by Brad Thor
CHAPTER 3
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“Stay on him,” Harvath ordered, not sure what the hell they were up against, or whom he was even following at this point. “But don’t let him see you.”
“Roger that,” Staelin replied.
“Haney—” Harvath began, but he was interrupted.
“Overhead now.”
He pulled a small infrared beacon from his coat pocket and clipped it to his lapel as he kept moving. “Got me?”
“Stand by,” Haney answered, as he used the drone’s infrared camera to search for Harvath’s strobe. Finally, he came back over the radio and said, “I’ve got you.”
“There’s a robed figure up ahead of me,” Harvath stated. “Same bearing. Moving like he’s late for a job interview. See him?”
Haney paused before replying, “Negative. I don’t see anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t see him. The drone’s not picking him up.”
Suddenly another voice broke in. It was Morrison, the other Marine who was moving with Gage, the Green Beret. “I have eyes on.”
“What’s your position?” Harvath asked.
When Morrison gave his location, Haney said, “You’re not even close to Harvath or Staelin. You guys are chasing three different targets.”
Shit, thought Harvath. How many of these guys are there? “Everybody, strobes on,” he ordered.
A chorus of “Roger that” flooded the radio as the men activated their infrared devices, visible only to the infrared camera aboard the drone. “Strobes on.”
Based on the wire clippings and the presence of the bomb maker, something bad was in the works. But was it in the works for tonight? Or were they just getting the lay of the land, perhaps waiting for two nights from now, when there’d be the biggest concentration of Burners in one spot? There was no telling. All he knew was that at least one of them was armed. And if one was armed, the others probably were too.
Getting back on the radio, Harvath instructed Haney to fix the other two figures on the map. In his mind, he tried to picture the layout of Black Rock City. Where the hell were they headed? And even more important, did Rahim have even more operatives out there?
The most pressing question, though, was What had he interrupted? Were the men in the process of planting a bomb? Had they already planted a bomb? Or did they have something totally different in mind?
When Haney’s voice came over his earpiece moments later, he didn’t have good news. “I can’t see them.”
“Is it the weather?” Harvath asked, though his gut told him that wasn’t the answer.
“Negative. Whatever they’re wearing, it’s masking their heat signature.”
Damn it. More tradecraft. These guys knew how to avoid infrared surveillance. Harvath’s worst fears were being confirmed.
“Based on their direction of travel,” he asked, “what do you think their target is?”
Haney studied the festival map on the console in front of him. “It could be anything.”
“Think like them.”
“I am thinking like them,” Haney replied. “But every one of these theme camps reeks of symbolism.”
Staelin’s voice interrupted the transition. “Our guy just doubled back and took a hard left. Headed west now.”
Moments later, Morrison stated, “Our target just took a shortcut through two camps. Now headed east.”
Up ahead of Harvath, the hooded figure he was following paused and looked around, as if checking his position, and then began moving north. They were all changing direction.
“Where are they headed, Mike?” Harvath asked as he continued after his target. “Come on. Figure it out.”
“I’m telling you,” Haney replied. “It could be anything.”
Just then, Morrison interjected, “I know where my target is headed. We need to take him now.”
“Slow down,” cautioned Harvath. “Where’s he going?”
“Kidsville. The family camp.”
The urgency of the situation instantly took on new meaning. They had to act.
Passing through another camp, Harvath saw a roll of duct tape. Grabbing it from the tent pole where it hung, he picked up his pace and kept going.
“Is anyone close enough to see if they’re buttoned down?” he asked.
Suicide bombers were known for employing what was called a “dead man’s switch.” It was a button that when depressed armed their device. If a bomber was shot or somehow incapacitated, simply releasing the button would cause their device to detonate.
There was also the chance of a “chicken switch.” It was a fail-safe that attached the bomber’s vest to a cell phone. If the device failed to go off at the designated place and time, a handler could trigger it remotely.
The chance that either technology, and possibly both, was present made the situation much more dangerous.
“Negative,” Staelin replied. “I can’t see anything. Our target has his hands under his robe.”
“Same with ours,” said Morrison.
Except for the split second he had a weapon pointed at him, Harvath hadn’t seen the hands of the man he was chasing either.
Tackling multiple potential suicide bombers wasn’t part of this assignment. It was supposed to be surveillance of a terrorist planner, followed by a snatch and grab. Once they had him out of Black Rock City, they were to fly him to a prearranged location for interrogation. Any heavy lifting was Harvath’s responsibility. Everyone else was supposed to be support.
Harvath didn’t know much about the men he was working with, but what he did know was that they were men of honor. They did the right thing, no matter what.
“Gut check,” Harvath relayed over the radio. “If anyone wants out, now’s the time.”
“Negative,” came the replies.
Harvath laid out his plan. “Assume they’re carrying weapons. Assume they’re all wearing vests. And assume they’re buttoned down. If they come off that switch, it’s over. So when you go kinetic, you each take a hand and focus on it like a laser. Understood?”
“Roger that,” the men answered.
Haney knew Harvath was operating without a partner. That meant he was going to have an even harder job. He’d have to get his target’s hands under control by himself. “I can be to you in less than five minutes,” Haney offered.
