The guards led him up a massive series of stone steps and through the main entrance of the enormous edifice. The interior was amazing. At least a hundred columns soared over six stories to the perfectly domed ceiling, which contained a grand oculus exposing the sky high above. Intricate mosaics adorned the walls, and the floors were covered in marble tiles so highly polished they shone like mirrors. The acoustics were perfect. Even the slightest whisper from across the immense rotunda reverberated back with absolute clarity. All throughout the structure, natural light radiated from a series of mirrors and additional holes carved in the roof of the building.

Harvath was marched through a narrow apse to a low doorway along another colonnade. One of the guards knocked twice upon a heavy wooden door and waited until he was directed to enter. When the direction came, the guard pushed the door open and motioned Harvath inside.

This room was much darker than the series of hallways they had been navigating, and it took a moment for Harvath’s eyes to become adjusted to the low level of light. The wooden floors, paneled walls, and bookcases were all a deep mahogany. Thick, splintered beams of the same color ran at intervals along the ceiling. Several chairs sat in front of a large wooden desk, and in the corner stood an actual fireplace. The room looked like something out of a medieval British abbey. The walls were covered with photographs, many of which, from what Harvath could make out from where he was standing, were not of Arabs, but of Anglos. One in particular caught his attention. He was trying to figure out why the photo had captured his interest when a small door opened at the back of the room and several figures appeared. The first, much to Harvath’s relief, was Meg Cassidy. She was also incredibly relieved to see Scot and ran right to him.

Though his guard tried to stop him, Harvath reached out for her. “Are you all right?” he asked as he looked her over. There were no apparent signs that she had been harmed.

“I’m okay. But this is all my fault. I’m so sorry,” she replied as she laid her head on his chest, wishing the entire nightmare would just disappear.

“This isn’t your fault, so don’t worry about it. They haven’t done anything to you, have they?”

“Mr. Harvath, contrary to what you might think, we are not barbarians,” said a man standing in the doorway that Meg had just come through. Harvath recognized him immediately. It was the man who had broken up his fight with the captain of the guard outside. Meg squeezed Harvath’s arm, and it was the only signal he needed.

“There are millions of people around the world who would disagree with you,” said Harvath, letting go of Meg so he could face the man and the other figure who had joined him. The other person’s face was covered in the traditional Arab kaffiyeh, but there was something familiar about him. “How do you know my name?” he asked, though he was sure that Meg had told them. It would have made sense to question her first. She was the weakest of the pair and could be broken much easier.

“I know more than just your name,” said the man as he took a seat behind the large desk. “Your government should not have sent a woman, a civilian no less, to do a soldier’s job.” The man’s English had a thick Middle Eastern accent.

“Considering that she foiled your hijacking, you hardly seem qualified to comment on the abilities of women,” said Harvath with a smile.

The man signaled his guard, who brought the butt of his rifle hard into Harvath’s stomach. Scot doubled over in pain as Meg screamed. She tried to intervene, but another guard grabbed her arm and pulled her away to the other side of the room.

“I believe that is what the British call witty repartee, no? I can assure you I do not find it amusing at all. Do not forget, Mr. Harvath, who is in control here,” said the bearded man as he removed his kaffiyeh and set it on the desk in front of him.

“And who would that would be?” asked Harvath as he struggled to his feet.

The man gave another command with his hand, and the guard struck Harvath once more; this time on his shoulder as he was trying to regain his balance. Harvath fell to his knees and, though he tried to stifle it, a deep groan of pain escaped his lips. Meg screamed for them to stop.

“We can do this as long as you wish, but I am not a very patient man, Mr. Harvath. You have information I want, and we will get it out of you sooner, rather than later.”

Harvath looked up from where he knelt on the floor and said, “The only thing you have even the slightest chance of getting out of me is a very serious beating. I’m not telling you anything.”

The man stood up from his chair and removed a long knife from inside the folds of his robe. He spoke as he began to make his way around the desk, “You will find, Mr. Harvath, that I am quite good at getting what I want with a knife.”

“First of all, it’s Agent Harvath to you, and second of all-” Harvath was interrupted by an unseen backhand from the guard.

Harvath tasted blood in his mouth and spat onto the guard’s robes, saying in Arabic, “Let your mother clean that up for you.”

The guard was incensed, and as he raised his rifle to bring it crashing down upon Harvath’s head, a voice rang out from the back of the room.

“Enough!” it shouted. It was a woman’s voice, but it hadn’t come from Meg Cassidy.

47

The covered figure in the back of the room unwound a dusty kaffiyeh to reveal the face of one of the most beautiful women Scot Harvath had ever seen. Her long black hair tumbled down to her shoulders and framed the near perfect features of her face. She appeared neither Middle Eastern nor western, but somehow a mystical combination of the two that came together to form an otherworldly beauty.

Immediately, Harvath was drawn to her eyes, which had momentarily flashed deep black, but were now returning to an almost platinum color. The assassin! But she was a woman. Harvath didn’t believe what he was seeing.

In perfect English with a hint of a British accent, she said, “You must forgive my brother. He is sometimes overzealous in his approach, but his intentions are admirable.”

“Do not patronize me,” spat the bearded man as he rolled up the sleeves of his robe so he could go to work on Harvath.

“Me? A simple woman? Patronize you? Oh, Hashim, please, do not think me so insubordinate,” said the woman with a feigned curtsy.

The truth hit Harvath, hard. It took only a moment to sort it all out. “All this time that we were looking for Abu Nidal’s son,” he said, “and we should have been looking for-”

“His daughter, Adara Nidal,” said the woman as she locked eyes with Harvath and made another curtsy, this one much more genuine.

“Adara,” repeated Harvath. “Interesting name. It’s Arabic for ‘virgin,’ isn’t it?”

“And to the Jews, it means ‘fire.’”

“Your father certainly was creative in naming you two.”

The bearded man raised his knife and nodded toward the guards, who tightened their grip on Harvath. “We are wasting time.”

“Leave him alone,” Meg screamed.

“Of course,” said Hashim, stopping in his tracks and turning to face Meg. “Mr. Harvath is very brave. He is a soldier and is most likely no stranger to pain. You, on the other hand, are different.” Hashim Nidal ran the flat of his blade along Meg Cassidy’s cheek until the point rested just underneath her eye. He applied just enough upward pressure to cause an involuntary fluttering of her lids.

“What do you want?” growled Harvath, struggling against the grip the guards had on him. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Everyone knows something, Mr. Harvath. The question is how to arrive at the information, and I think I have found a way to make you more cooperative.”