Foreign Influence_A Thriller

by Brad Thor

  “So there’s a connection?”

  Carlton shook his head. “From what they’ve uncovered, the Mafia was happy to sell the suspects guns, but they drew the line at explosives, fearing correctly that they might be used on Italian soil.”

  “Then where did the terrorists get the explosives?”

  “According to the Italians, the explosives came in through another channel. A man mentioned in chatter before and after the attack—Moscerino.”

  “Who is Moscerino?” asked Harvath.

  “It’s not a who exactly, it’s a what,” replied Carlton, as he slid the file across the table. “Moscerino is Italian for ‘dwarf.’ ”

  Harvath hesitated as he reached for the file. It was only a fraction of a second, but the old man noticed.

  “Based on a tip they received, the Italians located a private airfield in the north of Sicily where the exchange supposedly took place. Sifting through air traffic control records, they traced the plane to a charter company in Naples. After being served with a court order, the company handed over its records and made the pilot available for questioning.”

  “And let me guess. He admitted to flying a dwarf in and out of Sicily?”

  “Along with two very large dogs.”

  Harvath didn’t like it. “Did the pilot see anything?” he asked as he flipped through the folder. “Did he see any Muslim men or any alleged transaction take place?”

  “No. Whatever happened, it took place inside a closed hangar. The passenger and his dogs deplaned with a large Storm case on wheels, entered the hangar, and then about ten minutes later returned without the case, reboarded the plane, and instructed the pilot to take him back to Naples.”

  “What? No aluminum briefcase full of cash handcuffed to his wrist?”

  Carlton looked at Harvath. “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you, Scot. We both know who this is.”

  “I know who you think it is.”

  “You’re telling me this isn’t the Troll?”

  Harvath closed the file. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “And how can you be sure?”

  “First of all, he sells information, not military-grade explosives. And secondly, he’d never conduct an operation like this himself. He’d use an intermediary; a cutout. Somebody is obviously trying to set him up.”

  Carlton thought for a moment. “I know he helped you track down the man who shot Tracy.”

  “Only after I’d erased all of his data and emptied out all of his bank accounts.”

  “So there are no underlying loyalties I need to worry about between you?”

  On the surface, it was a fair question. The Troll was all about money. He lacked integrity and often worked with terrorist organizations. He had taken advantage of an al-Qaeda attack on New York, which killed thousands of Americans, including one of Harvath’s best friends, to steal information from a top-secret, U.S. data-mining operation.

  At the same time, though, Harvath felt sorry for him. Not only had he been born a midget, but his parents had abandoned him as a child; selling him to a brothel in Russia where he’d been starved, beaten, and forced to perform unutterable sex acts. It was difficult for Harvath to admit that he felt pity for the little man.

  The pair had worked together, and Harvath had respected the Troll’s love for animals, particularly his dogs. He also respected his ability to glean information. Though he should have seen him as reprehensible, no different from the many men who operated on the wrong side of the law whom he’d been tasked with tracking down and killing over the years, he couldn’t. Despite his flaws, Harvath had come to like him.

  “What I want to know,” said the Old Man, keying in again on Harvath’s hesitancy, “is if I assign you to find him, can you carry it out?”

  Harvath studied the file folder, knowing what his answer should be, but instead of answering he asked a question of his own. “Is there an order for him to be terminated?”

  “Would that make a difference?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t take this assignment.”

  “So they do want him dead,” stated Harvath.

  “Actually, they’d prefer captured, but they’ll accept dead. Considering your history together, I thought you’d want to be the one to make the choice.”

  Which option did his boss think Harvath would exercise? He studied the man’s face, but couldn’t tell.

  “Why isn’t the CIA spearheading this?” he finally asked.

  “Ever since the Agency snatched that radical cleric in Milan, they’ve been persona non grata in Italy.”

  Like everyone else in the intelligence world, Harvath knew the story. Though the Italians denied ever giving their blessing to the operation, the CIA claimed that all of the appropriate authorities had been filled in on the plan. According to the Agency, they had been granted permission to grab the al-Qaeda-aligned cleric in Milan. As part of their extraordinary rendition program, he was then flown to Egypt where, after being released two years later, he went public with stories of how he had been tortured by Egyptian interrogators.

  While it wasn’t exactly great PR, what was unforgivable was that the fifteen CIA operatives involved had used their real names during the operation to rack up hotel loyalty points. To make matters worse, they had also used their personal cell phones. It was beyond embarrassing.

  “Do we have anyone in Italy working the bombing?”

  “Besides a nonofficial cover operative or two the Agency secretly still has over there, the Bureau continues to have a decent relationship with the Italians and had a couple of teams wheels up within an hour of the attack.”

  Harvath liked the people at the FBI, but he knew that outside the forensics specialists they’d have working the bombing, any other agents would take a backseat to their Italian counterparts. The attack had happened on Italian soil, and despite the high number of American casualties this would remain an Italian investigation.

  “I still don’t buy that the Troll was involved in something like this.”