Looking up ahead, Harvath figured out where his target was headed. It was the biggest of the luxury camps—the one die-hard Burners resented the most—called Crystal Sky.
It was packed with wealthy and powerful executives from Silicon Valley. A successful attack inside Crystal Sky would reverberate across the tech industry and feed headlines worldwide.
“Stay on the drone,” Harvath ordered. “And have Langley get word to law enforcement. If there are more of them out there, we’ve got to find them fast.”
Once Haney had confirmed, Harvath hailed Morrison and Staelin. “Your teams are clear to engage. Take them down.”
From the Crystal Sky stage, he could make out a speeded-up version of “Super Freak” by Rick James. The robed figure in front of him cut out into the crowded street and headed for the camp entrance. Two hundred yards more and he’d be inside.
Harvath had no choice. It was time to make his move.
CHAPTER 4
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The biggest challenge for Harvath was making sure that the robed man didn’t see him. If he did, it would be game over. Knowing the terrorist’s target, though, gave him an advantage.
The dust storm had begun to slow. As it did, visibility continued to improve. Harvath moved though the throng, careful to stay out of the man’s line of sight.
People were being pressed tighter together as they approached the entrance. Inside the camp, it looked like a mosh pit, punctuated by glow sticks and LED jump ropes. Phosphorescent jellyfish appeared to pulse through the air above the dancing crowd.
With his
eyes glued to the man, Harvath willed him to act. Show me your hands, you son of a bitch. Do it. Let me see them.
As if answering his silent prayer, the crowd suddenly surged forward and a drunk Burner bumped into the robed figure. The terrorist stumbled forward. His left hand appeared from beneath his robe. Steadying himself against the person in front of him, the man quickly returned his empty hand to hiding. That was all Harvath needed to see.
Threading himself through the crowd, he slid into position at the terrorist’s five o’clock, took a deep breath, and, ignoring the pain in his lungs, sprang.
He punched the man just behind his ear while grabbing for his right hand, which was wrapped around a switch.
Immediately, the terrorist’s legs buckled and he went down. Harvath went with him as people began to scream.
“Dead man’s switch!” he yelled into his radio so Haney and the rest of the team would know.
Landing in the dust, Harvath began elbowing the man in the face. Once the chrome faceplate cracked, he could see the man’s face. It was Rahim. He delivered two more crushing blows, shattering the man’s nose.
A handful of Burners, unaware of what was going on, tried to pull Harvath off him. He kicked one in the gut and followed up by sweeping another’s leg.
Instead of dissuading them, it only doubled their resolve to break up the fight. The idiots had no idea what they were doing.
Regrouping, they steeled themselves and moved forward. Harvath did the only thing he could.
Pulling his Sig Sauer, he fired three shots into the air. Instantly, the crowd scattered.
Rahim stirred and Harvath elbowed him again. Not knowing how much time he had, he dropped his pistol and grabbed the roll of duct tape he’d snatched.
Using his teeth to help loosen the edge of the tape, he wrapped Rahim’s hand as tight as he possibly could around the dead man’s switch. Even if the terrorist had wanted to let go of it, it would have been impossible.
Once he had it exactly as he wanted it, he wrapped the tape around several more times. Over his earpiece, he heard Staelin and then Morrison report that they had neutralized their targets.
Pulling his knife, he sliced open Rahim’s robe. It was lined with a space-blanket-like material, which was probably what had helped reduce his heat signature. His suicide vest, though, was unlike anything Harvath had ever seen. The terrorist had enough high explosive strapped to his chest to bring down an entire building.
Harvath searched for a chicken switch, but there wasn’t one. “Thank God,” he said as he relieved Rahim of his pistol and reclaimed his own.
Falling back on the ground, he took a moment to catch his breath. Then he announced, “Target neutralized.” They had done it.
The moment, though, was short-lived. His mind began swirling with all the things they had to do. Staying here would allow local law enforcement to find him. He’d lose Rahim and the terrorist would be put beyond the CIA’s reach. His assignment wasn’t done yet. He still needed to get them out of the desert and interrogate them.
“Haney,” Harvath said, pushing himself up off the ground. “I’m headed west with Rahim. Tell the plane to get ready, then grab the cart and come get us. Hurry up.”
Yanking the terrorist up onto his feet, Harvath dragged him toward the edge of Black Rock City and their ride.
Inebriation was an amazing thing. Just as they got moving, a new round of emboldened Burners tried to get in their way.
When Harvath gestured at his prisoner’s suicide vest, they reacted as if it was a costume. When he drew their attention to his gun, though, they seemed to get the message. He had been seriously considering squeezing off a few more rounds when they all took a step back. Shaking his head, he shoved Rahim forward.
As the Crystal Sky DJ moved from Rick James to George Clinton, Harvath filled his seared lugs with another deep breath of air.
It was at that moment that an additional suicide bomber detonated his vest in the center of Black Rock City.
CHAPTER 5
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NEXT MORNING
REGGIO DI CALABRIA, ITALY
Ravshan Tursunov’s rough hands rubbed a yellow lemon peel around the edge of his porcelain espresso cup.
