The First Commandment

The question took her by surprise. “His medications?”

“Yes. His morphine.”

She had no idea how to answer. It wasn’t a question she had been expecting. She looked to Harvath, who firmly shook his head no from side to side.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she answered.

“Well, you must learn,” replied Najib. “There will not be much to do, not if the imam is actively dying. Command the nurse to teach you what to do and then let him go. The imam and I have important things to discuss before he leaves to see the Prophet, may peace be upon Him. I do not want the nurse in the apartment when we speak.”

Harvath nodded and Mrs. Al-Tal’s voice cracked, “It will be done.”

Najib was silent for several moments. Harvath began to worry that he might suspect something. He’d come too far to lose him. What the hell was he waiting for?

Finally, Najib said, “I will be there by the evening prayer service. Is there anything special the imam would like me to bring to him?”

Unsure of how to respond, the woman looked at Harvath, who shook his head. “Nothing,” she answered. “Just come quickly.”

“Tell the imam that he must wait for me.”

“I will,” responded the woman, the tears welling up in her eyes.

The conversation over, Harvath took the phone and replaced it in its cradle. Najib had taken the bait and the hook was set. All that was left to do was to reel him in. But Harvath knew all too well that you never celebrated until the fish was actually in the boat.

Chapter 55

Harvath offered each of his captives a bathroom break, but only the male nurse had the guts to take him up on it. He relieved himself right next to the tub with its plastic-wrapped occupant.

Having the nurse ambulatory made it a lot easier to move him to the spare bedroom. Harvath then brought in Al-Tal’s wife and son, and once they were all secure, made his way back out to the dining room.

Al-Tal was sweating, his gray-and-blue-striped pajamas clinging to his wet body. He needed his morphine.

Harvath released Al-Tal from his chair and, with one arm slung around the man’s waist, helped him back to the bedroom. After doing a thorough search of the pillows and bedclothes, Harvath helped the man up and eased him beneath his blankets. Al-Tal was so frail it was like handling a doll made from papier-mâché.

Once he was in bed, Harvath reinserted Al-Tal’s IV and placed a fresh piece of tape over the needle on the back of his left hand. Like Pavlov’s dog, the Syrian’s dry mouth began to water with anticipation of the warm wave about to rush through his beleaguered body.

Harvath laid the PCA trigger on the bed, but just out of Al-Tal’s reach. When the man bent forward to pick it up, Harvath pushed him back. “Not so fast. I still have a few more questions for you.”

Al-Tal was angry. “I did everything you asked.”

“And now you’re going to do more.”

“Is it not enough that I have turned on one of my own agents? A man who trusts me implicitly?”

Harvath ignored him. “Who arranged for Najib’s release from Guantanamo?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about I get your son and bring him in here? How about I go to work on him? Would you like that?” asked Harvath as he removed his knife from his pocket and flicked it open. “I’ll start by peeling back the skin from the fingertips of his left hand. I’ll keep going until I am at the wrist and the hand has been completely degloved. Just when he starts to become numb to the pain, I’ll prepare a bowl full of juice from the lemons in your kitchen and soak his hand in it. It’ll be a pain like no other he’s experienced in his life.”

Al-Tal’s eyes closed. “I will answer your questions.”

Harvath repeated his inquiry. “Who arranged Najib’s release?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“I’ll make sure to let your son know how cooperative you’ve been before I start in on him,” replied Harvath as he stood up.

“I’m telling the truth,” sputtered Al-Tal. “I don’t know exactly who it is.”

“But you do know something.”

The Syrian nodded and then let his eyes wander to the morphine pump.

“No dice,” said Harvath, comprehending the unspoken request. “You tell me what I want to know and then you get your morphine.”

Al-Tal’s shoulders sagged as he expelled a woosh of air and settled into the pillows that were propping him up. “I was contacted with an offer.”

“What kind of offer?”

“For the right price, this person claimed he could get Najib released from American custody.”

“And you believed him?”

“Of course not, not at first. Our government had already lobbied for Najib’s release. We claimed that they had captured an innocent man, a man whose family desperately needed him back home.”

“But the U. S. didn’t buy that, did they?” asked Harvath.

“No, they didn’t. So we tried another approach. We admitted that Najib was a very dangerous criminal who was wanted for a string of grave offenses in Syria. We promised to put him on trial and to even allow the United States to monitor the proceedings, but they still wouldn’t agree.”