  “Maybe you put too much of a dent in his business. Maybe he needed to branch out and start dealing in explosives. It doesn’t matter. We’ve been tasked with bringing him in. If you don’t want the assignment, I can give it to somebody else.”

  “No,” replied Harvath, removing the file from the table. “This is mine.”

  Carlton nodded. “We have an apartment in Rome you can use, unless you want to begin in Naples, in which case we’ll arrange something for you there.”

  “He’s not in Italy. He’s in Spain.”

  “How do you know?”

  Harvath had a lot to do. Standing, he picked up his coffee mug and said, “Because he just called me to set up a meeting.”

  CHAPTER 7

  BILBAO

  TUESDAY

  After landing in Madrid, Harvath passed through immigration and customs, then took the metro into the city. It was packed with tourists.

  Near the boisterous Puerta del Sol, he entered a nondescript building, rode the aging elevator to the fourth floor, and used the key he had been given to gain access to the Carlton Group’s Madrid safe house.

  He located the capabilities kit that had been left for him and cataloged its contents. While capabilities kits could be tailored to the specific assignment, as a rule they contained all of the hard-to-acquire items an operative might need in a foreign country.

  Kits were Spook 101 and normally included cash, sterile SIM cards, cell phones, lock-picking tools, a condensed trauma kit, tracking bugs, Tuff Ties, a Taser, folding knife, multitool, IR laser designator, infrared strobe, night vision monocular, and a compact weapon with high-end ammunition. In Harvath’s case, the compact weapon was a Glock 19 with two spare magazines of 9mm +P ammunition.

  The contents of the kit fit neatly into the 3-Day pack he had brought along with him.

  Following a quick shower and shave, he gathered up his belongings and returned to the metro. At C
hamartín station, he boarded a train headed north.

  Though Carlton could have arranged for the gear to be dead-dropped in Bilbao, Harvath preferred doing it this way. There was no telling who or what would be waiting for him when he arrived. It was a city he didn’t know and didn’t have any allies in. Too much could go wrong. It was better to arrive prepared.

  As the high-speed train raced across the Spanish countryside, he closed his eyes. He thought about Tracy and the good-bye call he had placed before leaving. He also thought about the family he was never going to have with her.

  Shortly past nine o’clock in the evening, the train arrived at Abando Station. Mixing in with other passengers, Harvath kept his eyes open as he headed toward the escalators beneath the magnificent wall of stained glass at the end of the terminal.

  He took the Bilbao metro and got off two stops before his hotel. Moving through the neighborhood, he conducted a series of surveillance detection routes, or SDRs, to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The evening air was cool and carried a hint of rain.

  At a small café across from the hotel, Harvath ordered a coffee and watched the ebb and flow of the sidewalk traffic. He studied the cars parked up and down the street and when he was confident that he hadn’t been followed and that the hotel wasn’t under surveillance, he paid his bill, crossed the street, and checked in.

  In his room, he changed into a pair of dark jeans and a sweater. He tucked his Glock into a leather holster near the small of his back. He put on a comfortable pair of low-profile hiking boots and a leather jacket with deep pockets.

  Exiting the hotel through the service entrance, he struck out for the city’s medieval neighborhood known as the Casco Viejo.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk. Most of the restaurants and bars were still empty, save for the few that catered to tourists not yet in sync with the Spanish custom of dining later in the evening.

  Oblivious to the cars and the hour, children kicked soccer balls in the street as older people walked small dogs and young mothers pushed babies in cheap strollers.

  Bilbao was a featureless city like Milan, but with a Spanish twist. Bland buildings roofed in red tiles were wedged cheek-by-jowl, fronted by concrete sidewalks. There were very few trees and even less grass. Every single inch of space that could be used, had been used.

  Nearer the old town the streets narrowed and the architecture became more interesting. Harvath removed a map he had picked up in the hotel lobby and studied it as he walked. He strolled up and down the Siete Calles, or seven streets as they were known, and got a feel for the neighborhood. It was full of shops, bars, and restaurants.

  Behind the cathedral in the Calle de la Tendería he found a Basque restaurant within sight of the street’s only tobacconist. He took a seat inside, two tables back from the window, withdrew a guidebook from his pocket, and made himself comfortable.

  Over the next three hours, he pretended to linger over his food and his guidebook as he watched the traffic patterns at the tiny tobacco shop. He even tipped the busboy to go buy cigarettes for him.

  As he watched the young man cross the street, he debated finding a stand-in to do the exact same thing for him tomorrow. He was concerned that the meeting could be a setup. But if he conned some unsuspecting person into going into the shop on his behalf and something happened, the person could very well be killed. That wasn’t a risk he was comfortable with.

  He knew he had to walk into that store himself tomorrow if he wanted the truth about the Troll. He didn’t like it, but there was no way of getting around it. All he could do was be as prepared as possible.

  CHAPTER 8

  CHICAGO

  TUESDAY

  John Vaughan had accepted Burt Taylor’s handshake and a promise that a check would be forthcoming. They’d get to the paperwork later. Too much time had already gotten away from them. As it was, it took him a full twenty-four hours before he could unravel himself from his police work and start on the Taylor investigation.

