by Brad Thor
The first thing he wanted to look at was the corpse. It was in a back bedroom, a machine pistol still clasped in his hand and a sawed-off shotgun lying on the floor next to him. As Mangan studied the body, something struck him as funny. In spite of all the bullet wounds the subject had suffered, he wasn’t bleeding very much.
As Mangan bent for a closer look, Agent Weston swooped in and said he needed him to back up so he could get on with his job. Regardless of the voice in the back of his head telling him he had every right to examine the corpse, Mangan did as he was told.
Moments later, Agent Maxwell gently hooked him under the elbow and led him back toward the front of the house. As they walked, Maxwell explained that the FBI had decided to give the Charleston County SWAT team credit for the takedown. This had been a local problem and the citizens of South Carolina would feel much better knowing their own people had put this dirtbag out of commission.
Though it was going to make his guys look good, there was something about all of this that just didn’t sit right with Mangan—especially the body. He’d been around enough stiffs in his time to know that the only kind that didn’t spill blood when shot or stabbed was the kind that was already dead.
There was something else he didn’t feel right about. Maxwell and Weston looked and acted like the real deal, but there was something off about them that Mangan just couldn’t put his finger on.
Leaving the house, Mangan walked quickly back to the SWAT van and climbed inside. Grabbing one of the team’s small, black surveillance cases, he had his men switch radio frequencies and instructed them to keep their eyes on the house. If either of the FBI agents appeared at a window or was preparing to exit via the front or back door, he wanted to know about it. With that, Mangan exited the truck.
Crouching low so he wouldn’t be seen from inside, Mangan slipped around the side of the house, being careful to stay beneath the window line. When he arrived at the back bedroom where the body was, he unpacked a special fiberoptic stethoscope. He would have loved to have had a camera as well, but there was no way he could have drilled through the wall without being detected.
The fiberoptic stethoscope, or FOS for short, was an exceptionally sensitive instrument that enabled tactical teams to listen through doors, windows, and even concrete walls. Mangan powered up the FOS, put on a pair of headphones, and began listening to what was going on inside.
Considering that Maxwell and Weston had shot up a dead body, Mangan wasn’t surprised that they were busily planting evidence. What did surprise him was why they were doing it and on whose orders.
Once the SWAT team leader had finished recounting his tale, Sheppard understood why he had chosen to keep his mouth shut and go along with the charade. Now the ball was in Sheppard’s court, and he needed to plan his next move very carefully. He was about to accuse the president of the United States of several extremely serious crimes all tied together by a disgustingly elaborate cover-up.
Chapter 51
AMMAN, JORDAN
T he two men sat inside the blue BMW 7 series on a quiet side street near the center of town. Most of the shops were closed for the afternoon prayer. “After this we’re even,” said the man in the driver’s seat as he retrieved a small duffel bag from the backseat and handed it to his passenger.
Harvath unzipped the bag and looked inside. Everything was there. “As soon as I am safely out of your country,” he replied with a smile, “then we’ll be even.”
Omar Faris, a high-ranking officer of Jordan’s General Intelligence Department, or GID for short, nodded his heavy, round head. The six-foot-two Jordanian was used to making deals. In the world in which he operated, deals were de rigueur—especially when it came to keeping the swelling tide of Islamic radicalism in check.
What’s more, he had always liked Scot Harvath, even with his unorthodox tactical decisions. No matter how he carried out his operations, Harvath was a man of his word and could be trusted.
The two had been paired together in Harvath’s early days with the Apex Project. A cell of Jordanians had killed two American diplomats and was plotting to overthrow King Abdullah II. Though officially the GID had no idea that Harvath was operating inside their country, Faris had served as his partner and a direct conduit to the king.
Abdullah had asked only one thing of Harvath—that he do his utmost to bring the cell members in alive. It was an incredibly complicated and dangerous assignment. It would have been much easier to kill the terrorists and be done with the entire operation. Nevertheless, at great risk to himself, Harvath honored the king’s request.
In doing so, Harvath not only earned the sovereign’s respect but also earned a couple of points with Faris, who was promoted as a result of the mission’s success.
“Of course if your presence here becomes known, His Majesty will disavow any knowledge of you or your operation. If the Syrians, or anyone else for that matter, discovered that we were allowing you to stalk an operative of theirs who was in our country undergoing cancer treatment, it would be devastating for Jordan’s image—not to mention the diplomatic fallout,” said the GID officer.
“Don’t bullshit me, Omar,” replied Harvath. “You know as well as I do that Al-Tal’s a threat to you too. A lot of the weapons he’s been helping the Syrians unload are going to groups like Al Qaeda who could very well use them here.”
