Harvath couldn’t understand what he was hearing. This Ellis guy, who had CIA written all over him, was putting a literally unbelievable spin on what had happened. The men who committed this hijacking were anything but incompetent. They were highly motivated and extremely well trained. Why was Ellis saying these things?

“These facts notwithstanding,” continued Ellis, “both the U.S. and Egyptian governments take the crimes committed in connection with the hijacking of United Airlines flight 7755 very seriously. We are confident that we will apprehend all of the people involved in the planning and execution of this act of cowardice. To that end, we are asking the international community for its help in identifying this man, Hashim Nidal.” Ellis held up a computer-generated composite sketch.

“He is the ringleader believed to have masterminded and orchestrated the hijacking. This sketch was developed with the assistance of an eyewitness, and we feel…”

Harvath had gone from not understanding what he was hearing, to not believing it. Obviously, Meg Cassidy had helped the CIA develop a composite sketch of Nidal. If they were circulating a sketch, that could mean only one thing. Somehow he had gotten away. But that was impossible. Security at the airport had been airtight. The only way he could have gotten out of there was in cuffs or a body bag.

Something bad was going on, and the only thing Harvath knew for sure was that whatever it was, it had Rick Morrell’s dirty little fingerprints all over it.

27

Harvath quickly found a taxi on the edge of the Khan El-Khalili, but it seemed to take forever to reach Garden City and the U.S. Embassy. Once he had paid the driver and exited the cab, the first thing he noticed were the Marine guards in full tactical gear. What had normally been a sight reserved for instances of heightened security was now an everyday occurrence. Security, especially for U.S. embassies abroad, was taken very, very seriously.

After explaining to the Egyptian police officers guarding the embassy’s outer perimeter that he could not present identification because his wallet and passport had been stolen in a mugging, he was finally allowed to approach the main gate. It took slightly less time to explain his real situation to the American Marines at the entrance to the embassy, but it was still an ordeal. He was watched very closely by one heavily armed Marine while the other made a quick series of phone calls. Eventually, an embassy staffer appeared and escorted him deep within the complex to a secure, soundproofed conference room known in intelligence-speak as the “Bubble.”

Seated at the table were Bob Lawrence, Mayor Fellinger, some of the men from Morrell’s SAS team, and several suits whom Harvath, once again, didn’t recognize.

Fellinger was the first to acknowledge Scot as he was admitted into the room. “And here’s our other hero.”

Harvath smiled at the mayor and nodded politely to Bob Lawrence. None of the SAS members paid him any attention, so he returned the favor. One of the suits stood and offered Harvath his hand.

“Agent Harvath, I am Randall Gray, assistant Cairo CIA station chief.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Harvath, shaking the man’s hand. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Actually, we’re just finishing the mayor’s and Mr. Lawrence’s debriefings. They will be leaving within the hour.”

“Flying United, of course,” said Scot.

“Damn straight,” said Lawrence. “We’re picking up the other 747 from the old Cairo airport and flying it back to Chicago. I want the world to see that we got back safely. Too many people in the U.S. are still terrified to travel, especially internationally. This whole thing has been a PR nightmare. We need to get ahold of it, and quick.”

“Speaking of quickly getting ahold of this thing,” said Scot. “What was with that press conference from the Anglo-American Hospital?”

“At present, I am not at liberty to answer that,” said the assistant station chief.

“Not at liberty? You do understand by whose authority I am operating, don’t you?” asked Harvath.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, yes. Listen, Agent Harvath, it’s not that I don’t want to answer your question; it’s that I honestly can’t. Things have been evolving very fast this morning.”

Scot looked at Randall Gray and sensed the man was being honest with him. “Well, if you can’t give me some answers,” he said, “then who can?”

“I would imagine my boss, Tom Ellis, can.”

“And where might I find him, short of CNN?”

“He’s still at the Anglo-American Hospital debriefing Meg Cassidy.”

“Is Rick Morrell with him?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Then that’s where I’m going. Gentlemen,” said Harvath with a polite nod toward the mayor and Bob Lawrence, “have a safe flight home. I’m very sorry about all of this.”

“So are we,” said the mayor. “We’re just glad that we had you to help get us out of it.”

“It’s what I was trained to do,” said Scot.

Both Lawrence and the mayor gave Scot their business cards and told him if he ever needed anything, all he had to do was call.

“I’ll get someone to drive you,” said the assistant station chief.

Harvath appreciated the gesture and began to believe that maybe not everyone at the CIA was a total asshole after all.

When he reached the embassy’s motor pool and saw his driver, he started to have second thoughts. Leaning against the car with a cup of coffee and looking more like a Chippendales dancer than a CIA operative, was Gordon Avigliano-the kid who had couriered the CIA’s Hashim Nidal file to Harvath’s apartment back in Alexandria.

He was so engrossed in drinking his coffee that he didn’t notice Harvath had come up alongside him until he said, “Al salaam a’alaykum.”

Avigliano nearly jumped out of his skin. “Holy shit,” he growled as he tossed the cup into a nearby garbage can. “You can’t do that to a person.”

“Well, I just did,” said Harvath, shoving past him and opening the driver’s side door. “Keys.”

“Wait a second, I’m supposed to be driving you.”

“You can’t even courier documents properly. What makes you think I’m gonna let you drive? Besides how many times have you been in Cairo before?”

“None. This is my first time. But I’ve got a map.”

“Learn on someone else’s time, Gordo. Now toss me the keys.”

Avigliano threw Harvath the keys and walked around to the passenger side and got in. As they shot out of the embassy gates, Avigliano attempted to make conversation. “Have you got some sort of problem with me?”

“Not specifically. My guess is that you are somehow tied to Operation Phantom, but aren’t one of the heavy hitters. You’re the new guy and, being low man on the totem pole, get to courier documents and drive guys like me around. Things got hot over here with the hijacking, and you got called in as part of the backup for Rick Morrell and the rest of the team. How am I doing so far?”

“Let me see,” answered Avigliano, “classified, classified, restricted, and classified.”

A broad smile swept across Harvath’s face. “Have you had any military training?”

“I did three years with First Ranger Battalion.”

“What made you decide to leave the Army and hook up with the CIA?”

“Better pay grade and it looked like more fun.”

“And now you’re on the Agency fast track.”

“I can handle it.”

The pair made their way along the Nile and at the el-Tahrir Bridge crossed over to Gezira Island, where the Anglo-American Hospital was located. Harvath found a parking space about a block away, and he and Avigliano made their way toward the building.

The one-hundred-bed Anglo-American Hospital was more then a century old and badly in need of a face-lift. To its credit, the atmosphere was welcoming and the staff very friendly. With one of Morrell’s SAS men standing guard outside, Meg Cassidy’s room wasn’t hard to find. The man stretched his thick arm across the door the minute he saw Harvath.