The embassy’s CIA station chief found Meg Cassidy’s insights only somewhat interesting and said as much to Harvath. He reiterated that the CIA’s primary efforts were focused, exactly as they were before, on stopping Hashim Nidal, period.
When it became obvious that the station chief wasn’t going to be of any help, Harvath asked where he could find Morrell.
“He and his team left three hours ago.”
Harvath got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Where did they go? Back to the Point?”
“Actually, we received reliable intelligence that Nidal may be headed for Syria.”
“Where’d that intelligence come from?”
“That’s classified,” replied the station chief.
“I’m part of this operation as well, so you can go ahead and fill me right in.”
“Not anymore you’re not.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and Miss Cassidy have been officially retired from Operation Phantom.”
“By whom?”
“It came down from D.C. You’re done. You’re to stay here and review the Oxford material to try and ID Hashim Nidal’s female accomplice-”
“You mean his sister.”
“That has yet to be proven.”
“And proof is exactly why Miss Cassidy in particular was brought onboard this operation. How are Morrell and his team going to be one hundred percent sure they’ve got Hashim, even if they do find him in Syria?”
“We have a photograph.”
“From where?” said Harvath with a certain degree of amazement.
“Morrell’s team got a few still frames of video from the Robofly during the meeting at the Hijrah Oasis.”
“I didn’t hear anything about that in the debriefing.”
“It came up after you left.”
“Was asked to leave,” corrected Harvath.
“Nevertheless, based on the video stills and what the CIA has been able to gather, Mr. Morrell is confident that his team will be able to take care of Nidal. So, as you can see, they are no longer in need of your assistance.”
“You guys have no idea of the mistake you’re making.”
“Be that as it may, you’re to stay and review the Oxford material in an attempt to identify the woman in question, and then you’ll be flown back to the States via military transport.”
“First class all the way. That’s great. Fine. You guys do it your way. I need to use the bubble.”
“Again? What for this time?”
“I’m sorry,” said Harvath. “That’s classified.”
By the time Harvath was finally able to get through to Lawlor in the situation room at the White House, he had a lot to tell him. Their conversation took over half an hour, during which time Lawlor put Harvath on hold six times while he quickly placed other calls.
Within forty-five minutes of hanging up, an embassy staffer was driving Harvath and Meg to the port at La Goulette. Because of an Italian aviation strike, they had been booked on the Linee Lauro overnight ferry to Naples. That was something that never ceased to amaze Harvath about Europe. France, Italy, Greece-they all chose to strike at the busiest times of year, thereby inconveniencing the largest number of people. But at least the ferries were running, reasoned Harvath.
Buying a ferry ticket in Tunis on short notice, especially in the summer, was normally an impossibility, but the embassy was able to slice through the red tape. A local Tunisian official met the party at the port and sped Harvath and Meg, along with their new passports, right through passport control and customs.
Onboard, they were shown to a sizable first-class suite, with two double beds, overlooking the bow of the ship. By the time the vessel left port at nine P.M. and sailed out of the Gulf of Tunis, Harvath and Meg were already in the main dining room having dinner.
They made small talk as they ate. Harvath was a million miles away. She knew that in his mind he had already landed in Naples and was trying to plot their next move. Wanting to be respectful of his need for space, when dinner was finished, Meg excused herself and returned to their cabin.
Harvath downed a strong espresso and then found his way onto the deserted deck outside. The warm night air was still and smelled of the sea. Far below the railing, where Harvath rested his arms, the ship’s hull displaced a phosphorescent wake of foam. It was the only indication that they were moving. No lights ahead or astern of the ferry were visible. There was nothing but the empty blackness of the wide Mediterranean Sea.
Harvath closed his eyes and listened to the steady rush of water as the vessel plowed through the night toward Italy. He tried to fit together the pieces of everything that had happened. He was looking for a common theme, a thread of some sort. While they had learned a lot, they were still no closer to discovering what Adara Nidal and her brother had planned.
Scot Harvath and Meg Cassidy were still running far behind, playing a losing game of catch-up.