She pulled up a chair next to the bed and let the tears roll down her face. She had neither the strength nor the desire to wipe them away. Judy’s chest rose and fell to the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator.

This is all my fault, Meg thought to herself. All my fault.

She remembered Judy’s face floating before her during the hijacking. She remembered wanting to believe that Judy, who kept her crazy life in order and doted on her like a daughter, somehow was her guardian angel. If it hadn’t been for her lousy coffee, I would be lying in that bed right now, or worse.

Meg leaned in as close to the oxygen tent as she dared and whispered, “You really are my guardian angel. I love you so much, Judy. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

When Meg Cassidy stood up and crossed the room to leave, she locked eyes with Harvath who had been respectfully standing against the far wall. “I don’t care what I have to do, or where I have to go. That animal has to be stopped. I don’t want him harming another human being.”

Harvath waited before opening the door. “So you’re in?”

“You’re goddamn right I’m in. And you tell the president he can keep his reward money.”

35

“Giant Killer, Giant Killer. This is Stork One requesting clearance,” said the pilot of the luxuriously appointed Falcon 900 passenger jet. The air traffic control moniker was intimidating to say the least, but that was exactly its purpose.

The airspace over the CIA’s highly secretive training facility known as Harvey Point, or more simply the Point, was restricted. The Washington Sectional Chart, which every pilot flying in and around the area would have aboard, specifically stated that clearance to pass through Restricted Area R-5301 could only be obtained by contacting “GIANT KILLER” on the indicated frequency. Failure to do so would result in the scrambling of a contingent of the most-advanced tactical fighter aircraft in the world, Lockheed Martin F-22s, quietly stationed with the Fourth Fighter Wing at nearby Seymour Johnson Air Force Base.

Interestingly, there was no depiction at all of a Harvey Point runway on the sectional chart. This was highly unusual as far as sectional charts were concerned because military airfields were never omitted. Even the CIA’s airstrip at Camp Peary, Virginia, was clearly depicted and labeled.

Stork One was immediately cleared and given instructions on how to land.

The Point itself was just that-a stubby finger of land that curled out into the murky water where North Carolina’s Perquimans River met the Albemarle Sound. Thick-trunked cypress trees overgrown with heavy Spanish moss stood silent vigil over the sixteen hundred acres of poisonous-snake-infested swamp on which the CIA’s facility sat. Locals claimed that the area had once been ruled by Blackbeard the pirate, who had buried his treasure somewhere in the vicinity. It was all the locals could publicly claim, because it was the only thing they were really sure of.

Nine miles southwest of the sleepy town of Hertford, the road abruptly ended at a sign that read, “Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity.” Officially, it was known as a remote Pentagon post, but ever since its inception in 1961, just weeks after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, area residents believed it to be some sort of base for the CIA. Explosions from the Point could be heard and felt for miles around as windows shook and walls sometimes cracked. Strange-looking helicopters often swept in low from the skies overhead, while blacked out transports conveyed unknown passengers quickly through town in the middle of the night. All sorts of old cars, buses, SUVs, and limousines were seen entering on flatbed trucks, only to be carried out later either riddled with bullet holes or burnt to nothing more than charred hulks, or both. The locals had, indeed, pegged Harvey Point correctly, but they didn’t know the half of what went on there.

The Point was where the CIA’s hard-core paramilitary training took place. Personnel were schooled in explosives, paramilitary combat, and other clandestine and unconventional warfare techniques. While the “Farm” at Camp Peary was where CIA personnel earned their stripes and learned their tradecraft, the Point was where a chosen few received a Ph.D. in serious ass-kicking.

The personnel invited to the Point weren’t only limited to American CIA operatives. In the past fifteen years, the CIA had provided counterterrorism training to several American Special Operations groups, as well as foreign intelligence officers from more than fifty countries, including South Korea, Japan, France, Germany, Greece, and Israel.

As the Falcon 900 jet banked and came in over the water for its landing, Harvath watched Harvey Point’s runway magically materialize out of the dense cover of foliage. He knew it was only a trick of the landscape, but an uncomfortable feeling swept over him, nonetheless. Nothing was ever what it appeared to be with the CIA, and Harvath wasn’t looking forward to being a guest on their turf.

The plane touched down and taxied over to an aircraft parking revetment. When the copilot opened the Falcon’s door, the cabin immediately filled with the muggy, swampy air that Harvey Point was famous for. Harvath and Meg descended the metal stairway and found Rick Morrell on the tarmac waiting for them in front of a blacked-out Suburban.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Cassidy,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and we want you to know that your country appreciates your cooperation. I hope your flight was comfortable.”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Meg.

“Well, if you’ll follow me. We’ll get you settled in.” Morrell took Meg’s bags and loaded them into the back of the Suburban. He didn’t offer to help Harvath, nor did he even acknowledge his presence.

“What? No kiss? Not even a, honey, I missed you? I’m going to start thinking you don’t care,” said Harvath.

“I don’t,” responded Morrell as he helped Meg into the Suburban and closed the door behind her. “You’ve stepped on a lot of toes wiseguy. There are more than a few people at the Point who don’t like you, so as long as you’re on my playing field, you’ll keep your mouth shut and watch your act.”

“If that’s your idea of a warm welcome, it’s no wonder this resort has yet to rate five stars.”

Morrell climbed into the driver’s seat and expected Harvath to hop into the passenger seat next to him. Instead, Scot got in back and sat next to Meg, effectively reducing Morrell to chauffeur status. Morrell wanted to tell Harvath off right then and there, but he had been warned to be on his best behavior around Meg Cassidy.

For a while, it had looked as if they were not going to be able to bring her in, but somehow, Harvath had managed to swing it. That made Morrell dislike the Secret Service agent even more. Meg Cassidy was integral to the operation, that much was true, but Harvath was barely palatable baggage and would be treated as such.

They drove past a lodge, a gym, and a conference center before pulling up in front of a low-rise barracks-style building.

“Not exactly the most glamorous accommodations in the world, but I’m sure you’ll find it very comfortable,” said Morrell as he hopped out of the SUV and went around to open the door for Meg. After retrieving her bag, he led them up a short flight of stairs and into the main door of the building. “Meals are served at the lodge, but there’s also a fully stocked kitchen at the end of the hall here. There’s a lounge with a big-screen TV, but you also have a television in your room.

“Okay, here we are. Ms. Cassidy, this is your room, number eleven, and you’re over there,” he said to Harvath as he jerked his head at the door across the hall.

“Would you be so kind as to hold my calls? It’s been a long day.”