The First Commandment (16 page)

When Al-Tal’s wife and twenty-year-old son returned from the mosque, Harvath was waiting for them. Wearing a thin, black ski mask, he slipped out of the stairwell into the dimly lit corridor and placed his silenced,.45 caliber Taurus 24/7 OSS pistol against the back of the son’s head.

When the mother opened her mouth to cry out, Harvath grabbed her by the throat. “If you make any sound,” he told her in Arabic, “I will kill you both.”

With the mother and son Flexicuffed and pieces of duct tape across their mouths, he relieved them of their house keys and let himself into the apartment. Before entering the building, Harvath had gone through the dossier, committing pertinent facts about Al-Tal’s residence and its occupants to memory.

He’d read enough about Al-Tal’s bodyguard to know that he was extremely dangerous. A former interrogator for the Syrian Secret Police, the man had routinely brutalized subjects by submitting them to horrific beatings and making them watch as he raped and sodomized their wives and children.

When Harvath crept into the apartment, he found the hulking bodyguard wearing a leather shoulder holster over a sweat-stained T-shirt. He was focused on a pan of greasy lamb’s meat he was heating over the stove in the kitchen. He looked up just as Harvath’s pistol spat two rounds into his forehead.

The hot pan clattered to the floor and Harvath made it into a short hallway just as Al-Tal’s nurse appeared. Undoubtedly, Al-Tal had chosen him because of his size. If push came to shove, the cagey intelligence operative had probably figured he could use the nurse as extra muscle.

Harvath struck him full in the face with the butt of his weapon, and the man folded like a cheap wallet.

Stepping over the nurse, Harvath swung into the rear bedroom. He found Al-Tal propped up in bed and affixed to an IV with a PCA, or patient-controlled anesthesia. It allowed him to regulate the flow of morphine for his cancer pain via a small device in his claw-like hand.

“Who are you?” the man demanded in Arabic as Harvath entered the room.

Before Harvath could answer, he noticed the gray-haired man’s right hand slip beneath his blanket. Harvath put three rounds into the bed, and Al-Tal immediately drew back his hand.

Harvath walked over to the bed and pulled back the blankets. He found both a pistol and a modified AK-47.

“Who are you?” Al-Tal spat again as Harvath removed the weapons. His eyes were narrow and dark, his voice arrogant.

“You’ll discover who I am soon enough,” said Harvath, knowing the man spoke flawless English.

Binding his hands and feet to the bed, Harvath gagged him and left the room.

Harvath secured the nurse, fetched his bag from the stairwell, and then brought Al-Tal’s wife and son inside. After he was certain they had gotten a good look at the bodyguard and knew that Harvath meant business, he dragged the corpse into the bathroom. Removing the plastic shower curtain and liner, he wrapped the body, sealed it with duct tape, and dumped it into the tub.

Using Omar’s schematic, he tore out all of the video and listening devices. Though he believed the GID operative had been straight with him, he decided to leave the ski mask on. Now he had to deal with the rest of the mess he had made.

Harvath hated taking hostages. Not only were they a liability, they were a downright pain in the ass. They needed to be fed, given bathroom breaks, and kept from escaping. On such short notice, though, and considering the time constraints and the fact that Al-Tal was at the stage where he never left his apartment, it was the best that Harvath could do.

Cutting Al-Tal free of his restraints, Harvath pulled the IV out of his arm and dragged him into the bathroom so he could see what had become of his bodyguard. Once he’d gotten a good look, Harvath dragged him into the dining room where his nurse and family were being kept.

Harvath jerked a chair from the table and shoved Al-Tal down into it. After he had Flexicuffed the Syrian to it as tightly as he could, he removed the man’s gag.

“You will die. I promise you,” sputtered Al-Tal.

“An interesting threat,” replied Harvath as he removed another chair and sat down, their faces nose to nose, “especially since you already placed a $150,000 price on my head.”

“It’s you. The one who killed Asef.”

“Don’t you mean Suleiman?” asked Harvath. “That was the name you had given him, wasn’t it? Abdel Rafiq Suleiman?”

Al-Tal didn’t answer.

It made no difference to Harvath. He could read everything he needed to in the man’s face. Al-Tal was furious and terrified all at the same time.

“I know a lot more about you than you think, Tammam.”

“What do you want?” demanded the Syrian spymaster.

“I want information.”

Al-Tal laughed derisively. “I will never give you anything.”

Harvath hated everything about him. It wasn’t often that he took pleasure in killing, but this would be different. “I’m going to give you one chance. Where is Abdel Salam Najib?”

Al-Tal stopped laughing.

Harvath looked at him. “If you prefer, we can call him Suleiman. After all, you gave him that alias after Khashan died.”

“You mean after
you
killed him.”

“Neither of us has much time, Tammam. Let’s not bicker over semantics.”

“Let my family go and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Now it was Harvath who laughed.

“At least let the nurse go. He has nothing to do with this.”

Harvath wasn’t going to do anything for this monster. “Where is Najib?” he repeated.

When Al-Tal refused to answer, Harvath leaped up and grabbed Al-Tal’s wife. He didn’t like doing it, but she knew well enough who her husband was, and this had to be done.

Harvath dragged her within two feet of Al-Tal, keeping his eyes locked with the man’s own the entire time.

“What are you going to do to her?”

“It’s up to you,” replied Harvath as he removed the pistol from beneath his jacket and used it to comb the woman’s hair over her left ear.

