Back in the sandbox, Harvath said to himself. The sandbox was the affectionate term American intelligence operatives and Special Operations personnel had for the Mideast. During his tenure with SEAL Six, now known as Dev Group, Harvath had been involved in many white and black ops in the sandbox. Though he had enjoyed the adrenaline rush that his assignments had provided, he didn’t miss the Mideast one bit. It was always too hot or too cold, and the sand got everywhere, no matter what precautions you took. Still, though, Scot longed for his action days. Not that being assigned to protect the president of the United States didn’t have its moments. It did, but once you’d played offense, it was almost impossible to move over to defense. Either you took it to them, or you sat back and waited until they brought it to you. Harvath was not made for sitting back and waiting.

Though he didn’t particularly like the sandbox, part of him felt it would be worth the heat, the cold, and even the sand just to get back on the offensive. He had to laugh at himself. What was he doing right now? He was on the offensive. This was what he loved doing. He was made for this-the hunt, and when necessary, even the kill.

In an odd, roundabout way, Harvath had found his dream job, though he didn’t know how long it would last. Even the president would have a limit to his largesse. But for now, Harvath was receiving a healthy Secret Service paycheck to utilize his Special Operations skills. And on top of it all, there was a twist. For once, he was in charge of himself. There was no command structure telling him where to be and what to do. Sure, he was expected to report in and had done so from the U.S. embassies in Hong Kong and Bern, but other than that, he was on his own. He had been given carte blanche, and for good reason. The president and those closest to him knew that Agent Scot Harvath completed his missions no matter what the cost. For him, there was no option other than total success.

He climbed into one of the shared taxis, known by Israelis as a sherut, which were always lined up outside the airport. When it was full, it pulled away from the curb and began the twenty-eight-mile drive to Jerusalem. The vans operated on a fixed route. There were no set stops; passengers simply indicated to the driver when they wanted to get out. Though the van would take longer to get to his hotel than would a regular taxi, Harvath preferred the anonymity of the sherut and the opportunity it provided to quietly reimmerse himself in Israeli culture.

An hour-and-a-half later, Harvath descended from the sherut on Nablus Road in the heart of the ancient city of Jerusalem. The smells and sounds had steadily been drifting through the van’s open windows, but it wasn’t until he stepped outside that the many memories came flooding back. There was a special aura about Jerusalem, a certain magic, tinged with the perfume of ever-present danger. The Jerusalem from his past that he had known during his SEAL days, had now drawn him back to become part of its present. He suddenly felt haunted by a feeling of foreboding. It was the same feeling he had experienced one night many months ago in the White House situation room as he watched Operation Rapid Return unfold on the flat-panel monitors throughout the room. The feeling had grown in its intensity as he watched the soldiers approach their target. Moments later, he saw the ambush and murder of the entire team and all but one of the support operatives, who were Israeli intelligence agents. The sole survivor of the doomed mission had dropped out of sight immediately afterward. There were even rumors that he had died, but Harvath’s intelligence led him to believe otherwise. It was this man that he was here in Israel to meet, and hopefully use to his advantage.

Harvath picked up his bag and stared at the façade of the old Jerusalem Hotel. Conventional wisdom would have one believe that in a war-torn country like Israel the bigger, Western-style hotels were the safest, but Harvath knew differently. If there were any local acts of terrorism, they would be carried out by Palestinians against major Israeli or western targets. No one would waste time on a small hotel like this, especially one with such strong Arab ties. Those were Harvath’s tactical reasons; his personal reasons were different.

The Jerusalem Hotel was perfectly situated less than one hundred meters from the Damascus Gate and the Old City. It lay within an old Arab mansion of thick-cut creamy limestone accented with Arabic plasterwork. The fourteen rooms were fitted out with arabesque furnishings, and the traditional architecture included arched windows, high ceilings, flagstone floors, and even a secluded vine garden. The only thing better than the price, at less than one-hundred-dollars a night, was that the same family had been running the hotel since the 1960s, and neither better nor friendlier service could be found anywhere else in Jerusalem.

After unpacking his bags, Harvath walked back downstairs and hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of one of his favorite restaurants, Le Tsriff, at number 5 Horkanos Street. The driver was a chatty man who immediately asked Harvath where he was from. Harvath gave his standard, nonthreatening answer of “Canada” and made small talk with the man until they reached the restaurant.

The place was just as he had remembered it. Though the decor left a little to be desired, he was here to eat, not to shoot a photo spread for Architectural Digest. He was shown to a table in the quaint outdoor dining area, where he enjoyed an excellent meal.

After dinner, Harvath decided to take a stroll. He had long ago learned to take his peaceful moments where he could find them. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

He tried to ignore Jerusalem’s intense security and instead focused on the history of the city as he followed the Jaffa Road and entered the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. He wandered through the Armenian Quarter, past the Christian Cathedral of St. James and into the Jewish Quarter until he found himself standing in the plaza along the Western Wall. Though it was late at night, people were still placing their pieces of paper with their wishes for God into spaces in the wall. Scot thought about Claudia and tried to remind himself that everything had happened for the best. Even so, he still wrote something on a small scrap of paper and placed it between two of the ancient weathered stones.

At the Ecce Homo Arch, he turned around to admire the brilliantly lit Dome of the Rock. The entire Temple Mount, with its Dome of the Rock, Dome of the Chain, al-Aqsa Mosque, and Museum of Islamic Art, was the focus of the Muslim faith in Jerusalem. It had also become the most hotly contested piece of real estate in the Arab-Israeli conflict-recognized as sacred ground by both sides.

The fact that three of the world’s greatest religions could have three of their holiest sites shouldered together within the tiny space of Jerusalem’s Old City and yet their followers have such an immensely difficult time getting along had always confounded Harvath. Religions were supposed to represent tolerance. But just like everything else in life, Harvath had learned, it wasn’t necessarily the philosophy that was flawed, but rather the human beings who were trying to interpret it.

From the Damascus Gate, it was a short walk back to the Jerusalem Hotel. A student of history and a warrior himself, Harvath reflected upon all of the destruction and death that had been wreaked in the name of religion. He doubted God supported any of it. A Delta Force guy Scot had once known put it best. The man had been brought up Protestant and was marrying an Irish Catholic girl. In the mandated Pre-Cana marriage counseling, the priest asked the hopeful groom how he thought their marriage would fare, considering their different religious backgrounds. The Delta Force operative was quick to respond, “To tell you the truth, Father, I don’t think God has a favorite football team, or a favorite religion.”