by Brad Thor
The younger man thought about it for a moment and then said, “Obviously, the mosque is no longer safe. We’ll need to move everything and we need to do it right away.”
“Move it where?”
“You know where.”
Jarrah now shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. It is too dangerous.”
“You wanted choices. You can stay here, compromised, or you can move the operation. Just know that if you decide to stay, you’ll be staying without me.”
“You would leave?”
“If you force me to, yes.”
“For the sake of argument,” Jarrah replied, “let’s say we move. What will we do with the policemen?”
“We’ll move them too.”
“Why do you want to take that risk? It seems easier to just be done with them.”
“I know it seems that way,” said Rashid, “but they could end up being worth more to us alive than dead.”
“No. They’re a complication. We need to be rid of them.”
“Marwan, you agreed to let me run this cell and this part of the operation. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Do you not trust my judgment?”
“Of course I trust your judgment. You are like a son to me.”
“How many times have I risked my life for you?”
“More than once, Shahab. More than once.”
“So?”
After a short period of reflection, the man finally relented. “Okay, we’ll move. I’m not happy about it, but I agree with you. We cannot stay here.”
Rashid remained quiet.
“And we will bring the police officers,” he added.
“It’s the right choice.”
Jarrah shrugged.
Rashid removed his cell phone as he opened the office door. “We’ll need to start as soon as possible and do it in two trucks.”
They continued discussing their plans as they walked downstairs to the basement. The men who had captured the police officers were standing in the narrow hallway talking. One of them was smoking.
Seeing the men standing there, Rashid’s anger resurfaced. In rapid-fire Arabic, he berated them for their mistakes. There was no excuse for it.
He was lecturing them on how stupid they had been to carry their weapons outside the mosque when the door to the alley burst open.
The men were caught completely off guard. A bright flashlight clamped to the barrel of the intruder’s weapon blinded the men as they pulled out their guns and attempted to shoot.
“Drop your weapons!” the intruder yelled.
None of the men complied.
As the first pistol was pointed in his direction, Levy pulled the trigger of his Remington 870 shotgun and hit the two men closest to him.
Racking the slide, he prepared to fire again, but before he could pull the trigger, two shots rang out and he was knocked backward into the alley.
Smoke was still rising from the barrel of his pistol as Abdul Rashid pushed past the men and rushed to the door.
He kicked the intruder’s shotgun away. Pointing his weapon at the man’s head, he said, “Don’t even think of moving.”
With pain spreading through his body and blood soaking through his clothes, Josh Levy did exactly as he was told.
CHAPTER 42
LONDON
Harvath flew out on the private jet Carlton had arranged for him, leaving things back in Geneva in the best state he could.
Nicholas remained in the warehouse while Peio helped Harvath transport Adda Sterk to the Carlton Group safe house. Riley was already there tending to Michael Lee, and she secured the woman in one of the bedrooms. The priest agreed to stay until the interrogation team Carlton had en route arrived. He had no desire to watch them wring whatever else could be wrung from the woman.
Harvath still wanted to have a discussion with the priest about what had happened at the chalet, but the opportunity never really presented itself. It was none of his business, and he figured he should probably drop it and leave the man to his own conscience.
He had fed everything he was able to download from Sterk, including her medical condition, back to Carlton in Virginia. Outside of the dates and locations, she seemed to know very little about the attacks themselves.
She believed the cells were composed of Muslim males, but was uncertain of their ethnicity. They would be using homemade bombs packed with marbles, ball bearings, nails, or screws to act as shrapnel to maximize their killing power.
Sterk also couldn’t tell him if the men would be wearing suicide vests, if the bombs would be carried in backpacks, or if they would be packed in a car. She didn’t know how many bombs there would be or how they were designed to go off. She couldn’t say if the men would be hiding their explosives and leaving as had been done in Rome, or blowing themselves up as had been done in Paris. She also had no idea if there was one bomb intended for Piccadilly and one for Amsterdam’s Dam Square, multiple bombs at both, or one bomb at the former and multiple bombs at the latter.
As much as he wanted to, Harvath couldn’t be in two places at once. With such sketchy information, the choice of which city to try to head off an attack in was a toss-up. It all came down to the numbers. He would go where the most American lives were at risk and it was the Old Man who made the call—London.
Carlton had excellent contacts in Great Britain; experienced people he could trust. He also had something else—a Delta unit training with the British SAS at a classified site in Wales. With one call from the Old Man to the DOD, the unit was packing its bags and heading for London.
