Robert Ashford had provided Harvath with the rough layout of James Standing’s New York City apartment. He had also provided an accurate picture of the billionaire’s personal security detail.
For the overnight shift, only four men were kept on duty. One was positioned in the lobby with the doorman, while another was at the receiving entrance. A third man remained in the apartment in a small security room located off the kitchen, monitoring the building’s closed-circuit camera feed. The fourth agent operated as a “floater,” moving from position to position, relieving the other men when it was time for their respective breaks and filling in as an impromptu driver when needed.
Harvath had gained access to the building via the roof of an adjacent structure. He made his way down the interior security stairs to the back door of Standing’s apartment, underneath which he slid a fiber-optic surveillance camera. Cupping the scope to his eye, he slowly scanned the interior of the kitchen.
Because of the angle, he couldn’t see into the security room, but he had little doubt that the agent watching the CCTV feeds was there. Retracting the camera, Harvath put it back in his pack and removed a short aluminum cylinder wrapped in clear tubing, as well as a full-face respirator.
Placing the respirator over his head, he made sure the seal around his face was tight and then unwound the tubing from the cylinder and fed it beneath the door.
There was a barely perceptible hiss as he opened the valve and began to pump the contents of the cylinder into the kitchen.
Three-Methylfentanyl, or 3-MF as it was known, was an opioid analgesic that ranged anywhere from four hundred to six thousand times more powerful than morphine, depending upon what type of isomer it was combined with. Harvath was using a cis isomer, which pushed the gas being emitted from the tube beneath the kitchen door to its most effective range.
It was the same substance used by the Russians in the Moscow theater hostage crisis in 2002 and was extremely tricky to work with. Minimum exposure could knock a person out for hours. Anything more than minimum exposure and the chances of overdose and death rose exponentially. The common temptation to believe that if a little bit was good then a lot was better had to be avoided at all costs. The Russians had overadministered the substance in Moscow and had ended up killing not only the hostage-takers, but the hostages as well.
Harvath kept a close eye on his watch and then reached down and shut off the gas.
He pulled the hose from under the door, wrapped it around the cylinder, and tucked the device back into his pack. He then removed his lock-pick gun and went to work opening the door. A few clicks of the gun and a slight turn of the tensioning wrench later and he was in. Shouldering his pack, he drew a suppressed Glock and crept inside.
The door swung noiselessly on its well-oiled hinges and Harvath made sure to close and quietly lock it behind him. The only illumination in the kitchen came from dim undercabinet lighting. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness.
Around the corner he could see the glow of television monitors spilling into a narrow corridor. Cautiously, Harvath made his way forward.
He found Standing’s agent slumped over a small desk in the tiny security room that had likely functioned as a maid’s quarters at some point. Reaching down with his latex-gloved hand, Harvath felt for a pulse. The security man was still alive. Glancing up, he checked the monitors and located Standing’s three other security men, all of whom were still downstairs.
Leaving the security room, Harvath passed through the kitchen, pausing only long enough to open a window, drop a piece of maroon foil from the top of an expensive Bordeaux in the trash, and locate a wineglass. Once he had taken care of those, he headed for the master bedroom.
Harvath estimated the apartment had to be at least ten thousand square feet. Once a safe distance from the kitchen, he removed his respirator.
At the end of a long hallway carpeted with Persian rugs, its walls lined with silk tapestries, was the door to James Standing’s bedroom. Harvath slid his fiber-optic camera underneath the door and took another long, slow look around.
Satisfied that Standing was in bed, alone, and still asleep, Harvath tucked the device into his pack and carefully opened the door.
His objective was approximately thirty feet away from Standing on the other side of the billionaire’s enormous bed. Harvath had no doubt that somewhere near the bed there was a panic button, so he crossed the room as quickly and as quietly as he could.
Slipping into the master bathroom, he set down his pack and organized his materials. When he was ready, he closed the drain and turned on the water in the tub.
James Standing awoke to the sound of running water. At first, he thought it had been a dream, but the longer the sound persisted, the more he became convinced that it was in fact real and that it was coming from his bathroom.
But why would his bath be running? Still half-asleep, he threw back his bedcovers and swung his feet out of bed.
Sliding his feet into his Stubbs amp; Woottons, he ignored his robe and padded across the bedroom to figure out what the hell was going on.
As he got closer to the bathroom, the sound of running water got louder and he picked up his pace.
Pushing open the door, he clicked on the lights and sure enough, his bath was running. How the hell was that possible?
Walking across the polished marble floor, he arrived at the tub and reached for the handle. As he did, he heard a voice from behind say, “Let it fill up.”
