It was not Hastings or Cates who found Harvath propped up against a parked car and unable to move outside Libya House, but the receptionist.
Without saying a word, the man bent down and helped Harvath to his feet. When Harvath had trouble balancing on his damaged ankle, the man offered his shoulder. He tried to steer him toward the steps leading to the front of the building, but Scot shook his head and motioned toward the garage. At the bottom of the ramp, he thanked the man and told him to return to his post. What Harvath had to do now, he wanted to do without strangers present.
It took him several minutes to limp back to where he had left Hastings and Herrington, but when he got there he saw Rick Cates covering Bob’s body with a tarp. Cates looked up expectantly, and Harvath shook his head. He knew the question, and unfortunately the answer was no. He didn’t get the people who had done this to Bob.
Scot and Tracy and Rick stood there, staring down at the tarp, and said nothing. They had lost not only a teammate, but also an exceptional fellow soldier who was an even better friend.
There was no telling how much time had passed when Harvath finally said, “Let’s go back upstairs. I want some answers.”
The receptionist provided them with a keycard, but it got them only as high as the twenty-third floor. From there they walked up one more floor and realized why the freight elevator wasn’t working. Its charred doors stood wide open, and it didn’t take much of an imagination to realize what had happened. A severed hand and a lone Quantico boot with part of a leg sticking out of it, suggested at least one person, or probably more had been standing near the elevator when it exploded. What was left of the car was probably in the basement, and Harvath didn’t envy the forensic team that would have to go through it later.
As they continued on, each of the rooms they cleared was empty, until they reached the one that must have been used for bin Mohammed’s dialysis treatments. There they found another man-a marine, by the looks of him, who had taken a couple of severe blows to the head, but who was still alive. With no choice for the moment, they quickly made him as comfortable as possible and then continued with their sweep.
At the end of the hall, they found one last survivor-Sayed Jamal. He was Flexicuffed to a chair and had been beaten almost beyond recognition. Because this was Jaffe’s operation, Harvath didn’t need to recognize the prisoner to know who he was. He felt for a pulse and found one. It was weak, and even with immediate medical attention the man was probably not going to make it.
Leaving him alone, they went to clear their last and final room-the interrogation’s nerve center. After deeming it to be safe, they stared at the sophisticated electronic equipment as well as the dry-erase boards, the relationship diagrams, and the multiple photographs that had been taped up along the wall. Seeing one that bore a resemblance to the prisoner across the hall, Cates asked, “Is this what the guy in the other room used to look like?”
Harvath looked at the photo and nodded.
“They really did a number on him. Who the hell is he?”
“His name is Sayed Jamal. He’s an al-Qaeda bombmaker who-”
Suddenly, Cates spun around and seeing that Hastings was no longer in the room said, “Oh, shit!”
“What the hell’s going on?” demanded Harvath as Cates ran for the door.
“Sayed Jamal was the man behind Tracy ’s last bomb in Iraq.”
Harvath was about to echo Cates’s Oh, shit, when the crack of a single round being discharged in the interrogation room stopped him dead in his tracks. Without even seeing it, he knew that Tracy had killed him.