approach, but his intentions are admirable.”

“Do not patronize me,” spat the bearded man as he rolled up the sleeves of his robe so he could go to work on Harvath.

“Me? A simple woman? Patronize you? Oh, Hashim, please, do not think me so insubordinate,” said the woman with a feigned curtsy.

The truth hit Harvath, hard. It took only a moment to sort it all out. “All this time that we were looking for Abu Nidal’s son,” he said, “and we should have been looking for-”

“His daughter, Adara Nidal,” said the woman as she locked eyes with Harvath and made another curtsy, this one much more genuine.

“Adara,” repeated Harvath. “Interesting name. It’s Arabic for ‘virgin,’ isn’t it?”

“And to the Jews, it means ‘fire.’”

“Your father certainly was creative in naming you two.”

The bearded man raised his knife and nodded toward the guards, who tightened their grip on Harvath. “We are wasting time.”

“Leave him alone,” Meg screamed.

“Of course,” said Hashim, stopping in his tracks and turning to face Meg. “Mr. Harvath is very brave. He is a soldier and is most likely no stranger to pain. You, on the other hand, are different.” Hashim Nidal ran the flat of his blade along Meg Cassidy’s cheek until the point rested just underneath her eye. He applied just enough upward pressure to cause an involuntary fluttering of her lids.

“What do you want?” growled Harvath, struggling against the grip the guards had on him. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Everyone knows something, Mr. Harvath. The question is how to arrive at the information, and I think I have found a way to make you more cooperative.”

“Don’t you touch her,” snarled Harvath.

“You are commanding me?” said Hashim as he ran his hands over Meg’s body.

“You will not defile that woman here. Not in my presence,” said Adara.

“I will do what I like, where I like,” replied the brother as he lowered his blade and ran it along the inside of Meg’s thighs. Tears were now streaming down her face. The nightmare had once again returned.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” warned Harvath. This was a torture worse than anything they could have dreamed for Meg, and Scot knew it. He strained against his captors with all of his might, but they held fast.

“Mr. Harvath, you are in no position to tell me what to do. As I told my sister, I do as I like, where I-”

His rant was interrupted by Adara, who, slipping unseen across the room as her brother’s attention was riveted on Meg, landed a searing blow to the side of his head.

Enraged, the man spun on his sister, but she spoke first. “Your indiscretions have cost us dearly. I will not permit another. Agent Harvath will tell us what the Americans know about our plans. I guarantee you.”

“You forget yourself, sister,” said Hashim. His eyes smoldered and his face was flushed with embarrassment at being so demeaned.

“I forget nothing. Your place is not to disagree with me. Our father made clear-”

“Our father was a sick old man.”

“How dare you?” hissed Adara. “You have sworn your loyalty and obedience.”

Hashim Nidal hated to be seen taking orders from a woman, but he backed down. There was no question left as to who was in charge. He glared at his sister, who never broke eye contact. She commanded the guards in Arabic, and as Scot and Meg were herded out the opposite door, Hashim called after them in English, “We have only just begun. I will come for each of you later.”

And I’ll be waiting, thought Harvath.

The minute the guards locked Harvath in his room, his evasion-and-escape training took over. He needed to find something, anything, that could be used as a weapon or aid in their escape, and he needed to find it before Hashim Nidal came back for them.

Whoever had retrofitted the guest room as a glorified holding cell had done an extremely good job. Everything was either bolted to the floor or the wall. The holes that served as windows were barred from the outside, there were no accessible light fixtures, no springs in the mattress or the bed frame, and there wasn’t even any glass in the bathroom.

An hour later, Harvath’s search was interrupted by the sound of his door being unlocked. His time was up. He would have to face Hashim empty-handed.

When the door opened, he saw Meg standing in the hallway flanked by the same guards from earlier that day. “Where are we going?” he asked in Arabic. One of the men just motioned him outside with his assault rifle. Harvath shook his head, No.

The other guard grabbed a handful of Meg Cassidy’s hair and yanked hard, causing her to cry out. Harvath gave in and came out of his room.

He and Meg were paraded down several hallways to an elaborate dining room. Muted frescoes adorned the walls, and a large chandelier hung from the arched ceiling. Two candelabras on a sideboard provided additional light. Sitting at the head of the long, rough wooden table eating her dinner was Adara.

“Quite lovely, isn’t it?” she asked as the guards marched Scot and Meg to the head of the table and then took up positions behind them. “This whole complex was once a secret stronghold of the Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem. Colonel Gadhafi presented it to my father as a gift.”

“Pretty generous guy,” said Harvath.

“You’ll find that generosity is a cornerstone of our culture. In fact, I am prepared to make you a very generous offer. But first, you must be hungry. How would you like something to eat?”

Adara Nidal rang a small silver bell next to her wineglass, and a servant appeared. She gave him instructions in Arabic, and he quickly set two more places at the table.

“Please, sit,” she said.

“We’re not interested,” replied Harvath.

“Please do not be impolite, Agent Harvath. You would do well to take advantage of my generosity. The alternatives are not very pleasant.”

A rifle barrel jammed in his back encouraged Harvath to accept the woman’s hospitality.

“Excellent,” she said. “Yes, you sit there, Agent Harvath, and Ms. Cassidy will take the seat here next to me.”

As Meg took her seat next to Adara, she noticed, a faint scent that she thought she recognized. Her thoughts, though, were disrupted when their hostess raised the bottle in front of her and asked, “Ms. Cassidy, may I pour you some wine? It’s quite nice. A Frascati. Wine of the popes, they say. This is a Santa Teresa Superiore, one of the best.”