The voice so startled him that his heart nearly burst from his chest. Spinning around, he saw a man completely dressed in black holding a suppressed pistol, which was pointed right at him.
“Who are you?” the billionaire demanded. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
“Robert Ashford sent me,” said Harvath, as he watched the fear etched on Standing’s face deepen.
“All I have to do is shout and my security team will be in.”
“Who? The three men downstairs or the one near the kitchen I already took care of?”
The financier didn’t reply.
“You can shout if you want to, but nobody is going to hear you.”
Standing looked as if he was thinking about doing just that, but quickly decided not to. “What do you want? Are you here to arrest me?”
Harvath pulled a vial of pills from his pocket and tossed it to him. “Eat.”
“Eat? What the hell are these?”
“Laxatives.”
“Why the hell would I want to take a bottle full of laxatives?”
“Because you’re about to go on a very long trip with no bathroom breaks,” said Harvath.
“What are you doing? Kidnapping me? Did that idiot Ashford put you up to this?”
“I’m doing you a favor. Start chewing.”
Standing opened the bottle and dumped several of the pills into his hand. He looked down and then threw the entire handful at Harvath. “Fuck you.”
Harvath smiled and tucked his pistol away at the small of his back. Reaching above the toilet, he took down one of Standing’s monogrammed bath towels and started walking forward.
Instinctively, the billionaire began backing away from him. The moment he did, Harvath sprung.
Twisting the towel tightly around Standing’s head, he used it to pull him off-balance. As the older man fell, Harvath steered him toward the tub, where he landed with a splash.
As soon as he hit the water, Harvath had him under it, careful to do everything with even pressure across the towel so as not to leave any marks.
Standing was strong for his age and struggled wildly. After a few more seconds, Harvath let him up. As his head broke the surface, he sucked in huge gasps of air.
“Let me make this very clear,” said Harvath. “You’re going to take those pills. Understand me?”
Standing didn’t respond, but he was visibly shaken by the explosion of violence that had just occurred. The tub was almost full and Harvath turned off the water.
In his fall, the billionaire had spilled the rest of the pills. Harvath scooped up a handful, gave them to him, and repeated his order. “Eat.”
This time, Standing did as he was told. As the man sat soaking in his pajamas, Harvath removed an opened bottle of wine from his pack and pulled out the cork. After filling the glass, he walked over to the tub and handed it to Standing. “Drink,” he said. “Red wine speeds up the process.”
He hesitantly accepted the glass as if he was suddenly beginning to grasp that maybe he was being lied to.
“Drink,” Harvath repeated. “All of it.”
As the man tilted it back, rivulets of wine ran down his chin and dripped into the water.
When the billionaire had drained the glass, Harvath refilled it. The man didn’t need to have the order repeated. He knew he was supposed to drink.
He had consumed about half of the second glass when Harvath told him to stop. He could see the man’s eyes were starting to have trouble focusing. He needed to say what he was going to say now, before the man could no longer grasp what was happening.
Harvath sat down on the edge of the tub and leaned in so James Standing could hear everything he was about to say.
“Listen to me very closely, you son of a bitch. Those weren’t laxatives. Right now, your heart is rapidly slowing down, unable to pump blood through your body. In about a minute, you’re going to find your lungs suddenly can’t seem to get enough air and you’re going to gasp for breaths that just won’t come.
“Before you die, I want you to know that everything you have spent your entire life working for has been completely undone. Every organization, every company, every foundation you have ever created, all of it. You’re going to be known the world over for the monster you are. Your name will forever be synonymous with evil.”
Standing tried to speak, to say something in response, but he couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come.
“Every family who lost someone in the attacks you financed will sue your estate and they will drain it of every last single penny. People who once held you in high esteem will mock your memory or recoil in horror at the mention of your name.
“All the money in the world can’t prevent what’s about to happen to you. On behalf of every one of your victims, I hope you rot in hell.”
Standing up, Harvath took the wineglass from Standing and set it on the side of the tub along with the half-empty bottle. He took the billionaire’s weakening fingers and pressed them against a straight razor, which he dropped into the water along with the towel.
After mopping up the floor with a shammy he’d brought in his pack, Harvath gathered up his belongings and exited the bathroom.
Passing through the bedroom, he stopped at a large flat-screen TV. Ejecting the tray of the DVD player beneath, he inserted the disc Nicholas had given him and turned everything on.
Back in the kitchen, the gas had dissipated. Closing the window, he gave the security monitors one last check before leaving the apartment and the building the same way he had come in.
He could see the sun just beginning to come up as he crossed Central Park. Removing his cell phone, he plugged in his earbuds, and called Carlton.
When the Old Man answered, he simply said, “It’s done.”
“Good,” Carlton replied. “Come home.”