“Why do you say that?”

“After that night, I was subjected to many long and painful surgeries. To make a long story short, while I was convalescing, the man reappeared and tried to kill me.”

“How can you be sure it was the same person?”

“Because of the eyes.”

Harvath’s body tensed.

“Never in my life have I seen eyes like those,” continued Schoen in a slow, deliberate voice. “They were silver, like the color of cold, polished knife blades.”

Silence filled the room for several moments. Schoen had struck a nerve. Harvath’s silence was an admission that he knew those silver eyes all too well himself.

“But why would he want to kill you?” asked Harvath, trying to sort through the implications of Schoen’s account.

“I think he believes I saw his face and could identify him. Terrorists’ anonymity is often their best weapon, especially these days. The last thing they need is someone who can identify them in an international court or, worse still, mount a campaign to track them down and take them out. I was a loose end that needed to be tied up.”

“So what happened?”

“Two colleagues of mine happened to come to visit quite unexpectedly that evening. They arrived just in time. I was in no condition to defend myself. They surprised the killer, and he leapt from the second-story window of my hospital room. One of my colleagues chased him, but the man managed to escape. Shortly thereafter, I was moved to a secret facility to complete my rehabilitation.”

“And you’ve been in hiding ever since?”

“I don’t look at it as hiding, Mr. Harvath. I look at it as a sort of early retirement. I get to keep my hand in the game and sleep at night. Not a lot of people can do that.”

“That’s true, but if I found you, what’s to stop someone else?”

“You found me because I wanted you to find me. We have a common interest, you and I.”

“Which is?”

“We both want to get our hands on whoever was responsible for the explosion that killed your Special Operations team and turned me into the shell of a man you see before you.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Yes.”

“Have you acted on them?”

“In my own way, I have.”

“What about your government? You lost good agents on that assignment as well.”

“That is a sticky situation as you Americans say. My government seems either unable or unwilling to bring this matter to a close, even though I have been able to gather what I feel is considerable evidence.”

“I can’t understand why, but I can guarantee you that my government has every intention of bringing to justice whoever was involved in the murder of our operatives.”

“I was counting on that.”

“Well, keep on counting. I am going to personally see to it that each and every one of them pays. I made a promise, and I have the full backing of the United States.”

“Excellent. Why don’t you take your drink and follow me. I want to show you what I have been able to compile so far.”

Schoen took his time laying out the evidence he had gathered and his theory. When he was finished, Scot could understand why the Israeli government was skeptical. Any single piece of evidence examined by itself was nothing more than circumstantial. Even lumping it all together, there were still huge holes, but in Schoen’s defense, there was somewhat of a pattern, especially when he filled in the blanks and explained what he felt the real story was.

“Interesting,” said Harvath as he drained the last of his Bowmore.

“It’s more than interesting, Mr. Harvath; it’s conclusive.”

Scot knew it was a good hunch, but it was far from conclusive. Schoen wanted vengeance so badly he could taste it, like bile in his throat. Harvath felt sorry for him. His life was ruined. His only son was dead, and he wanted to hold somebody accountable for what had gone wrong with the world, his world. Somebody needed to pay. Harvath knew the feeling. There were some things in life that could never be forgiven or forgotten. The ambush that wiped out the Rapid Return team and burned Ari Schoen so terribly was one of those things.

“Ari, I give you my word. Whoever is behind this thing, I am going to take them down.”

“I want to be there when it happens,” said Schoen.

“That’s a promise I can’t make.”

“Then at least keep me in the loop. I have access to a lot of sources and a lot of information. I could be quite valuable to you. Think of me as kind of your man behind the curtain.”

“I’ll tell you what. I am going to look into this further and maybe I’d be willing to share information with you, but it’s a two-way street. I’d expect you to update me with anything you come across.”

“Deal.”

They traded secure phone numbers, and Scot thanked him again for the scotch. Schoen showed him to the elevator and they shook hands. Harvath wasn’t humming on the way down. He felt terrible for the man. That said, everyone knew there was an inherent risk in the job. It was one of those things operatives always thought about-“getting killed, or worse.” Schoen was a prime example of what “or worse” could be. Scot wondered if maybe Schoen would have been better off dying that night.

10

Harvath exited Thames amp; Cherwell Antiques, turned left, and was making his way back toward the Jaffa Road when he heard the squeal of tires.

Just as he turned to look for the source of the noise, three men jumped out of a parked car right in front of him. They were solid, with muscles bulging beneath their suit coats. Their fashionable clothing seemed oddly out of place. Each pair of eyes was set in a cold, hard stare as they closed in on him.

“What is this all about?” Harvath asked, but the men didn’t respond.

At that moment, Harvath heard the squeal of tires again, this time as a white baker’s van pulled into the street next to them and stopped. When the side door began to slide open, he knew their little party was about to get bigger. Harvath didn’t wait for additional men to climb out of the van.

With a swift chop, he popped the man opposite him in the windpipe and watched him crumple to the pavement like a flimsy paper doll. The other two men were on him in an instant. The first man made the mistake of lunging for Harvath’s collar. Harvath grabbed his hand and bent it back over his forearm in a move known in the Japanese art of aikido as kotegaeshi. The man landed smack on his back on the pavement. When the second man came for him, Harvath reversed the energy of his attack and threw him with a move known as irimi nage. The man’s head hit the fender of a nearby car, tearing a large, bleeding gash above his right eye.

The first attacker Harvath had put down had righted himself and now sprang from the pavement. Harvath met him halfway with a well swung elbow, catching the man full force in the mouth. He howled in pain as he spat blood and teeth into the street.

Before Harvath could make another move, a second group of men jumped from the van and pinned him down. Someone produced a hypo-gun and jabbed the sharp tip into his shoulder. The drug worked immediately. Harvath’s vision started to dim, but not before he saw a face that he thought he recognized.