Blowback

Harvath removed the documents from the envelope as Kampos continued to speak. “After that Rayburn character got the boot from the Secret Service, the trail on him goes so cold it’s sub-Arctic. It’s like he just vanished. No tax returns, no passport renewal, no credit card activity, no hits on his social security number-nothing.”

“What about the other name I gave you? The one for the woman.”

“That one I had a little more luck with. Jillian Alcott. Age twenty-seven. Born in Cornwall, England. Attended Cambridge University and graduated with her undergraduate degree in biology and organic chemistry. Went on to attend the University of Durham, where she secured a graduate degree in molecular biology, followed by a PhD in paleopathology.”

“What the hell is paleopathology?” asked Harvath.

“Beats me,” replied Kampos, “but whatever it is, it apparently qualifies her for her current position, which is teaching chemistry at a very exclusive private high school in London called Abbey College. I never did understand the Brits. They call high-school college and college university. Anyway, it’s all there in the file. In the meantime, I’ll see if I can dig up anything else on Rayburn for you.”

“Thanks, Nick. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t appreciate it. Just get whatever’s screwed up straight and come out on the right side of it.”

Harvath’s attention drifted toward the water, and Kampos seemed to be able to read his mind. “You’re going to London, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Harvath.

“Well, if you need anything else, let me know.”

“Actually, there is,” said Harvath as he opened his wallet and counted several bills onto the table to pay for their dinner. “I need a ride to the airport and a gun.”

SEVENTEEN

NIKOS TAVERNA

PLAKA DISTRICT

ATHENS

Khalid Alomari tried to keep his anger under control as he flipped his cell phone closed and tossed it onto the wooden table in front of him. As the noise of motorbikes whizzing past mingled with the sounds of shopkeepers hawking their wares to the tourists who crowded the dusty sidewalks, Alomari wondered once again why none of his contacts was producing. Secrets didn’t keep long in a country like Bangladesh, but for some reason this one was eluding him. As he tried to piece together what had happened, he thought seriously about having one or two of his lowlife associates there killed to help motivate the others.

None of it made any sense. Men like Emir Tokay didn’t simply vanish. They didn’t have the aptitude. Tokay was a scientist, after all, not a trained intelligence operative. There had to be a way to find him, thought Alomari. The assassin had gotten to all the other scientists on the list and didn’t like coming up one short. His situation was made even more difficult by the fact that there was very little time left.

The last time he had spoken with his employer, who was known to him only as Akrep, or the Scorpion, the man had been enraged. He had chastised the assassin for moving too slowly with the kills and somehow knew, as he always seemed to know everything, that the last scientist had disappeared. Once more, Alomari questioned the benefit of ever having gotten involved with such a man.

True, Alomari specialized in killing for hire, but his targets had always been the obvious enemies of Islam. The only comfort he took in this assignment was that the Scorpion himself was a true believer and had pledged his life in service of the faith.

His faith notwithstanding, the Scorpion was known for being absolutely ruthless. Even bin Laden, a man not frightened by anyone, was said to conduct himself toward the Scorpion with an amazing degree of respect and admiration. It was even hinted that al-Qaeda had been the Scorpion’s idea, hatched in the mountains of Afghanistan with bin Laden during the great holy war against the Soviets.

In the end, Alomari held no illusions about why he had taken the assignment-he needed the money; or more importantly, al-Qaeda needed the money. With bin Laden cut off from a significant portion of his funds and forced into hiding along the Pakistan-Afghan border, the al-Qaeda organization was starved for cash. While the cell in Madrid might have sold drugs to keep themselves afloat and finance their spectacular train bombings, there were plenty of other good Muslim members of the organization who would not stoop to such a thing, and Alomari was one of them. He had had no choice but to take the Scorpion’s assignment.