“We are aware of that, but it doesn’t change the fact that our image is of paramount importance to us. Our credibility with our neighbors and allies would be significantly eroded if our involvement in your operation became known.”
“What involvement?” asked Harvath as he zipped up the duffel.
Faris smiled, removed a manila envelope from beneath his seat, and handed it to his friend. “Per your request, we have compiled a complete dossier.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised at how much was in there. The GID was usually very thorough. “Surveillance logs, photos, layout of the building—this is a pretty impressive dossier for less than twenty-four-hour notice.”
“Al-Tal has been on our radar screen for some time. When it was discovered he had entered the country under an assumed identity to begin his treatment, we began around-the-clock surveillance.”
“Any listening or video devices in the apartment?” asked Harvath.
“Of course,” replied Faris. “We were very concerned about the weapon sales. Any information we could have collected would have proven quite helpful.”
“But?”
“But the man has proven quite cautious. He speaks often on the telephone, but none of what we have picked up is of any direct use. We suspect someone else is running the operation for him while he seeks his medical treatment.”
“You said he doesn’t have much longer.”
“This is what his physicians have said. Weeks. A month tops.”
“And his family?” asked Harvath.
“It’s all in the dossier.”
“I don’t want any record of me being in that apartment. I want all of your listening and video devices removed.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” said Faris.
“Why not?”
“When he first arrived, he and his family traveled to the hospital on an almost daily basis. Now he is resigned to his bed at home full-time. There is always someone with him. It would be impossible for any of my people to get in there and remove those devices.”
“Then I’ll remove them for you,” stated Harvath. “I’ll need a detailed schematic of where they’ve all been placed.”
Faris reached into his breast pocket. “I thought you might ask for that.”
“What about the surveillance teams?” asked Harvath as he slid the piece of paper into the dossier.
“They’ll be pulled off as soon as you enter the building.”
“Then it looks like we’re all done here.”
Faris handed Harvath the keys for the nondescript, gray Mitsubishi Lancer he’d organized and then shook his hand. “Be careful, Scot.
Al-Tal may be dying, but it’s when an animal is sick and cornered that it is the most dangerous.”
Harvath climbed out of the car, and as he prepared to close the door, said, “Tell your men to get ready to drop their surveillance.”
Faris was slightly taken aback. “Don’t you want to study the dossier first?”
“I’ve seen all I need to see. The sooner I get in there and get control of Al-Tal, the sooner I can bait the hook and start chumming the waters for Najib.”
Faris watched as Harvath unlocked the Lancer, threw the bag in, and pulled away from the curb. Though he knew Harvath was a professional, he didn’t like what the American was headed into.
Chapter 52
W hen Al-Tal’s wife and twenty-year-old son returned from the mosque, Harvath was waiting for them. Wearing a thin, black ski mask, he slipped out of the stairwell into the dimly lit corridor and placed his silenced, .45 caliber Taurus 24/7 OSS pistol against the back of the son’s head.
When the mother opened her mouth to cry out, Harvath grabbed her by the throat. “If you make any sound,” he told her in Arabic, “I will kill you both.”
With the mother and son Flexicuffed and pieces of duct tape across their mouths, he relieved them of their house keys and let himself into the apartment. Before entering the building, Harvath had gone through the dossier, committing pertinent facts about Al-Tal’s residence and its occupants to memory.
He’d read enough about Al-Tal’s bodyguard to know that he was extremely dangerous. A former interrogator for the Syrian Secret Police, the man had routinely brutalized subjects by submitting them to horrific beatings and making them watch as he raped and sodomized their wives and children.
When Harvath crept into the apartment, he found the hulking bodyguard wearing a leather shoulder holster over a sweat-stained T-shirt. He was focused on a pan of greasy lamb’s meat he was heating over the stove in the kitchen. He looked up just as Harvath’s pistol spat two rounds into his forehead.
The hot pan clattered to the floor and Harvath made it into a short hallway just as Al-Tal’s nurse appeared. Undoubtedly, Al-Tal had chosen him because of his size. If push came to shove, the cagey intelligence operative had probably figured he could use the nurse as extra muscle.
Harvath struck him full in the face with the butt of his weapon, and the man folded like a cheap wallet.
Stepping over the nurse, Harvath swung into the rear bedroom. He found Al-Tal propped up in bed and affixed to an IV with a PCA, or patient-controlled anesthesia. It allowed him to regulate the flow of morphine for his cancer pain via a small device in his claw-like hand.
“Who are you?” the man demanded in Arabic as Harvath entered the room.
Before Harvath could answer, he noticed the gray-haired man’s right hand slip beneath his blanket. Harvath put three rounds into the bed, and Al-Tal immediately drew back his hand.
Harvath walked over to the bed and pulled back the blankets. He found both a pistol and a modified AK-47.