  Tuesday afternoon, he stopped in a tiny sundries shop, bought a small spiral notebook, and walked back to his car. Inside, he wrote Alison Taylor’s name and the pertinent details he knew thus far of the case. He then focused on his next step.

  The city of Chicago was divided into five policing “areas,” each with its own headquarters. Alison’s hit-and-run had happened in Area Five.

  The detective division of each area was broken into three sections—Special Victims Unit, Robbery/Burglary/Theft, and Homicide/Gang Crimes/Sex. To streamline operations, the city no longer maintained a major accident investigation division. Instead, cases like Alison Taylor’s were now handled by HGS—Homicide/Gang Crimes/Sex.

  Vaughan understood the rationale behind it, but collapsing vehicular crimes into HGS had never seemed like the best fit to him. Homicide detectives are used to pursuing linear crimes; A shot B, this is why A shot B, we’ve captured A, case closed. There is often malice involved, and that helps them track down and apprehend offenders.

  Hit-and-runs, on the other hand, are atypical. They are not very sexy, and that was why, without even having seen Alison Taylor’s file, he knew the HGS detectives probably hadn’t put a lot of effort into pursuing it. It wasn’t because they were bad cops or because they were lazy, it was simply because with all of the cases they had, human nature was such that you pursued those you felt best equipped to handle and which you saw yourself having the greatest chance of solving.

  The only people who took on loser cases were the young idealists who felt it was a personal failing if they didn’t solve every case that crossed their desk. A year of overwhelming detective work in a city like Chicago helped grind that idealism out of most detectives. Vaughan made a call to an Area Five HGS cop he knew and within ten minutes one of the detectives from Alison’s case called him back.

  “You’re welcome to see the file,” said the detective. “But we didn’t make a lot of progress. Her coworkers were blitzed. Even if we had located the cabbie, their testimony would have been worthless in court.”

  “I’m sure you guys did the best you could. I just want to be able to tell the family we didn’t leave any stones unturned.”

  “I hear you. When can you get down here?”

  Vaughan looked at his watch. “How’s a half hour?”

  “I probably won’t be here, but—” There were a couple of seconds of silence while the detective muffled the mouthpiece before coming back on the line. “Ask for Detective Ramirez. I’ll leave the file with her.”

  Vaughan wrote down the name and was about to thank the man, but he didn’t get the chance. The detective had hung up.

  The half-hour drive, thanks to Chicago traffic, took almost an hour. When he arrived at Area Five and found Detective Ramirez, she told him, “You’re late,” as she handed him the file and offered to let him join her at her desk.

  He hung his suit coat over the back of the metal chair, removed his notebook and pen, and opened the file. The detective he had spoken with had been right. They hadn’t made a lot of progress.

  There was an incident report, pictures from the scene, and witness statements. In addition to the statements taken right after the hit-and-run, the detectives had gone back to interview Alison Taylor’s friends when they were sober.

  A piece of black plastic had been recovered from the scene and was believed to have come from one of those triangular, rooftop advertising setups popular on taxis throughout the city.

  The neighborhood had been canvassed for further witnesses and phone calls had been made to all of the cab companies. None of it resulted in any additional leads.

  Vaughan arrived at the end of the file. Flipping the last page over he said, “Where’s the blue light camera footage from the intersection?”

  Ramirez didn’t even bother looking up from the report she was reading. Reaching into her desk drawer, she withdrew the DVD the detective had given her for Vaughan to look at.

  “Is this a copy for me to keep?”

 
; “No. That’s our copy. There’s a DVD player in the conference room,” she said pointing across the sea of desks to a door on the other side of the room.

  Vaughan took the disc and walked over to the conference room. He was back fifteen minutes later.

  “God, I hate our blue light cams.”

  Ramirez was still working on her report and not very interested in Vaughan’s problems. “Let me guess. The footage was blurry, and the camera automatically panned right at the minute you needed to see something.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Those cameras aren’t for solving crimes,” she said, looking up. “They’re for deterring crimes. I’m surprised they record any footage at all.”

  Vaughan shook his head. They had footage of the cab speeding through the intersection, but it had happened so fast it was all blurry. And just like she had said, the camera panned away at the crucial moment where the cab number could have been identified. “There has to be another camera that caught this accident.”

  “Are you done with that?” she asked as Vaughan began tapping his thigh with the folder.

  “Yeah, I’m done,” he said, handing it back to her. Standing up, he removed his jacket from the back of the chair and pulled out his business card. “In case anything comes up.”

  She dropped it into the file and offered him a piece of advice. “Because you’re a lawyer probably getting paid by the hour, I’m not going to tell you you’re wasting your time, but there are a lot of cabs in the city. Don’t get too emotionally involved.”

  Vaughan understood where she was coming from. Detachment was the key to staying sane in their line of work. He still shook his head. “Lawyer, cop, it doesn’t matter. I’m a human being, and so was the woman who got run down in that intersection. I want to find the guy who did this.”

  Ramirez held his gaze for a moment and then dropped her eyes back to the report she’d been using as an excuse to ignore him. “Have a nice evening, counselor.”