“I understand, and whatever you decide, I’ll respect. I just want a chance to talk with you about it. I think we see eye to eye in many ways on this subject.”

“I don’t think you know the half of it.”

“Well, you can fill me in tomorrow morning. Okay?”

“Fine then. I’ll see you at Mitchell’s around eight,” and with that, Meg Cassidy hung up the phone.

Harvath was already sitting at a table in the Ambassador East’s famed Pump Room when Nick Wilson entered. They made small talk while waiting for their drinks, and then, once the waitress had left the table, Wilson got straight to the point. He removed a large manila envelope from his briefcase and spread several grisly Chicago Police Department crime scene photos on the table in front of them.

“This guy’s been torn apart,” said Harvath as he sifted through the pictures.

“Just his throat,” replied Wilson as he took a sip of his drink and used the straw to draw Harvath’s attention to the wounds.

“Who the hell was he?”

“Serial rapist the Chicago PD had been after for some time.”

“What’s this have to do with Meg Cassidy?”

“She’s the one who did that to him.”

Harvath couldn’t believe it. As he picked up the photos to study them more closely, Wilson held up his empty glass and signaled the waitress. “You want another?” he asked.

“No,” answered Harvath. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of years ago. Apparently, Ms. Cassidy had been jogging through Lincoln Park one night a little bit later than she should have. It was dark and she got jumped by this scumbag. According to the report, she screamed, but nobody was around to hear her. He pinned her down and shoved something in her mouth to gag her. She fought back, though, hard. Clawed at him and everything.”

“What happened?”

“What happened? She went for his windpipe, dug her nails in, and ripped the guy’s throat out. That’s what happened.”

“You’re joking, right?” said Scot.

“Hell, no. She killed the guy.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it. The cops did DNA testing on the stiff and found that he was the serial rapist they’d been looking for. She was lucky. He’d put most of his victims in the hospital. One even died.”

“Nick, why wasn’t this in her file back in D.C.?”

“It never saw the light of day. Her father was a career cop and well liked to boot. He obviously had some pretty good juice with the department to hush this all up. The only thing that ever got announced was that the police had found the body of their serial rapist, and that it was suspected he’d been killed in some sort of drug deal gone bad. That was it.”

“How’d you get your hands on it?” asked Harvath.

“Headquarters was pretty intent on us finding out everything we could about her. We were told to leave no stone unturned. Why they were so interested in her, I don’t know, but mine is not to reason why, you know?” Wilson waited for the waitress to set his fresh drink down and depart before he began speaking again. “I’ve got a friend at the Chicago Police Department. He’s been there a long time and has an even longer memory. He owed me a couple of favors. You know how the game works.”

Harvath nodded his head. He did know how the game worked. As he studied the crime scene photos yet again, a lot of things about Meg Cassidy became clearer. The question now was, with everything she had been through, how in the world could he convince her to team up with the CIA?

32

Harvath awoke early the next morning and decided to go for a run along the lakefront. The weather was cool, with a bit of a chill in the air-unusual for Chicago in August. Most likely, there was a storm moving in. He ran as far as Belmont Harbor and after a few minutes of admiring the yachts and sailboats, turned south and ran back through Lincoln Park. At North Avenue, Harvath could see the restaurant where he and Meg would be having breakfast. Out of habit, he jogged slowly by the eatery, checking everything out, and then ran back to the Ambassador.

After a quick shower, he flipped on Fox News while getting dressed. The lead story was about a suicide bomber who had detonated himself inside a crowded Tel Aviv hotel and killed over twenty-two people, including an Israeli cabinet minister. The al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigades were once again taking credit for the bombing, stating that it was another retaliation for the Hand of God attacks. The violence was continuing to spiral out of control. Many countries were beginning to pull out all nonessential diplomatic personnel from Israel.

Three major U.S. attempts to get the peace process back on track had failed miserably. Harvath could tell the problems in the Middle East were wearing terribly on the president. Shuttle diplomacy wasn’t working either. No matter whom he sent to the region, no matter how many meetings they had, the situation only seemed to worsen. Many in Washington were beginning to believe that some sort of war was inevitable. Smack in the middle of the media maelstrom, though, was Ali Hasan, who continued to call for peace and an end to the violence.

So far, Hasan was still extending an olive branch, which boded well for the pending European peace summit, but Scot dreaded what might happen if events forced Hasan to drop the olive branch and pick up a rifle, and this only made his assignment more critical.

Harvath arrived at Mitchell’s a half hour early and chose a booth in the back corner. A stocky waitress ambled over and when Scot informed her he was waiting for someone to join him, she poured him a cup of mediocre coffee and left him alone. Harvath passed the time by reading a copy of the Chicago Tribune.

When Meg arrived, everyone turned toward the door to look at her. Harvath couldn’t tell if it was because she was so attractive or because of all the press she had been receiving from the hijacking. He figured it was probably a combination of both. Though it had only been a few days since he had last seen her, she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

It took Meg a few moments to work her way back to the booth, as she was stopped every three feet and asked for an autograph. When she finally made it to the table, Harvath greeted her with a warm smile. “It seems somebody is quite the celebrity.”

“It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” said Meg as she slid into the booth across from him. “I’ve got so many requests for interviews and talk show appearances I’m going to have to actually hire a publicist.”

“Do you know any good ones?”

“One or two,” said Meg, returning his smile as she picked up the menu and was silent.

Harvath could tell that Meg was waiting for him to speak. The niceties were behind them and it was time to get down to business. Scot looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before beginning. He remembered the president’s and Gary Lawlor’s instructions to be as candid as possible and said, “You know why I’m here, and all things considered, I appreciate you meeting with me.”

So this really was about what happened in Cairo, period. Meg was disappointed that she had allowed herself to reserve some glimmer of hope. It was against her better judgment, and now she inwardly chastised herself for it. “I’m happy to meet with you,” she said.

“I want you to know that the president himself asked me to come and see you-”

“To change my mind, right?”

“No. I told him that if you had already made up your mind, we should respect that. You’re a busy woman. You’ve got a company to run, commitments. I totally understand where you’re coming from, especially after everything you’ve been through.” He stopped and took a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I came because I want you to know why I’m involved with all of this…”