When Harvath arrived, he was met by one of the deans of MI5, Robert Ashford. He was a barrel-chested man of medium height with steel-gray hair and a broad, flat nose. He looked very capable of handling trouble and also looked like he had probably dealt plenty of it out over the course of his career.
Ashford introduced himself and handed over his card. “Bob Ashford. Welcome to England.” Looking at Harvath’s bag, he added, “I understand there’s nothing special you need to declare, correct?”
As the capability kit at the safe house in Geneva wouldn’t cover Riley and the interrogation team, the Old Man had instructed Harvath to leave his gear behind. “Correct,” Harvath said, tapping his bag. “I only brought my toothbrush and a change of underwear. I was told you know all the best places to shop.”
Ashford smiled, removed his credentials, and navigated Harvath through the passport control and customs checkpoints. Parked in a fire lane just outside was a black BMW. The MI5 man directed Harvath to the passenger seat and then walked around and got behind the wheel.
“Seatbelts, please,” he said as he shut the door and started the vehicle. “Peaches would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“Peaches?” repeated Harvath.
“A little joke amongst his friends. I assume you refer to him as Mr. Carlton or some such back in the States.”
“Either that or boss. Sometimes known simply as the Old Man.”
Ashford chuckled softly, applied his turn signal, and pulled away from the curb. “We weren’t always old, you know. We were once quite young. Younger than you even.”
Harvath didn’t need a reminder of his age. He still had a swollen testicle and a couple of bruises that five years ago would have been gone by now.
“Reed’s a good man and an even better operative,” Ashford added.
“Is that where the nickname Peaches comes from, or should I ask Mrs. Carlton about it?”
The MI5 agent smiled. “Suffice it to say, the nickname was meant as an antithesis. Your boss was anything but sweet. No matter how unsavory a tactic the enemy employed, he could always one-up them. He never hesitated doing what needed to be done. And you should have seen him interrogate. My goodness, within minutes, even I was ready to tell him everything I knew, and I was on his side. In a word, he could be bloody ruthless, ergo the name—”
“Peaches.”
“Exactly,” replied Ashford as he changed lanes, cuttin
g off a cab driver who honked in protest. “He has always been a gentleman, though. Exceedingly polite, your boss.”
“He speaks very highly of you too,” said Harvath.
“He damn well should. Without me, he never would have been allowed back into the U.K. again.”
Harvath had heard rumors around the Carlton Group offices about the Old Man’s past. “He didn’t really strike Prince Charles, did he?”
“He didn’t strike him. He knocked him out bloody cold, mate. That’s where that whole polo accident story came from.”
“All because Charles had said something about Diana?”
“Reed was very fond of the princess. He had gotten to know the royal family quite well while working over here. They always insisted he be involved with their security when they came to the U.S. Whether that rankled the Secret Service or not, I don’t know, but Reed always made sure the royal family had the very best agents. Some even said their security plans rivaled the president’s.”
“He got called in for help after Diana’s death, right? He was part of the secret team looking into whether the car crash was an accident or a homicide.”
Ashford nodded. “When Reed arrived, Charles had been drinking, a lot. That’s when the prince made a crude remark about Diana and Reed punched him out. I stuck up for Peaches, of course.”
“Which means you pulled your gun when Charles’s security detail rushed him?”
“There are many conflicting stories as to what happened that night,” said Ashford as he switched lanes and cut off another vehicle. “Let’s put it this way, I understand why all my peers have been knighted and I haven’t. But in the end, as long as I’m still recognized in the pub when I go back to Yorkshire, that’s all that matters to me.”
Harvath smiled. “Bullshit. I haven’t met a Brit yet who doesn’t dream of being knighted.”
The MI5 man smiled back and changed the subject. “Reed’s phone call has caused quite a bit of a stir.”
“I can imagine,” said Harvath.
“Obviously, we want to extend to you every professional courtesy, but we are taking the lead on this.”
“Based upon the intelligence we gathered for you and which specifically states that Americans are the target?”
Ashford downshifted and switched lanes. “The targets may be American, but the attack is planned for Britain and British lives, as well as other nationalities, are also at risk. Besides, if the shoe was on the other foot, would you be giving us control over Times Square?”
The man had a point. “No, we wouldn’t.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Nobody wants an attack to take place in their own country.”
