Harvath ignored him. “The way it burns in your eyes, your nose, your throat?”

“I said leave her alone!”

“Going in through the ear canal is another experience altogether. When I depress this button, a fine, aerosolized mist will rush through this tube and it will feel to your wife as if someone has coated the entire inside of her skull with flaming gasoline.”

“You are obscene!”

“I’m nothing compared to you. And the fear you feel flowing through your body right now is nothing compared to the guilt you will feel from what else I have in store for your family.”

When Al-Tal didn’t respond, Harvath pulled his wife’s chair right alongside his and said, “Take a good look at her face. What’s going to happen now is because of you.”

The woman’s eyes were wide with fear, as were those of Al-Tal’s son and the male nurse.

Wrenching the man’s hand open, Harvath forced all his fingers closed around the can of OC. Lifting Al-Tal’s index finger, he slid it onto the release switch.

Al-Tal’s wife had never stopped screaming and now she screamed with even more force. Her body writhed against its restraints and she violently threw her head from side to side trying to dislodge the tube that had been shoved into her ear canal.

“Yes!” shouted Al-Tal, unable to bear his wife’s being tortured any further. “I will tell you how to contact Najib, you bastard. Just leave my family alone.”

“Tell him the imam is not well. He must come quickly so that they may read from the Koran one last time together.”

When Tammam Al-Tal’s wife finished delivering the carefully scripted message, Harvath pulled the phone away from her ear and hung up. Now, all they had to do was wait.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Mrs. Al-Tal didn’t need to be reminded about what would happen if she didn’t do and say everything exactly as they had rehearsed.

Harvath lifted the phone back up to her ear and leaned in to listen.

Abdel Salam Najib had a deep, penetrating voice. He spoke in quick, authoritative clips and was every bit as arrogant as his mentor. “Why did the imam not call himself?”

“He is too weak,” Al-Tal’s wife responded in Arabic. Her words were thick with panic and fear.

“He is dying, then.”

“Yes,” she replied.

“How much longer does he have?” asked the man.

“We have been told he will probably not live through the night.”

“You are still at the apartment?”

“Yes. The doctors wanted to move him to the hospital, but Tammam refused.”

Najib scolded her. “You should know better than to use his name over the phone.”

Harvath tensed. Was she trying to tip Najib or was it an honest mistake? Harvath had no way of knowing. Pulling a tactical MOD fighting knife from his pocket, he opened the blade and pressed it against the woman’s throat. Harvath agreed with Najib. She should know better, much better.

Al-Tal’s wife choked back a terrified sob. “He wishes to be taken back to Syria, but the doctors have told us the journey would only hasten his passing.”

“The doctors are right,” said the operative. “The imam should not be moved. Who is in the house with you?”

The woman spoke slowly, careful not to phrase the information in any way that might get her into trouble. “Our son is here, of course, as is the imam’s nurse. There is also another friend who came with us from home and attends to the imam’s safety and comfort.”

Najib knew both the bodyguard and the son. They could be trusted. The nurse, though, he didn’t know. “Have you learned how to administer your husband’s medications?”

The question took her by surprise. “His medications?”

“Yes. His morphine.”

She had no idea how to answer. It wasn’t a question she had been expecting. She looked to Harvath, who firmly shook his head no from side to side.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she answered.

“Well, you must learn,” replied Najib. “There will not be much to do, not if the imam is actively dying. Command the nurse to teach you what to do and then let him go. The imam and I have important things to discuss before he leaves to see the Prophet, may peace be upon Him. I do not want the nurse in the apartment when we speak.”

Harvath nodded and Mrs. Al-Tal’s voice cracked, “It will be done.”

Najib was silent for several moments. Harvath began to worry that he might suspect something. He’d come too far to lose him. What the hell was he waiting for?

Finally, Najib said, “I will be there by the evening prayer service. Is there anything special the imam would like me to bring to him?”

Unsure of how to respond, the woman looked at Harvath, who shook his head. “Nothing,” she answered. “Just come quickly.”

“Tell the imam that he must wait for me.”

“I will,” responded the woman, the tears welling up in her eyes.

The conversation over, Harvath took the phone and replaced it in its cradle. Najib had taken the bait and the hook was set. All that was left to do was to reel him in. But Harvath knew all too well that you never celebrated until the fish was actually in the boat.

Harvath offered each of his captives a bathroom break, but only the male nurse had the guts to take him up on it. He relieved himself right next to the tub with its plastic-wrapped occupant.

Having the nurse ambulatory made it a lot easier to move him to the spare bedroom. Harvath then brought in Al-Tal’s wife and son, and once they were all secure, made his way back out to the dining room.

Al-Tal was sweating, his gray-and-blue-striped pajamas clinging to his wet body. He needed his morphine.

Harvath released Al-Tal from his chair and, with one arm slung around the man’s waist, helped him back to the bedroom. After doing a thorough search of the pillows and bedclothes, Harvath helped the man up and eased him beneath his blankets. Al-Tal was so frail it was like handling a doll made from papier-mâché.

Once he was in bed, Harvath reinserted Al-Tal’s IV and placed a fresh piece of tape over the needle on the back of his left hand. Like Pavlov’s dog, the Syrian’s dry mouth began to water with anticipation of the warm wave about to rush through his beleaguered body.

Harvath laid the PCA trigger on the bed, but just out of Al-Tal’s reach. When the man bent forward to pick it up, Harvath pushed him back. “Not so fast. I still have a few more questions for you.”

Al-Tal was angry. “I did everything you asked.”

“And now you’re going to do more.”

“Is it not enough that I have turned on one of my own agents? A man who trusts me implicitly?”

Harvath ignored him. “Who arranged for Najib’s release from Guantanamo?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about I get your son and bring him in here? How about I go to work on him? Would you like that?” asked Harvath as he removed his knife from his pocket and flicked it open. “I’ll start by peeling back the skin from the fingertips of his left hand. I’ll keep going until I am at the wrist and the hand has been completely degloved. Just when he starts to become numb to the pain, I’ll prepare a bowl full of juice from the lemons in your kitchen and soak his hand in it. It’ll be a pain like no other he’s experienced in his life.”

Al-Tal’s eyes closed. “I will answer your questions.”

Harvath repeated his inquiry. “Who arranged Najib’s release?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“I’ll make sure to let your son know how cooperative you’ve been before I start in on him,” replied Harvath as he stood up.

“I’m telling the truth,” sputtered Al-Tal. “I don’t know exactly who it is.”

“But you do know something.”

The Syrian nodded and then let his eyes wander to the morphine pump.