Path Of The Assassin

Schoen’s suit was navy blue, and he wore a white shirt with a British regimental tie. A blue-and-green tartan blanket lay across his legs. Now that he saw the man in person, Harvath realized that his lisp sprang from the fact that a good part of his lips had been burned away from his face.

“Please, Mr. Harvath. Take a seat.” Pleeth, Mr. Harvath…

“Thank you,” Scot replied as he sat down in one of the oxblood leather club chairs and glanced at the silver-framed photographs the man had positioned on an adjacent console table.

“Are you a whiskey man, Mr. Harvath?”

“Scotch whiskey, yes.”

“A man after my own heart.”

Schoen wheeled himself over to an antique globe and lifted the hinged northern hemisphere. He retrieved two glasses and a bottle, placed them on a tray across the arms of his wheelchair, and wheeled himself back over next to the chair Harvath was sitting in.

“Nineteen sixty-three Black Bowmore,” he said as he placed the tray on the small end table between them. “Look at that color, Mr. Harvath. Black as pitch, as my British friends would say.”

“Very nice,” replied Harvath as the man began to pour.

“The whiskey was heavily sherried and aged for a very long time. That’s where this magnificent color comes from.”

“L’chaim,” said Harvath, raising his glass in toast.

“God bless America and may he also save the queen,” said Schoen with a deformed smile.

They savored the rare scotch in silence for a moment. Such was the nature of doing business in the Middle East. First a refreshment was offered and then polite conversation was made until finally the participants arrived at the point. Negotiations over even the smallest of items could take days. But, as the man who sat next to him was a former intelligence agent, Harvath hoped things would move a bit faster.

“You’re quite the anglophile, I notice,” said Scot.

“I was based in London for a very long time.”

“It’s a beautiful city.”

“Indeed. And the countryside is amazing. Espescially the Cots-wolds.”

“Did you spend a lot of time in the countryside while in England?”

“Yes, I visited my son quite often.”

“Really? What does he do?”

“He rowed at university there, but now he’s deceased.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too. All in good time are called to God. Some, though, are called too soon and for the wrong reasons. My son’s loss is the hardest thing I have ever had to bear, but that’s not why you are here. It’s a funny characteristic of the infirm; we learn to live within our memories, the past often being the most pleasant part of our lives, and often forget ourselves in the presence of guests. My day will eventually come, but while I am waiting, let’s talk about why you are here.”

“I’m here because I need information.”

“You want to know what happened that night in Sidon?”

“Yes.”

“To save us both some time, why don’t you tell me what you already know.”

“The night Operation Rapid Return was ambushed, I was in the situation room at the White House. I saw everything up to and including our Special Operations team entering the building where it was thought the president was being held. Then there was the explosion. You were part of the Israeli team on the ground lending logistical support and were the only survivor. Shortly thereafter, the Mossad declared you dead. Why?”

“After the explosion, I tried to ascertain whether there were any other survivors. I didn’t see any, but I did see something else.”

“What?”

“Someone who didn’t belong there.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t part of the mission team and was acting far too calm, considering what had just taken place. I remember thinking he was somehow involved with the explosion and had probably remained behind to make sure the job was done.”

“What did you do?”

“There wasn’t much I could do. I was too badly injured. I raised my pistol and tried to shoot at him, but he got away.”

“What did he look like?” asked Harvath.

“I couldn’t see him very well, but he obviously got a good look at me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“After that night, I was subjected to many long and painful surgeries. To make a long story short, while I was convalescing, the man reappeared and tried to kill me.”

“How can you be sure it was the same person?”

“Because of the eyes.”

Harvath’s body tensed.

“Never in my life have I seen eyes like those,” continued Schoen in a slow, deliberate voice. “They were silver, like the color of cold, polished knife blades.”

Silence filled the room for several moments. Schoen had struck a nerve. Harvath’s silence was an admission that he knew those silver eyes all too well himself.

“But why would he want to kill you?” asked Harvath, trying to sort through the implications of Schoen’s account.

“I think he believes I saw his face and could identify him. Terrorists’ anonymity is often their best weapon, especially these days. The last thing they need is someone who can identify them in an international court or, worse still, mount a campaign to track them down and take them out. I was a loose end that needed to be tied up.”

“So what happened?”