Brad Thor - Path Of The Assassin

Harvath cracked the fire-stair door and looked out into the hall once more. The coast was clear. While Harvath held the Browning on Harris, Meg slipped into the hall and walked toward the elevators. She picked up a house phone and dialed housekeeping.

“Housekeeping. May I help you?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Well, someone better,” said Meg, adopting a haughty tone. “I want fresh towels placed in my room, three-twelve, before I return from dinner.” Then she hung up before housekeeping could ask her name. While Adara Nidal might have told Harris her name was Penny Stratton, there was no telling what name she had used to register at the Capri Palace. The housekeeping operator was probably offended at having been hung up upon, but doubtless it wasn’t the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last. The Capri Palace was all about impeccable service, no matter how rude the guests. Harvath was sure that the towels would be sent right up.

Right up, was an understatement. Meg had had just enough time to hide herself in another stairway before the maid appeared. The woman knocked once at the door and announced herself before using her passkey to unlock it. She placed a wedge beneath the door to keep it open and walked back into the bathroom. Meg quietly exited the stairwell and made her way down to room 312 as quickly as possible. The maid was startled to see Meg standing in the room when she came out of the bathroom.

“Did you put my extra towels in the bathroom?” asked Meg.

“Yes, Signora.”

“Good.”

“Shall I turn down the bed for you?”

“No. I’ll do it myself when I am ready.”

“Yes, Signora,” said the maid as she gave Meg a wide berth and backed out of the room. Obviously, somebody in housekeeping had passed the word that the woman in 312 was not very nice. “Buona notte.”

The maid closed the door behind her, and several moments later there was a knock from Harvath. Meg opened the door, and Harvath shoved Harris into the room with the muzzle of the Browning. He sat him down in a chair against the wall as he began to tear apart the room. He was looking for anything Adara might have left behind indicating where she was going or what her plans were.

New clothes, many with tags still on them, hung in the closet. All of her cosmetics were new as well. Harvath found a bottle of Caprissimo perfume in the bathroom and popped his head out for a moment to show Meg. He continued his search under the bathroom sink, behind the dresser, inside and underneath drawers, all throughout the closets, under the mattresses, and behind the headboard. He even looked for loose pieces of carpeting. There was nothing.

Going back through the room a second time, Harvath noticed several foreign newspapers stacked on the desk, all folded over to the same story. Le Monde, Der Spiegel, The Times of London, and The International Herald Tribune each carried a piece with more or less the same headline, “Israeli and Palestinian Leaders to Meet on Peace.” In light of the failed U.S. attempts at brokering a lasting peace, the European Union had organized a meeting in Italy to try and calm the tensions in the region before they erupted into war. Just like the Americans, they had chosen a serene, bucolic setting similar to Camp David-a sixteenth-century villa called the Villa Aldobrandini, in the hilltop town of Frascati, just outside Rome. Attending would be the Israeli prime minister and, of course, chief Palestinian negotiator Ali Hasan. That was it!

Harvath now knew what Adara Nidal had planned and could pretty much figure out why; all he needed now was how.

After tearing apart the room for a third time, Harvath sat on the edge of the bed and turned on the TV. He handed Meg the newspaper articles, and she immediately came to the same conclusion.

Harvath used the remote to select the automated-checkout feature. He clicked on charges and noticed that the room had not been billed for any faxes or phone calls.

“Did your girlfriend have a cell phone?” asked Harvath without looking at Harris.

“Not that I know of,” he replied.

“Did you see her send or receive any faxes? Did she have a laptop at all that she might have used?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see her talking to anyone else? Maybe someone you didn’t recognize?”

“I never saw anything like that, but I did hear something.”

Harvath turned around to face Harris. “You heard something? What did you hear?”

“We spent a lot of time in my room, you know. Even though she had her own room, I kind of gave her one of my keycards, so she could-”

“You said you overheard something. What was it?”

“I came back to the room one time from the pool, and she was finishing up a phone call.”

“She was using the phone in your room?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“That’s it,” said Harvath, jumping off the bed. He pointed the Browning at Harris. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” asked Harris.

“Your place.”

Harvath called down to the front desk from Harris’s room, and they automatically assumed it was Neal Harris calling. Within ten minutes, a large white envelope was slid under the door, detailing Mr. Harris’s room charges to date. Meg quickly scanned the list while Harvath bound and gagged Harris. She came up with three calls, all to the same phone number. She recognized the city code right away-Rome.

Harvath spent most of the night talking to Gary Lawlor from their hotel room in Capri Town. In addition to everything they discussed, Lawlor agreed to arrange for the Italian authorities to hold on to Neal Harris for a little while, just to make sure his story checked out. When morning came, Scot and Meg were the first ones aboard the hydrofoil for Naples. Thankfully, the waters of the bay were, for once, perfectly calm.

They caught the morning Eurostar train for Rome and arrived an hour and forty-five minutes later. A cab took them northwest across the city to one of Rome’s quieter and less known areas called the Prati district. The phone number dialed from Neal Harris’s room on Capri belonged to a tiny fabric shop called Dolce Silvestri. Adara Nidal had placed three calls to the shop, each one lasting for several minutes. Harvath doubted that she was planning to do any redecorating.

As they turned the corner and looked for a place to have the driver drop them off, Meg said, “Scot, look! Dante Taberna De Gracchi! When Adara served us dinner, my plate was from this restaurant.”

Harvath signaled the cabdriver to keep going. Once he felt they were a safe distance away, he paid the driver and he and Meg got out of the cab. They walked back toward the fabric shop, found a secluded spot halfway up the block, and waited.

If this was a typical day of business, Harvath had no idea how the shop could stay open. No one entered and no one left.

The Eternal City of Rome, with its dark cobbled streets, baked like an oven. The temperature was almost unbearable. Late afternoon began to turn to early evening, and just when Harvath thought nothing was going to happen, a large black Mercedes crept around the corner and came to a quick stop outside the shop. When he saw the Middle Eastern driver, his antennae shot straight up. Three more Middle Eastern men dressed in business suits, got out and entered the shop, while the car sped away.

Minutes passed and then the shop lights were extinguished. A balding, heavyset man of undistinguishable origin, exited the shop, pulled a ring of keys from beneath his blazer, locked the door, and headed down the street away from Harvath and Meg.

“That’s a little strange,” said Meg.

“More than a little. He just locked his three buddies inside.”

“What do you want to do?”