14
When Scot awoke to sunlight streaming through a nearby window, the first thing he noticed was that he was no longer flexi-cuffed. There was an IV in his left arm, but other than that, he could move freely. He was lying down and had been covered with a blanket. A figure hovered at the foot of his bed.
“What the hell is going on? Where am I?” he asked as the figure began to take the shape of a middle-aged man in a dark, pin-striped suit.
“You were oversedated and have been out for quite some time,” said the man. “I believe we owe you an apology, Agent Harvath.”
“This has gone far beyond an apology. You can get in line behind Morrell and I’ll deal with you next. I want some answers, now. Who are you and where am I?” Scot said groggily as he struggled to sit upright. His head was pounding and he was none too happy about it.
Someone had been standing in a corner of the room and that person now approached. Harvath recognized the voice immediately. It was his friend, the deputy director of the FBI, Gary Lawlor. “You’re outside Williamsburg, Virginia, at Camp Peary.”
“Gary? What the hell are you doing here? Better yet, what the hell am I doing here, and what have they done to me? My head feels like it’s been split open with a sledgehammer,” Scot said.
“I’m afraid we may have gotten our signals crossed,” answered the man in the pin-striped suit.
“I can guarantee you did,” said Scot. He noticed a pitcher on the bedside table. “Is that just plain water, or have you CIA guys put something funny in it?”
“No, it’s plain water,” said the man, who poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to Scot.
After draining the cup, he handed it back to the man for a refill and took another long swallow before he spoke. “There’d better be a damn good reason why your Harvey Point guys jumped me and brought me here to the farm.”
“I can’t fully address that issue. There are certain classified operations of the Central Intelligence Agency which I am not permitted to speak about.”
“What, that Camp Peary is the CIA’s spy school, better known as the Farm, or that Harvey Point, North Carolina, is where your hard-core paramilitary training goes on? Don’t bullshit me. My head hurts too much. I know Rick Morrell. I also know what goes on at Harvey Point.”
“Agent Harvath, I can’t talk about-”
“Fine, let’s back up. First, who are you?”
“My name is Frank Mraz. I’m deputy director of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations.”
“The DO, wonderful. Also known as the Clandestine Service.”
“We don’t really call it that anymore.”
“Different name, same game. Just like Delta Force is now called Combat Applications Group and SEAL Six is Dev Group. Like I said, different name, same game. Morrell and his boys are part of your paramilitary SAS branch-the Special Activities Staff, aren’t they?”
“Once again, I can’t comment on any ongoing-”
“Jesus Christ, Frank,” Lawlor piped in. “We all know about Harvey Point. Agent Harvath is a former SEAL and an active Secret Service agent. Both the SEALs and Secret Service undergo training at Harvey Point. If we’re going to work together on this, let’s actually work together. Okay?”
“I am happy to be as cooperative as my position allows,” said Mraz.
“I’ll make it easy on you,” said Harvath. “Your SAS squad-”
“I have not confirmed that Mr. Morrell and his colleagues are Special Activities Staff, or that such a group even exists.”
Gary Lawlor rolled his eyes.
Harvath continued, “Hey, SAS, NFL, NBA…you can call them the fuckin’ Beach Boys for all I care, but they are under your command, and I’m sure they’ve each got a parking space at Harvey Point. You don’t have to confirm or deny. I know the score. I’m going to also bet that plane Morrell and company brought me back over the pond on is part of your Air Branch fleet, formerly known as Air America. Once again, different name, same game. I want to know why I got jumped in Jerusalem.”
“Would you believe it was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?” asked Mraz.
“I wouldn’t patronize him, if I were you Frank,” said Lawlor.
“I’m not trying to be patronizing.”
“Then cut to the chase,” snapped Scot.
“Our sources indicate that Schoen has been trying to penetrate the Abu Nidal Organization.”
“Of course he has. He believes they’re behind the ambush of our Rapid Return operation.”
“He admitted that to you?”
“Sure, but I wasn’t too prepared to believe it. His theory, as well as his evidence has too many holes in it. If you really want to believe it, it makes sense, but if you look at it piece by piece, it just doesn’t hold together.”
“Well, we think it does. We’ve had him under surveillance and knew that he had been trying to hire some outside talent for a covert operation he’s working on. When we received word that he had possibly recruited a key Western intelligence operative and then you appeared out of the blue and spent several hours in his private offices, it was thought you might be in bed with him, and so you were picked up.”
“That’s it? That’s your justification for snatching me and pumping me full of God knows what? Why didn’t you just ask me what I was doing there?”
“Would you have told us?”
“Probably not, but it would have been the polite thing to do.”
“Polite or not, we did what we had to. In all fairness, it wasn’t until CIA director Vaile made some phone calls that we finally realized you were operating under direct orders from the president. And it wasn’t until Mr. Morrell had you on the plane that he recognized who you were.”
“Bullshit, he knew the minute he saw me in Jerusalem.”
“Be that as it may, he had his orders and he followed them.”
“Orders or not, he made this personal,” said Harvath, as even more anger crept into his voice.
“Whether or not that’s the case, is not germane to the ongoing crisis.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What do you know about an Israeli terrorist group calling itself the Hand of God?”
“Nothing much more than they have been behind two very high profile attacks against Arab targets recently,” answered Harvath.
“Three attacks.”
“Three? Since when?”
“It hasn’t been released to the press yet, but we got word early this morning from Paris that Prince Khalil of the Saudi royal family was killed while swimming at the Ritz hotel.”
“Killed how?”
“Somebody spiked the pool with a very deadly toxic chemical,” said Lawlor. “Soon after, the hotel manager received a note from the Hand of God claiming responsibility. We’re convinced they’re behind it.”
“What does this have to do with Schoen and what happened in Jerusalem?” asked Harvath.
“You’re aware that he had a son, correct?” offered Mraz.
“Yeah. He told me he was dead.”
“Well, what he probably didn’t tell you was that his son had followed in his footsteps. Against his father’s wishes, he joined the Mossad. A year later, he died entering an apartment rigged with explosives where a supposed terrorist was holed up. When his son was killed, Schoen’s hatred for the Arabs exploded. He began taking missions no one else wanted and was one of the Mossad’s most brutal interrogators.
“Fast-forward to our Rapid Return operation in Lebanon. Schoen is terribly disfigured, even more embittered, and decides to go underground. Shortly thereafter, the Hand of God attacks begin.”
“Wait a second,” said Harvath. “Are you telling me you think there is a connection between Schoen and the Hand of God? That’s one hell of a leap in logic.”
“Is it? Have you ever heard of a group called the Wrath of God, Agent Harvath?”
“Of course. They were a hit squad of Israeli assassins formed to avenge the killings at the Munich Olympics.”
“We prefer to call them an independent covert-action team, but you’re essentially correct. To carry out the mission,” continued Mraz, “the Mossad activated its thirty-six person assassination unit know as the ‘kidon.’ Funds were deposited into Swiss bank accounts for operatives to collect upon successful completion of their assignments. The unit was broken down into teams, which were highly compartmentalized. None of the teams knew about the existence of the others. The only thing they had in common was a shared point of contact, who was a senior Mossad agent.”