He’d told the ignorant Italian waitress “No sugar,” but she’d brought it anyway. He tossed the cubes, like a pair of brown dice, into the cobbled street.
Sugar was one of the many things he’d given up. Bread, rice, and pasta too. The doctor had been adamant. For the transformation to work, he’d been required to shed forty pounds.
As an observant Muslim, there were few vices left available to him. Coffee was one. And even though ISIS forbade them, cigarettes were another.
He had become a connoisseur of both. With the money he was being paid, he could more than afford to.
In his native Tajikistan, the only thing worse than the coffee was the cigarettes. That went double for Syria. Both countries, though, were now behind him.
The tiny café, three blocks up from the water, was one of the best-kept secrets in the city. And while he didn’t care for the waitstaff, the barista was the Michelangelo of coffee.
Both the Russians and the Americans had taught him never to visit the same location twice. There were certain things in life, though, worth making an exception for. This was the exception. Besides, no one knew him here.
Looking at his reflection in the glass door of the café, he still didn’t even know himself. Blepharoplasty and canthoplasty had softened his eyelids and made him look less Eurasian. Rhinoplasty had narrowed the bridge of his nose, adjusted his dorsal hump, and tightened the tip.
Otoplasty improved the shape of his ears by reducing his earlobes, while cheek and chin implants gave his face more distinguished, angular features.
A neograft addressed his male pattern baldness and gave him a full hairline. Vaser liposuction helped him vaporize the remnants of the spare tire around his middle.
In short, the Pakistani surgeon had done an amazing job. There was very little scarring, and in less than two weeks, he’d been ready to sit for his new passport photo. The trip to Lahore had been worth it.
Now, such as it was, he was finally in Europe.
The suicide bombing in America was all over the news. From where he sat on the terrace, he could see the TV inside. Cell phone cameras had captured the aftermath. Festivalgoers were covered in blood. Many wandered around in a state of shock. Others writhed on the ground in agony. Multiple people had lost limbs. Even more were dead. But not nearly enough.
According to witnesses, there had been one enormous explosion. There should have been four. Something had gone wrong.
The target, and the method of attack, had been his idea. He felt he should have been more involved. His superiors had other plans. They didn’t want to risk smuggling him into the United States. They wanted him focused on Europe. That was where they needed him the most.
But what if the U.S. cell had been penetrated? What if the Americans were working their way up the chain?
Though the thought had been haunting him all morning, he didn’t want to think about it anymore. He had too many of his own problems. Chief among them was the loss of his chemist.
He was still infuriated by the incompetence. The ship never should have sailed—not with that kind of a storm barreling down on it—and certainly not without lifeboats or, at the very least, life jackets.
For the smugglers, though, it was a risk they had been willing to take. All that ever mattered to them was getting paid. That’s why they always demanded the money up front.
As far as Tursunov was concerned, they shouldn’t have been paid until arrival—especially for someone as valuable as Mustapha Marzouk. How they were going to replace him at such a late date was still beyond him.
Turning his attention back to the street, he removed a pack of Treasurer cigarettes from his blazer pocket and lifted its aluminum lid. The cigarettes had gold foil tips and looked like thin wo
rks of art. Placing one between his lips, he struck a match, and then inhaled deeply.
So much had been invested, he thought to himself. So many things had been set in motion. Too many to pull out now. The burden of the operation weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Shaking his watch from under his sleeve, he checked the time. It was almost nine o’clock.
Exhaling slowly, he placed a few coins on the table, sipped what was left of his espresso, and exited the terrace. He wanted to get a feel for the pickup location before his ride arrived.
Reggio was the toe of Italy’s boot. To its east was the Aspromonte mountain range and to the west was the Strait of Messina, which separated the Italian peninsula from the island of Sicily.
Under certain weather conditions, an optical phenomenon known as the Fata Morgana took place, and people could be seen walking in Sicily as if they were only meters, rather than miles, away.
Today, though, there was no such illusion. It was sunny and the temperature was already climbing.
As he walked, Tursunov admired the city’s exotic palm and lush magnolia trees. Reggio was known as the “City of Bergamot.” The name came from the fragrant, nubby green citrus, with its lemon yellow interior, grown exclusively in the region and used to flavor perfumes and Earl Grey tea.
It was a port city with a thriving fishing community, but it was just as driven by agriculture from the surrounding countryside. From spring through fall, tourists flocked to its beaches and azure water.
In a rundown neighborhood, several blocks from the Castello Aragonese, was a pastry and gelato shop with a narrow bar called Ranieri. It sat next to a vacant lot, beyond which was a burned-out building that had been left to rot.
Graffiti was spray-painted across several buildings. Bars covered the windows of others. Cigarette butts littered the sidewalk like dead moths under a neon beer sign. Tursunov added his to the pile and entered through the rear door.
A heavyset man in a wrinkled shirt stood behind the bar, doing a half-assed job of polishing glasses. He had dark circles under his eyes and several days’ growth of beard. He looked as if he hadn’t seen a bed or a bathtub in weeks.