Path Of The Assassin

“I am confident that sometime today the newspapers and TV stations will break the news that the Hand of God is taking credit for this recent attack. Though many Israelis abhor violence, this group is reaching almost a cultlike status among the young and old alike.”

“You seem very well informed, Mr. Schoen.”

“You’ll find I am extremely well informed, but please refrain from speaking my name in public. I know the phone is digital, but we must still be careful. Now, I trust you had a good lunch?”

“Good enough.”

“Excellent. There will be a white taxi waiting for you outside the Damascus Gate to the Old City. The driver is wearing a brown sport coat. Tell him you wish to be taken to a reputable antiques shop, and he will bring you to me.”

“And where, exactly, are you?”

“I’d rather not say, Mr. Harvath. My security precautions may seem a bit extreme, but believe me, they are in my own best interest. Please, let’s not waste any time. The driver has been instructed to wait no more than five minutes. I will explain everything once you are here.”

Harvath didn’t like the cloak-and-dagger routine, but he had little choice but to comply.

The driver never said a word as he headed northwest along the Jaffa Road away from the Old City. Harvath noticed the bulge of a rather large weapon beneath his sport coat and guessed that this was no ordinary taxi driver.

Finally, the cab pulled up in front of an old four-story building in the popular Ben Yehuda district. The storefront consisted chiefly of two large windows crammed full of antique furniture, paintings, and fixtures. The gilded sign above the entryway read, “Thames amp; Cherwell Antiques,” followed by translations in Hebrew and Arabic.

With an utter lack of ceremony, the driver popped the power locks and jerked his head toward the left, indicating that Scot should get out of his cab and enter the shop.

“I guess you’re not going to get the door for me, so this is probably good-bye. It was a pleasure chatting with you,” said Harvath as he climbed out of the taxi. Once his passenger was on the pavement, the driver flipped a switch beneath the dash and the door automatically slammed shut.

Neat trick, thought Harvath as the cab sped away down the street.

When he entered the store, a small brass bell above the door announced Harvath’s arrival. He waited a beat, and when no one appeared, began to look around the dimly lit room. It was packed with tapestries, furniture, and no end of faded bric-a-brac.

When he neared a narrow mahogany door, a series of small bulbs in a brass plaque changed from red to green and the door clicked open.

Another neat trick, Harvath thought as he pulled the door toward him to reveal a small, wood-paneled elevator. Once inside, he waited for the door to close on its own, which it did, and then the elevator slowly started to rise. He waited a second for elevator music to kick in and when it didn’t, he started humming “The Girl from Ipanema” to himself.

He was still humming when the elevator stopped and the door opened onto a long hallway, its floor covered by an intricately patterned oriental runner. The walls were painted a deep forest green and were lined with framed prints of foxhunting, fly-fishing, and crumbling abbeys. As Scot walked forward, he noticed infrared sensors placed every few feet and guessed that there were probably pressure sensitive plates beneath the runner. This was one man who took his security precautions very seriously.

At the end of the hall, Scot found himself in a very large room, more dimly lit than the shop downstairs. It was paneled from floor to ceiling, like the elevator, with a rich, deeply colored wood. With its fireplace, billiards table, overstuffed leather chairs and couches, it felt more like a British gentleman’s club than the upper-floor office of a shop in West Jerusalem.

“I apologize for the subterfuge, Mr. Harvath,” came Schoen’s voice from the far corner of the room.

Harvath peered through the semidarkness and could barely make him out. He was sitting near a pair of heavy silk draperies, which had been drawn tight against the windows.

“There are certain people who, if they knew I was still alive, would very much want me dead. So, I do what I have to do,” he continued. “I would be happy to bring the lights up a little, but I want to warn you that you may find my appearance a bit difficult.”

“I think I can handle it,” replied Harvath.

“Lights!” commanded Schoen, and the light level in the room slowly began to increase until he said, “Enough.”

Harvath’s eyes were now able to see that the man was sitting in a wheelchair. As Schoen rolled himself closer, Scot could see that the man’s hands, face, and neck had been terribly burned. Even though Harvath was slightly taken aback by his appearance, he did not allow his face to show what he was feeling.