The First Commandment

Najib nodded and Harvath removed the gag.

He fully expected some sort of tough guy pronouncement-a promise to hunt him and everyone he cared about to the ends of the earth or some such thing, but instead Najib surprised him. He stammered a question, “Is Al-Tal still alive?”

The question was all too human and Harvath didn’t like it, not one single bit. It made things difficult. It made them complicated.

It was much easier when scum like Najib spewed their hatred about America and asserted their unequivocal belief that it was only a matter of time before they would be victorious and all the nonbelievers would see Muslims tap-dancing atop the White House.

Though it helped to dehumanize the enemy, Harvath could still do what he had come here to do. All he needed to do was think about the atrocities Najib had orchestrated in Iraq against American soldiers and Marines to know that there was nothing human about this animal.

And the thought that he might never be able to hold Tracy again and feel her hold him back steeled his heart and filled his soul with rage.

“Al-Tal’s fate is up to you.”

“So he’s alive?” demanded Najib. “Prove it. I want to see him.”

“That’s not part of our deal.”

“You show me Al-Tal or I will tell you nothing.”

So much for our deal, thought Harvath as he left the dining room and walked into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with the bowl filled with lemons, removed his knife from his pocket and sliced one in half.

He walked over to Najib, held the lemon above the entry wound in his knee and squeezed. As the citric acid seared his torn flesh, a howl built up in Najib’s throat. Harvath covered the operative’s mouth with the gag just in time.

Once the pain had somewhat receded and the man had settled back down, Harvath removed his gag and said, “I will not warn you again. Now, tell me about the plane.”

Najib didn’t look as if he had any intention of complying, but when Harvath picked the drill back up, placed it against his left knee, and squeezed the trigger, the man started to talk. “It was a commercial airliner. A 737.”

“Who was on it?” asked Harvath, releasing the trigger.

“Two pilots and a medical crew dressed like flight attendants.”

“Had you ever seen any of them before?”

Najib shook his head, no. “Never.”

“What language did they speak?”

“English mostly.”

“Mostly?” asked Harvath.

“And some Arabic.”

“What was the medical crew for?”

“We were told that our blood had been polluted. Some sort of radioactive material had been introduced into our systems so the United States could track us. Once the planes reached a certain altitude, we received transfusions.”

“Who told you your blood had been tainted?” asked Harvath, his rock-steady hand holding the drill in place.

“The medical perso

“And how did they know?”

“I have no idea,” replied Najib. “They were getting us out. That’s all I cared about.”

“And you just went along with it? What if it was a trick?”

“We thought of that. They had two devices that looked like radiation detectors. When they passed them over our bodies, the devices registered the presence of radiation. When passed over the bodies of the crew, there was no indication. We all had been feeling nauseated for a day or two leading up to leaving Guantanamo. We thought it was food poisoning, but the medical crew said it was a side effect of the radiation that had been introduced into our bodies.”

Harvath watched for any cues that Najib was lying to him, but he didn’t see any. “Who arranged for your release?”

“Al-Tal.”

“Someone came to Al-Tal,” clarified Harvath, “and offered to help arrange your release. Who was that person?”

“I never knew. Neither did Al-Tal.”

“Why would someone have wanted to help get you released?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was powerful enough to do that for you?” demanded Harvath.

“I don’t know,” replied Najib.

“Of all the prisoners at Guantanamo, why did this magical benefactor choose you?”

Najib felt the drill bit pushing against his kneecap. He watched as the tip broke the skin. “I swear I don’t know,” he screamed. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”

Harvath pulled the drill bit back. “The other men who were released with you that night, tell me about them. Had you ever seen them before?”

“No,” answered Najib. “I had been kept in isolation. When I was allowed to exercise, it was in an enclosed area. I never saw any of the other prisoners.”

“I know about your time in Iraq,” replied Harvath, tempted to shove the drill bit through the man’s throat to avenge every U. S. serviceperson he’d been responsible for killing. “Were these men affiliated with people you knew in Iraq?”

“We were all concerned that the plane might be bugged, so we did not speak of associates or what we had done prior to being imprisoned at Guantanamo.”

“What did you talk about, then?”

“Besides our hatred of America?”

Once again, Harvath was tempted to ram the drill bit through the man’s throat, but he kept his rage under control. “Don’t push me.”

Najib glowered at Harvath. Finally he said, “We talked about home.”

“Home?”

“Home. Where we lived. Syria, Morocco, Australia, Mexico, France.”

“Wait a second,” interrupted Harvath. “ Syria, Morocco, Australia, Mexico, and France?”

Najib nodded.

Harvath couldn’t believe it. “I thought there were only four of you on that flight out of Guantanamo that night. Are you telling me there was a fifth prisoner released with you?”

Once more, Najib slowly nodded.

Chapter 59

There was a storm of emotion raging inside Harvath. Instead of being able to climb out of the blackness of the mystery he’d been dumped in, he found the hole getting deeper.

There weren’t four men released from Guantanamo that night, there were five. Could the Troll have not known about the fifth prisoner? Harvath doubted it. The Troll was like no one he’d ever seen when it came to getting his hands on the most sensitive of intelligence. No, Harvath was certain he knew all about the fifth passenger that night.

Harvath wrung as much information about the flight as he could from Najib and then proceeded to the close of his plan.

He dragged Najib into the spare bedroom and showed him Al-Tal’s nurse, wife, and son bound, but still very much alive. He then dragged him to Al-Tal’s bedroom, where he pulled back the blankets and showed that the man hadn’t been harmed and was sleeping peacefully.

“I have one more question for you,” said Harvath.

Najib looked at him. “What is it?”

“The bombing of the Marine compound in Beirut in 1983. Asef Khashan was one of Al-Tal’s operatives. We know Khashan was involved in pla

“That was a long time ago,” said Najib, his suspicion that the man in the mask holding him captive was an American agent now confirmed.

Harvath ignored the remark. “Did Al-Tal have direct knowledge in advance of the attack? Did he help Khashan plan and carry it out?”

Najib had no desire to help the hangman fit his noose around his mentor’s neck. After more than twenty years of trying to identify those involved, the Americans still had no evidence on Al-Tal. If they had, he would have been taken out just like Asef.

“I want an answer,” stated Harvath, sick of the sight of this monster who had butchered so many American troops.

“No,” said Najib. “Asef had been free to plan and coordinate Hezbollah actions in Lebanon as he saw fit.”

Then Harvath saw it-the tell, a small cue that indicated Najib wasn’t telling the truth. “I’m going to ask you one more time,” he said. “Think very carefully before you answer. Did Al-Tal know of, or was he involved with the 1983 attack on the Marine compound in Beirut?”