“Who are you?” Al-Tal spat again as Harvath removed the weapons. His eyes were narrow and dark, his voice arrogant.
“You’ll discover who I am soon enough,” said Harvath, knowing the man spoke flawless English.
Binding his hands and feet to the bed, Harvath gagged him and left the room.
Chapter 53
H arvath secured the nurse, fetched his bag from the stairwell, and then brought Al-Tal’s wife and son inside. After he was certain they had gotten a good look at the bodyguard and knew that Harvath meant business, he dragged the corpse into the bathroom. Removing the plastic shower curtain and liner, he wrapped the body, sealed it with duct tape, and dumped it into the tub.
Using Omar’s schematic, he tore out all of the video and listening devices. Though he believed the GID operative had been straight with him, he decided to leave the ski mask on. Now he had to deal with the rest of the mess he had made.
Harvath hated taking hostages. Not only were they a liability, they were a downright pain in the ass. They needed to be fed, given bathroom breaks, and kept from escaping. On such short notice, though, and considering the time constraints and the fact that Al-Tal was at the stage where he never left his apartment, it was the best that Harvath could do.
Cutting Al-Tal free of his restraints, Harvath pulled the IV out of his arm and dragged him into the bathroom so he could see what had become of his bodyguard. Once he’d gotten a good look, Harvath dragged him into the dining room where his nurse and family were being kept.
Harvath jerked a chair from the table and shoved Al-Tal down into it. After he had Flexicuffed the Syrian to it as tightly as he could, he removed the man’s gag.
“You will die. I promise you,” sputtered Al-Tal.
“An interesting threat,” replied Harvath as he removed another chair and sat down, their faces nose to nose, “especially since you already placed a $150,000 price on my head.”
“It’s you. The one who killed Asef.”
“Don’t you mean Suleiman?” asked Harvath. “That was the name you had given him, wasn’t it? Abdel Rafiq Suleiman?”
Al-Tal didn’t answer.
It made no difference to Harvath. He could read everything he needed to in the man’s face. Al-Tal was furious and terrified all at the same time.
“I know a lot more about you than you think, Tammam.”
“What do you want?” demanded the Syrian spymaster.
“I want information.”
Al-Tal laughed derisively. “I will never give you anything.”
Harvath hated everything about him. It wasn’t often that he took pleasure in killing, but this would be different. “I’m going to give you one chance. Where is Abdel Salam Najib?”
Al-Tal stopped laughing.
Harvath looked at him. “If you prefer, we can call him Suleiman. After all, you gave him that alias after Khashan died.”
“You mean after you killed him.”
“Neither of us has much time, Tammam. Let’s not bicker over semantics.”
“Let my family go and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Now it was Harvath who laughed.
“At least let the nurse go. He has nothing to do with this.”
Harvath wasn’t going to do anything for this monster. “Where is Najib?” he repeated.
When Al-Tal refused to answer, Harvath leaped up and grabbed Al-Tal’s wife. He didn’t like doing it, but she knew well enough who her husband was, and this had to be done.
Harvath dragged her within two feet of Al-Tal, keeping his eyes locked with the man’s own the entire time.
“What are you going to do to her?”
“It’s up to you,” replied Harvath as he removed the pistol from beneath his jacket and used it to comb the woman’s hair over her left ear.
“In our line of work, we don’t target each other’s families,” snapped Al-Tal. “You know that.”
“The old intelligence agent’s credo. How amusing, especially considering what you have done to my family.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My mother, my girlfriend—don’t act like you don’t know.”
“Your mother?” said Al-Tal. “How could I have done anything to your mother? I don’t even know who you are. You say you are the man who killed Asef, but I don’t even know your name.”
Harvath didn’t believe him. The man was lying. “This is your last chance.”
“Or else what? You will shoot my wife?”
“You saw what I did to your bodyguard.”
“Yes, but it is something entirely different to shoot a man’s wife, a mother.”
The Syrian was right. Harvath had absolutely no intention of shooting her. But he was willing to torture the hell out of her to save his own family and loved ones from going through any more pain.
Harvath slowly holstered his weapon. He watched a smile creep across Al-Tal’s sharp face. The man’s overconfidence was sickening. He thought he had Harvath
all figured out. He was about to learn how wrong he was.
“Some things are worse than being killed,” said Harvath as he removed a small can of Guardian Protective Devices OC from his jacket pocket. Attached to the nozzle was a long, clear plastic tube.
Grabbing a tight handful of Al-Tal’s wife’s hair, Harvath immobilized her head and shoved the tube into her ear. “Have you ever been exposed to pepper spray, Tammam?” he asked as the woman screamed from behind the duct tape across her mouth.
“Leave her alone,” demanded Al-Tal.
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.