Harvath didn’t like the cloak-and-dagger routine, but he had little choice but to comply.

The driver never said a word as he headed northwest along the Jaffa Road away from the Old City. Harvath noticed the bulge of a rather large weapon beneath his sport coat and guessed that this was no ordinary taxi driver.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of an old four-story building in the popular Ben Yehuda district. The storefront consisted chiefly of two large windows crammed full of antique furniture, paintings, and fixtures. The gilded sign above the entryway read, “Thames amp; Cherwell Antiques,” followed by translations in Hebrew and Arabic.

With an utter lack of ceremony, the driver popped the power locks and jerked his head toward the left, indicating that Scot should get out of his cab and enter the shop.

“I guess you’re not going to get the door for me, so this is probably good-bye. It was a pleasure chatting with you,” said Harvath as he climbed out of the taxi. Once his passenger was on the pavement, the driver flipped a switch beneath the dash and the door automatically slammed shut.

Neat trick, thought Harvath as the cab sped away down the street.

When he entered the store, a small brass bell above the door announced Harvath’s arrival. He waited a beat, and when no one appeared, began to look around the dimly lit room. It was packed with tapestries, furniture, and no end of faded bric-a-brac.

When he neared a narrow mahogany door, a series of small bulbs in a brass plaque changed from red to green and the door clicked open.

Another neat trick, Harvath thought as he pulled the door toward him to reveal a small, wood-paneled elevator. Once inside, he waited for the door to close on its own, which it did, and then the elevator slowly started to rise. He waited a second for elevator music to kick in and when it didn’t, he started humming “The Girl from Ipanema” to himself.

He was still humming when the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a long hallway, its floor covered by an intricately patterned oriental runner. The walls were painted a deep forest green and were lined with framed prints of foxhunting, fly-fishing, and crumbling abbeys. As Scot walked forward, he noticed infrared sensors placed every few feet and guessed that there were probably pressure sensitive plates beneath the runner. This was one man who took his security precautions very seriously.

At the end of the hall, Scot found himself in a very large room, more dimly lit than the shop downstairs. It was paneled from floor to ceiling, like the elevator, with a rich, deeply colored wood. With its fireplace, billiards table, overstuffed leather chairs and couches, it felt more like a British gentleman’s club than the upper-floor office of a shop in West Jerusalem.

“I apologize for the subterfuge, Mr. Harvath,” came Schoen’s voice from the far corner of the room.

Harvath peered through the semidarkness and could barely make him out. He was sitting near a pair of heavy silk draperies, which had been drawn tight against the windows.

“There are certain people who, if they knew I was still alive, would very much want me dead. So, I do what I have to do,” he continued. “I would be happy to bring the lights up a little, but I want to warn you that you may find my appearance a bit difficult.”

“I think I can handle it,” replied Harvath.

“Lights!” commanded Schoen, and the light level in the room slowly began to increase until he said, “Enough.”

Harvath’s eyes were now able to see that the man was sitting in a wheelchair. As Schoen rolled himself closer, Scot could see that the man’s hands, face, and neck had been terribly burned. Even though Harvath was slightly taken aback by his appearance, he did not allow his face to show what he was feeling.

Schoen’s suit was navy blue, and he wore a white shirt with a British regimental tie. A blue-and-green tartan blanket lay across his legs. Now that he saw the man in person, Harvath realized that his lisp sprang from the fact that a good part of his lips had been burned away from his face.

“Please, Mr. Harvath. Take a seat.” Pleeth, Mr. Harvath…

“Thank you,” Scot replied as he sat down in one of the oxblood leather club chairs and glanced at the silver-framed photographs the man had positioned on an adjacent console table.

“Are you a whiskey man, Mr. Harvath?”

“Scotch whiskey, yes.”

“A man after my own heart.”

Schoen wheeled himself over to an antique globe and lifted the hinged northern hemisphere. He retrieved two glasses and a bottle, placed them on a tray across the arms of his wheelchair, and wheeled himself back over next to the chair Harvath was sitting in.

“Nineteen sixty-three Black Bowmore,” he said as he placed the tray on the small end table between them. “Look at that color, Mr. Harvath. Black as pitch, as my British friends would say.”

“Very nice,” replied Harvath as the man began to pour.

“The whiskey was heavily sherried and aged for a very long time. That’s where this magnificent color comes from.”

“L’chaim,” said Harvath, raising his glass in toast.

“God bless America and may he also save the queen,” said Schoen with a deformed smile.

They savored the rare scotch in silence for a moment. Such was the nature of doing business in the Middle East. First a refreshment was offered and then polite conversation was made until finally the participants arrived at the point. Negotiations over even the smallest of items could take days. But, as the man who sat next to him was a former intelligence agent, Harvath hoped things would move a bit faster.

“You’re quite the anglophile, I notice,” said Scot.

“I was based in London for a very long time.”

“It’s a beautiful city.”

“Indeed. And the countryside is amazing. Espescially the Cots-wolds.”

“Did you spend a lot of time in the countryside while in England?”

“Yes, I visited my son quite often.”

“Really? What does he do?”

“He rowed at university there, but now he’s deceased.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too. All in good time are called to God. Some, though, are called too soon and for the wrong reasons. My son’s loss is the hardest thing I have ever had to bear, but that’s not why you are here. It’s a funny characteristic of the infirm; we learn to live within our memories, the past often being the most pleasant part of our lives, and often forget ourselves in the presence of guests. My day will eventually come, but while I am waiting, let’s talk about why you are here.”

“I’m here because I need information.”

“You want to know what happened that night in Sidon?”

“Yes.”

“To save us both some time, why don’t you tell me what you already know.”

“The night Operation Rapid Return was ambushed, I was in the situation room at the White House. I saw everything up to and including our Special Operations team entering the building where it was thought the president was being held. Then there was the explosion. You were part of the Israeli team on the ground lending logistical support and were the only survivor. Shortly thereafter, the Mossad declared you dead. Why?”

“After the explosion, I tried to ascertain whether there were any other survivors. I didn’t see any, but I did see something else.”

“What?”

“Someone who didn’t belong there.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t part of the mission team and was acting far too calm, considering what had just taken place. I remember thinking he was somehow involved with the explosion and had probably remained behind to make sure the job was done.”

“What did you do?”

“There wasn’t much I could do. I was too badly injured. I raised my pistol and tried to shoot at him, but he got away.”

“What did he look like?” asked Harvath.

“I couldn’t see him very well, but he obviously got a good look at me.”