Path Of The Assassin

At precisely nine o’clock a navy blue Ford Crown Victoria pulled up in front of Harvath’s building. The driver didn’t have to bother ringing the bell. Scot knew the man would be right on time and he was already waiting for him. Normally, Harvath would have sat in the front seat and made conversation with whoever was driving, but this guy didn’t look like much of a talker, so Scot sat in back. As it turned out, he was right. The driver didn’t say a single thing during the entire drive to Langley.

The silence suited him just fine. It was a beautiful summer day, and Harvath sat back and watched the gently rolling countryside through the smoked windows of the car as they made their way northwest along the Potomac.

When they arrived at the main entrance of the sprawling CIA campus, the driver pulled into the employee lane. At the cinderblock checkpoint, black-clad, submachine-gun-toting operatives from the Office of Security Operations checked the driver’s identification and gave the entire vehicle the once-over. The Central Intelligence Agency was more vigilant about security now than ever before. For every security measure a visitor or employee of the CIA saw, there were hundreds more they didn’t. For instance, Harvath knew that unseen behind the bulletproof, tinted glass of the checkpoint house was a fully armed and armored tactical unit ready to meet any assault head-on.

They were outfitted with nothing but the best weapons, including.45 and.357 pistols with hollow-point Hydra-Shok bullets; H amp;K 21E fully automatic machine guns, effective out to half a mile; custom-made Robar.50-caliber sniper rifles capable of knocking out aircraft, vehicles, and even terrorists at well over a mile; M249 Squad Automatic Weapons, known as SAWs; M203 40-millimeter grenade launchers; as well as shoulder-fired antiaircraft and antitank missiles. There were also the concrete-and-steel bollards recessed just beneath the surface of each lane resting upon high-tensile industrial-strength coils that in a fraction of a second could be “popped” up in case a car tried to rush through the checkpoint and into the CIA’s compound.

Once cleared at the main entrance, the driver proceeded to the underground parking garage of the Old Headquarters Building, where he was again required to show his ID before being allowed to enter. The car rolled down the concrete ramp and once the driver had parked, he opened his door and motioned for Harvath to follow. They passed through a series of steel fire doors and emerged into a small service corridor and another security checkpoint. This time, Harvath was also asked to present identification and to sign in. Next, he was instructed to pass through a metal detector, which immediately went off.

Slowly and with a wide grin, Harvath unbuttoned his suit coat and drew it back to reveal the butt of his semiautomatic. “Just like my American Express card. I never leave home without it.” No one laughed.

Harvath carefully withdrew the weapon and handed it to the security guard, who ejected the magazine, cleared the chambered round, and handed the whole lot over to Harvath’s driver. In the next machine, an explosives “sniffer,” Harvath was required to stand still as small puffs of air were bounced against his clothes and returned to the machine for analysis.

“You guys get HBO on this?” asked Harvath

Again, none of the security staff said a word. Harvath figured they had probably had the same sense-of-humor-gland removal that Morrell’s people had had.

After Harvath had been handed his ID badge, the driver led him into a waiting elevator and punched the button for the sixth floor. “So this is it? We just zip right up in the elevator?” asked Harvath as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise. “No tour? What about the Berlin Wall Monument? Or the sculpture in the New Headquarters courtyard? You gotta promise me you’ll at least walk me through the directors’ portrait gallery on our way out. Okay? You promise?”

“Shut the fuck up,” replied the rather surly operative.

Finally, Harvath had gotten to him, and he smiled to himself.

When the doors of the elevator opened, they walked down a short hall and entered the CIA’s highly vaunted Counter Terrorist Center, known as the CTC. Predominantly windowless, the center was composed of groupings of hundreds upon hundreds of cubicles. Street signs proclaiming, “Osama bin Lane,” “Saddam Street,” and “Qadhafi Qourt” informed passersby what area of expertise they were entering. So the CIA did have a sense of humor after all.