“We’ve got to get out of here now, “He said as he maneuvered back over to Alcott.

Jillian wanted to respond; she wanted to say something, but the words caught in her throat. Her heart was thudding against her chest so hard she thought for certain it would burst.

“Do you see that exit sign back there?” asked Harvath as he helped her up into a crouch.

Alcott had trouble responding, and Harvath realized that she must be in shock. Grabbing her chin, he turned her head in the right direction and asked her again if she saw the sign.

This time, Jillian nodded.

“Good. When I say go, I want you to run as fast as you can to that door. I’m going to be right behind you and-”

“Who are you?” she managed.

“That’s not important,” replied Harvath. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now, when I say go, we’re going to make a run for that emergency exit door. Do you understand?”

Jillian nodded her head.

“Okay, get ready. One, two, three, go!” yelled Harvath as he pushed Alcott forward and laid down a wide swath of cover fire behind them, careful to avoid hitting any of the fleeing shoppers. When they arrived at the emergency exit door, Harvath kicked it open and pulled Jillian in behind him. They ran down a narrow service corridor until they found the emergency stairwell and then began bounding down the stairs two at a time. Alcott’s legs seemed to be moving entirely of their own accord, her will tied to the sheer force of the man in front of her.

Instead of descending all the way to the ground floor and out some side door, as she assumed they would, they instead exited the fire stairs on the first floor and cut across the length of the store to the other side. Finding another staircase, Harvath led the way down to the ground floor, where he spirited Alcott through the perfume section and straight out the front door with the rest of the panicked shoppers.

Harvath quickly scanned the street through the torrential downpour and saw that not only were all of the buses packed, but so were the taxis. The Tube was an option, but they couldn’t get on it here. Not at Knightsbridge. It was only a matter of time before Khalid Alomari realized he’d been tricked and doubled back to look for them. They had to get out of the area as quickly as possible.

Tightening his grip around Alcott’s arm, Harvath steered her away from the department store and down the sidewalk. Without her trusty Burberry umbrella, which she had lost somewhere in the lingerie department along with her briefcase, Alcott had nothing to keep her dry. Growing colder, wetter, and more scared by the moment, she tried to think of something to say-something that would cut through all of this insanity. “Please, let me go.”

Harvath wasn’t listening. He was only concerned with putting as much distance between them and Alomari as possible, and right now that meant they had to keep moving forward-together.

Harvath was in no condition to tackle the highly skilled assassin. He was running on empty, summoning up reserves of energy and recycled adrenaline he knew he was going to pay dearly for in the very near future. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week, but right now, sleep was not an option. Knowing that a very deadly disease could be unleashed upon America at any time was all the inspiration Harvath needed to increase his pace.

As they got closer to the South Kensington Tube station, Harvath realized he still had no idea where they were going. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. They couldn’t aimlessly wander London all night. They needed an end point, a destination. “We need to find a place where we can get out of the rain, “He said more for his own benefit than hers. “A place where we can talk. Quietly.”

“How about a police station?” replied Alcott. “They’re quiet enough, and we’ll both be safe there.”

“We can’t go to the police.”

“We can’t?” she mustered up the courage to say. “Or you can’t?”

“It’s the same thing now,” stated Harvath. “We’re in this together. “Through the rain, he could make out a pub sign about half a block down. After glancing over his shoulder he said, ”There’s a pub up ahead. We can talk there. Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” said Alcott. “I don’t even know who you are. The only place I want to go is to the police.”

Harvath was anxious to get off the street and out of the rain. Any minute now, the area would be crawling with police. He could already hear the sirens, and even though he’d been careful to avoid showing his face to the department store’s security cameras, there was no telling if any eyewitnesses had gotten a good look at him.

Harvath needed time to think, and like it or not, for at least the near future, he and Alcott were going to be joined at the hip.

He thought about using the gun and telling her she had no choice, but playing hardball was only going to make traveling with her more difficult. He needed her to trust him. “If you don’t come inside with me, not only will you be putting your life in further jeopardy, but Emir Tokay’s as well.”

The look on the woman’s face told him that he’d struck the right chord. The resistance drained from her body, and Harvath was able to quickly steer her off the street and into the dimly lit pub.

It was called The Bunch of Grapes and turned out to be one of London ’s oldest pubs. As Harvath led Alcott to a quiet table in the back, he noticed a sign that said it had been in existence since 1777. The rich, wood-paneled interior was steeped in London history and was exactly what one would expect to find in a traditional English public house, especially one that had been around for more than two hundred years.

After hanging their soaking wet coats near the door, Harvath ordered two Irish coffees from the bar and brought them back over to their table.

Jillian reached for her drink and in the most confident voice she could summon said, “I’m giving you five minutes to tell me who you are and what this is all about. Why would somebody want to kill me?”

Harvath was famished. He opened the package of salt and vinegar chips he had bought at the bar, took a couple of bites, and then washed them down with a mouthful of hot Irish coffee before responding. “My name is Scot Harvath, and I work for the American government. The man from the department store who tried to kill you is named Khalid Sheik Alomari. He’s an al-Qaeda assassin.”

“An al-Qaeda assassin is after me?”

“Yes.”

“And you just let him follow me all the way to Harvey Nichols?”

“I wasn’t able to get a good look at him until just before everything happened.”

“This is preposterous. Why would an al-Qaeda assassin be after me?”

“Because of your relationship with Emir Tokay.”

“My relationship? But Emir and I are just friends,” responded Jillian. “We went to university together. Why would someone, much less al-Qaeda, want to kill me over that?”

Most people would have missed it, but Harvath noticed a subtle shift in her facial muscles that signaled she was not being completely truthful. It was called a microexpression, and through their extensive training, U.S. Secret Service agents were the only human beings consistently capable of detecting them. It was a skill Harvath had worked tirelessly to keep sharp, and it was precisely at moments like this that he was glad he had. “There’s more to this than that,” replied Harvath, “and you know it. Emir was working on a very serious project that he contacted you about for help.”

“I don’t know anything about any project Emir was working on.”

There it was again, the tell. “Dr. Alcott, everybody on that project is dead now. Everybody except for Emir, and if you don’t want the same thing to happen to him, I suggest you cooperate.”