Free Path of the Assassin by Brad Thor Page B

hour. Having the pool all to himself was a Ritz perk that the prince distinctly enjoyed. One of the bodyguards handed the manager a Moby CD and the tuxedoed man quickly rushed off to prep the underwater sound system. The royal party proceeded on through the men’s changing area and trod through the cold-water footbath before arriving poolside.
    The prince was helped out of his plush Ritz bathrobe while he removed his matching slippers. Everything was neatly folded and placed on a nearby chaise lounge. The prince wore a blue Speedo bathing suit, and tinted goggles dangled from around his neck. He swung his arms back and forth to get the blood flowing and then raised the goggles and placed them over his eyes. After several squat thrusts, he moved to the edge of the pool. The manager reappeared and gave the bodyguards a discreet nod, indicating that the prince’s music was playing, before disappearing back upstairs to his office.
    Track number one on the Moby CD was “Honey, ” although the “Bodyrock” track might have been more appropriate for what happened when Prince Khalil hit the water. Within seconds he began bleeding from his eyes, his nose, ears, and rectum. At first his bodyguards thought that the prince had cut himself diving into the pool, but they quickly realized it was much more serious. The Prince’s blood fanned out through the water like hundreds of crimson ribbons as he began to violently writhe beneath the surface.
    Immediately, the royal bodyguards jumped into the pool to save their charge. Though they were fully clothed, the toxin worked its evil magic just as quickly, and soon the largest swimming pool in Paris was tinted bloodred, with three dead bodies floating in it.
    Later that morning, the hotel’s general manager received a letter containing an explanation of how to properly disinfect the pool and an apology for any inconvenience loss of the pool facilities may have caused hotel guests. It was signed, “The Hand of God.”

14
    When Scot awoke to sunlight streaming through a nearby window, the first thing he noticed was that he was no longer flexi-cuffed. There was an IV in his left arm, but other than that, he could move freely. He was lying down and had been covered with a blanket. A figure hovered at the foot of his bed.
    “What the hell is going on? Where am I?” he asked as the figure began to take the shape of a middle-aged man in a dark, pin-striped suit.
    “You were oversedated and have been out for quite some time,” said the man. “I believe we owe you an apology, Agent Harvath.”
    “This has gone far beyond an apology. You can get in line behind Morrell and I’ll deal with you next. I want some answers, now. Who are you and where am I?” Scot said groggily as he struggled to sit upright. His head was pounding and he was none too happy about it.
    Someone had been standing in a corner of the room and that person now approached. Harvath recognized the voice immediately. It was his friend, the deputy director of the FBI, Gary Lawlor. “You’re outside Williamsburg, Virginia, at Camp Peary.”
    “Gary? What the hell are you doing here? Better yet, what the hell am I doing here, and what have they done to me? My head feels like it’s been split open with a sledgehammer,” Scot said.
    “I’m afraid we may have gotten our signals crossed,” answered the man in the pin-striped suit.
    “I can guarantee you did,” said Scot. He noticed a pitcher on the bedside table. “Is that just plain water, or have you CIA guys put something funny in it?”
    “No, it’s plain water,” said the man, who poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to Scot.
    After draining the cup, he handed it back to the man for a refill and took another long swallow before he spoke. “There’d better be a damn good reason why your Harvey Point guys jumped me and brought me here to the farm.”
    “I can’t fully address that issue. There are certain classified operations of the Central