Path of the Assassin by Brad Thor

extensive network of contacts, Harvath had been able to locate the elusive man, who appeared to be very much alive. It was Harvath’s hope that Schoen might be able to tell him something, anything, about what had happened that night and who had coordinated the ambush.
    After the incident at the Temple Mount, Harvath passed the rest of the day and most of the night inside the hotel glued to either the television set that had been placed in the garden restaurant, or the one in his room.
    The next afternoon, halfway through his lunch, a bellboy brought a package to his table. Harvath tipped him a few shekels and, once the boy had walked back inside, carefully opened it. Inside was a digital phone. No note and no number, just the phone. As it was already turned on, Harvath placed it on the table next to him and waited.
    Within minutes, the phone rang.
    “Shalom,” said Harvath as he opened the phone and raised it to his ear.
    “Mr. Harvath, how nice that you speak our language,” replied the man on the other end. He had a deep voice accentuated by a thick lisp.
    “I know enough to get by.”
    “And enough to choose an inconspicuous, yet excellent hotel.”
    “I’m starting to have my doubts about its location.”
    “No doubt you are referring to the attack at the Temple Mount,” said the voice.
    “No doubt.”
    “An unfortunate incident and one that I am afraid kept me from contacting you earlier; but, in the face of Arab terror and aggression against the Israeli people, it was inevitable that the Israelis would eventually employ the same tactics.”
    “So, this was an Israeli attack against Arabs?” asked Harvath.
    “Indeed. Two remote-controlled machine guns on the Temple Mount opened fire on a large crowd of Muslims leaving the noon service at the al-Aqsa Mosque.”
    “Opening fire on a group of innocent people doesn’t sound very civilized to me. Is this what Israel has come to?”
    “For some, yes.”
    “Who? The Hand of God?”
    “I am confident that sometime today the newspapers and TV stations will break the news that the Hand of God is taking credit for this recent attack. Though many Israelis abhor violence, this group is reaching almost a cultlike status among the young and old alike.”
    “You seem very well informed, Mr. Schoen.”
    “You’ll find I am extremely well informed, but please refrain from speaking my name in public. I know the phone is digital, but we must still be careful. Now, I trust you had a good lunch?”
    “Good enough.”
    “Excellent. There will be a white taxi waiting for you outside the Damascus Gate to the Old City. The driver is wearing a brown sport coat. Tell him you wish to be taken to a reputable antiques shop, and he will bring you to me.”
    “And where, exactly, are you?”
    “I’d rather not say, Mr. Harvath. My security precautions may seem a bit extreme, but believe me, they are in my own best interest. Please, let’s not waste any time. The driver has been instructed to wait no more than five minutes. I will explain everything once you are here.”
    Harvath didn’t like the cloak-and-dagger routine, but he had little choice but to comply.
     
    The driver never said a word as he headed northwest along the Jaffa Road away from the Old City. Harvath noticed the bulge of a rather large weapon beneath his sport coat and guessed that this was no ordinary taxi driver.
    Finally, the cab pulled up in front of an old four-story building in the popular Ben Yehuda district. The storefront consisted chiefly of two large windows crammed full of antique furniture, paintings, and fixtures. The gilded sign above the entryway read, “Thames & Cherwell Antiques,” followed by translations in Hebrew and Arabic.
    With an utter lack of ceremony, the driver popped the power locks and jerked his head toward the left, indicating that Scot should get out of his cab and enter the shop.
    “I guess you’re not going to get the door for me, so this is probably good-bye. It was