write you a check.”
Three seats back, someone snickered.
“Zip it!” snapped Morrell, who then turned back to Harvath. “You know, I never thought much of your sense of humor.”
“Actually, Ricky, you never thought much of anything—not honor, not integrity, not character…and that’s why you washed out as a SEAL. But until places like the CIA raise their hiring standards, I guess guys like you will always have a job.”
Morrell moved in and smiled at Harvath, but it wasn’t with goodwill. “I had full license to bring you in by any means necessary; alive or otherwise. I could have easily overlooked an air bubble in the hypo and left you for dead on the street back in Jerusalem, so don’t talk to me about integrity and character. We are exactly alike, you and me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Morrell. You and I are nothing alike. We never were. I don’t like your politics, and I don’t like the way you do business.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m asked to use my discretion in bringing you in. Now, it’s a long flight back to Virginia. Can I get you anything?”
“Sure. First, I want a cocktail and then I want some answers. Who the fuck authorized you to pick me up, and what’s this all about? And while we’re at it, take these cuffs off me.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’d prefer to have you stay right where you are. As far as your answers are concerned, you’ll have plenty of time to ask questions when we get home. In the meantime, as I am still within the purview of my discretion, I think I may be able to accommodate you on that cocktail. It won’t be exactly what you had in mind, but I think it will make for a very peaceful flight for the rest of us.”
Morrell snapped his fingers, and the man with the butterfly bandages handed over a syringe, as well as a moist cotton ball.
Morrell rolled up Harvath’s sleeve and swabbed his muscular forearm with antiseptic as he readied the needle.
“You’re already looking at a very serious ass-kicking as it is, Ricky,” said Scot. “Knock me out again and I’m going to pack a lunch and make it an all-day affair.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” said Morrell as he plunged the needle into Harvath’s arm and watched his eyes roll back up into his head.
12
In the cozy Hemingway Bar of the Paris Ritz, the assassin sat eating one of the hotel’s famous club sandwiches, delighted by the lead story in the paper. The attacks on the mosques in Medina and Jerusalem were officially being called the worst ever against Muslims and two of the worst terrorist attacks in history. Combined, they were projected to exceed the death toll of September 11.
The article also included the full letter sent to The Jerusalem Post by the Hand of God Organization claiming credit.
Arab and Muslim countries around the world were calling for sanctions against Israel, while many Israeli citizens supported the organization and claimed that the Muslim world had brought this suffering upon itself. The Israeli government emphatically denied any knowledge of or support for the Hand of God Organization. They also stated that they had no idea how the terrorists got their hands on the Israeli weaponry used in the Medina attack, how equipment for the second attack was smuggled onto the Temple Mount, or how the terrorists knew restoration workers would not be in that area on the day in question.
The assassin smiled. With enough money, anything was possible.
The article went on to detail the bitter outrage felt throughout the Arab world. Legions of Islamic voices called for the blood of the Jews and a true holy war to decimate the nation of Israel and her American supporters once and for all. Let them come, the terrorist thought. Let them come .
At midnight, the assassin sat in the shadow of the Notre Dame at the Petit Pont Café reading another newspaper and drinking a coffee. A small duffel bag sat beneath the table. Ten minutes later, a blue
Three seats back, someone snickered.
“Zip it!” snapped Morrell, who then turned back to Harvath. “You know, I never thought much of your sense of humor.”
“Actually, Ricky, you never thought much of anything—not honor, not integrity, not character…and that’s why you washed out as a SEAL. But until places like the CIA raise their hiring standards, I guess guys like you will always have a job.”
Morrell moved in and smiled at Harvath, but it wasn’t with goodwill. “I had full license to bring you in by any means necessary; alive or otherwise. I could have easily overlooked an air bubble in the hypo and left you for dead on the street back in Jerusalem, so don’t talk to me about integrity and character. We are exactly alike, you and me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Morrell. You and I are nothing alike. We never were. I don’t like your politics, and I don’t like the way you do business.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m asked to use my discretion in bringing you in. Now, it’s a long flight back to Virginia. Can I get you anything?”
“Sure. First, I want a cocktail and then I want some answers. Who the fuck authorized you to pick me up, and what’s this all about? And while we’re at it, take these cuffs off me.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’d prefer to have you stay right where you are. As far as your answers are concerned, you’ll have plenty of time to ask questions when we get home. In the meantime, as I am still within the purview of my discretion, I think I may be able to accommodate you on that cocktail. It won’t be exactly what you had in mind, but I think it will make for a very peaceful flight for the rest of us.”
Morrell snapped his fingers, and the man with the butterfly bandages handed over a syringe, as well as a moist cotton ball.
Morrell rolled up Harvath’s sleeve and swabbed his muscular forearm with antiseptic as he readied the needle.
“You’re already looking at a very serious ass-kicking as it is, Ricky,” said Scot. “Knock me out again and I’m going to pack a lunch and make it an all-day affair.”
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” said Morrell as he plunged the needle into Harvath’s arm and watched his eyes roll back up into his head.
12
In the cozy Hemingway Bar of the Paris Ritz, the assassin sat eating one of the hotel’s famous club sandwiches, delighted by the lead story in the paper. The attacks on the mosques in Medina and Jerusalem were officially being called the worst ever against Muslims and two of the worst terrorist attacks in history. Combined, they were projected to exceed the death toll of September 11.
The article also included the full letter sent to The Jerusalem Post by the Hand of God Organization claiming credit.
Arab and Muslim countries around the world were calling for sanctions against Israel, while many Israeli citizens supported the organization and claimed that the Muslim world had brought this suffering upon itself. The Israeli government emphatically denied any knowledge of or support for the Hand of God Organization. They also stated that they had no idea how the terrorists got their hands on the Israeli weaponry used in the Medina attack, how equipment for the second attack was smuggled onto the Temple Mount, or how the terrorists knew restoration workers would not be in that area on the day in question.
The assassin smiled. With enough money, anything was possible.
The article went on to detail the bitter outrage felt throughout the Arab world. Legions of Islamic voices called for the blood of the Jews and a true holy war to decimate the nation of Israel and her American supporters once and for all. Let them come, the terrorist thought. Let them come .
At midnight, the assassin sat in the shadow of the Notre Dame at the Petit Pont Café reading another newspaper and drinking a coffee. A small duffel bag sat beneath the table. Ten minutes later, a blue
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