“In our line of work, we don’t target each other’s families,” snapped Al-Tal. “You know that.”

“The old intelligence agent’s credo. How amusing, especially considering what you have done to my family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My mother, my girlfriend-don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Your
mother?
” said Al-Tal. “How could I have done anything to your mother? I don’t even know who you are. You say you are the man who killed Asef, but I don’t even know your name.”

Harvath didn’t believe him. The man was lying. “This is your last chance.”

“Or else what? You will shoot my wife?”

“You saw what I did to your bodyguard.”

“Yes, but it is something entirely different to shoot a man’s wife, a mother.”

The Syrian was right. Harvath had absolutely no intention of shooting her. But he was willing to torture the hell out of her to save his own family and loved ones from going through any more pain.

Harvath slowly holstered his weapon. He watched a smile creep across Al-Tal’s sharp face. The man’s overconfidence was sickening. He thought he had Harvath all figured out. He was about to learn how wrong he was.

“Some things are worse than being killed,” said Harvath as he removed a small can of Guardian Protective Devices OC from his jacket pocket. Attached to the nozzle was a long, clear plastic tube.

Grabbing a tight handful of Al-Tal’s wife’s hair, Harvath immobilized her head and shoved the tube into her ear. “Have you ever been exposed to pepper spray, Tammam?” he asked as the woman screamed from behind the duct tape across her mouth.

“Leave her alone,” demanded Al-Tal.

Harvath ignored him. “The way it burns in your eyes, your nose, your throat?”

“I said leave her alone!”

“Going in through the ear canal is another experience altogether. When I depress this button, a fine, aerosolized mist will rush through this tube and it will feel to your wife as if someone has coated the entire inside of her skull with flaming gasoline.”

“You are obscene!”

“I’m nothing compared to you. And the fear you feel flowing through your body right now is nothing compared to the guilt you will feel from what else I have in store for your family.”

When Al-Tal didn’t respond, Harvath pulled his wife’s chair right alongside his and said, “Take a good look at her face. What’s going to happen now is because of you.”

The woman’s eyes were wide with fear, as were those of Al-Tal’s son and the male nurse.

Wrenching the man’s hand open, Harvath forced all his fingers closed around the can of OC. Lifting Al-Tal’s index finger, he slid it onto the release switch.

Al-Tal’s wife had never stopped screaming and now she screamed with even more force. Her body writhed against its restraints and she violently threw her head from side to side trying to dislodge the tube that had been shoved into her ear canal.

“Yes!” shouted Al-Tal, unable to bear his wife’s being tortured any further. “I will tell you how to contact Najib, you bastard. Just leave my family alone.”

“Tell him the imam is not well. He must come quickly so that they may read from the Koran one last time together.”

When Tammam Al-Tal’s wife finished delivering the carefully scripted message, Harvath pulled the phone away from her ear and hung up. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Mrs. Al-Tal didn’t need to be reminded about what would happen if she didn’t do and say everything exactly as they had rehearsed.

Harvath lifted the phone back up to her ear and leaned in to listen.

Abdel Salam Najib had a deep, penetrating voice. He spoke in quick, authoritative clips and was every bit as arrogant as his mentor. “Why did the imam not call himself?”

“He is too weak,” Al-Tal’s wife responded in Arabic. Her words were thick with panic and fear.

“He is dying, then.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“How much longer does he have?” asked the man.

“We have been told he will probably not live through the night.”

“You are still at the apartment?”

“Yes. The doctors wanted to move him to the hospital, but Tammam refused.”

Najib scolded her. “You should know better than to use his name over the phone.”

Harvath tensed. Was she trying to tip Najib or was it an honest mistake? Harvath had no way of knowing. Pulling a tactical MOD fighting knife from his pocket, he opened the blade and pressed it against the woman’s throat. Harvath agreed with Najib. She should know better, much better.

Al-Tal’s wife choked back a terrified sob. “He wishes to be taken back to Syria, but the doctors have told us the journey would only hasten his passing.”

“The doctors are right,” said the operative. “The imam should not be moved. Who is in the house with you?”

The woman spoke slowly, careful not to phrase the information in any way that might get her into trouble. “Our son is here, of course, as is the imam’s nurse. There is also another friend who came with us from home and attends to the imam’s safety and comfort.”

Najib knew both the bodyguard and the son. They could be trusted. The nurse, though, he didn’t know. “Have you learned how to administer your husband’s medications?”

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.

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.”

“And along comes this mystery person who claims he can get Najib out if the price is right.”

“More or less.”

“So what was the price?” asked Harvath.

“I had to agree to nullify the bounty I had placed on
you.
”

Harvath was dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

“We struck a bargain,” replied Al-Tal. “I canceled the contract and Najib was released from American custody.”

Harvath was beginning to believe that the man was playing him. “How is that possible if you didn’t even know who I was?”

“I still don’t know who you are,” responded Al-Tal as he drew a circle around his face-an allusion to Harvath’s ski mask. “Normally, hostage-takers only keep their identities hidden because they know at some point they will release their hostages. Is that why you haven’t shown us your face?”

“I’ve kept my word and will continue to do so. The outcome of this situation is completely in your hands. If you cooperate with me, I’ll let your wife and your son go.”

“What about my nurse?”

“Him, too.”

“And me?” asked Al-Tal as if he already knew the answer.

“That, I am going to leave up to Najib,” said Harvath.