“As long as we work together.”
“We already are. Against our better judgment, we are not raising the terror-alert level and we are not going to close down Piccadilly Circus. You and your team will be able to work the area, but our teams will be there too.”
Harvath was about to reply, when he added, “And before you say anything, I want you to know that you have nothing to worry about. You won’t see my people.”
“Yes, I will.”
Ashford laughed. “Okay, maybe you will see them, but I guarantee you the bad guys won’t.”
Harvath loved the Brits. They were some of the most squared-away operators he had ever met, but he wasn’t comforted by Ashford’s assurance.
“And there’s one final item which is not open for negotiation,” the man added. “Any suspects taken into custody here shall belong to us and will be interrogated by us. It’s the only way I could get this signed off. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Harvath replied. “Interrogations make me squeamish anyway.”
Ashford looked at him. “Somehow I doubt that.”
For the balance of the drive, the men made small talk and discussed politics.
Ashford soon brought his BMW to a stop in front of an immaculate Georgian town house in Belgravia, just southwest of Buckingham Palace.
“There’s a package for you in the boot,” he said, activating the trunk-release as Harvath climbed out.
Harvath walked to the rear of the BMW, and inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. Lifting it out, he walked back around to the front of the vehicle.
Ashford rolled down his window. “Peaches has pinned a lot of his hopes on you. He says you have good judgment and that we can trust you.”
“You can,” replied Harvath.
“Good, because we’ve put a lot at risk. There are many people we’ve kept out of the loop for security reasons. When this goes down, they’re not going to be happy that they weren’t included.”
“They’ll get over it.”
“Provided everything goes to plan. But, if a bomb or bombs are detonated tomorrow and there are casualties, there will be hell to pay.”
Harvath had no trouble grasping who Ashford and the Brits intended to stick with the bill if something went wrong. “We want to take as many of them alive as possible.”
“Let’s hope we get them all,” said Ashford, putting his car in gear. He looked at his watch. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning at six. I’ll pick you up here. If I hear of anything before then, I’ll call you.”
Harvath thanked him and stepped back from the curb as the MI5 man pulled away. Opening the townhome’s wrought-iron gate, he walked up the stairs to the front door. He punched the code Reed had given him into the keypad and stepped inside.
There was a cavernous silence. It was immediate, as if a television had just been shut off, but the echoes of a program still lingered in the air.
Harvath was suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone. He set the case down and stepped into the living room.
For a moment, he thought that he had entered the wrong house. Then he saw the weapons, one of which had been picked up and was now pointing right at his chest.
CHAPTER 43
The woman pointing the MP5 at Harvath turned to one of her colleagues and commented, “I thought somebody said this guy was hot.”
The other five women in the room laughed.
“He’s a lot better than that guy we had to work with in Dubai,” replied another. “Remember him? What was his name?”
“Aswad.”
Most of the women groaned.
The woman holding the MP5 looked Harvath up and down. “He’s definitely better looking than ass wad, but is he into goats? That’s the question.”
The women laughed again.
“There are a lot of things I’m okay walking in on a man doing,” the woman continued, “but the goat thing isn’t one of them.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harvath through the laughter. “I must be in the wrong place. I’m looking for the Emily Dickinson reading?”
“He’s also a smartass,” said the woman as she lowered her MP5. “Just my type.”
So this was what an Athena Team looked like, Harvath thought to himself. He had heard the stories about Delta haunting high-end women’s sporting events, recruiting the best female athletes to turn into operators, but he had never worked with any of them.
They were considered just as lethal as their male counterparts and often posed as wives in husband/wife teams with male Delta operators, especially in countries or situations where sending in two or more men would raise too much suspicion. The ruse worked particularly well when posing as missionaries or NGO workers.
The women were also deployed as they were now, in all-female teams, normally composed of four to six members.
Harvath had every confidence in their abilities. He also liked the fact that they’d be harder for the bad guys to key in on.
In their mid twenties to early thirties, the women were all extremely fit. They were also very attractive and represented a cross section of backgrounds.
Harvath was trying to figure out who was in charge when one of the women stepped forward and introduced herself, “I’m Gretchen Casey.”
She had brown hair pulled back and a slight southern drawl. It sounded as if
she might have been from Texas.
“Nice to meet you,” Harvath said as he walked over and shook her hand.
After explaining that their sixth teammate had been injured in training in Wales and had been forced to remain behind, Casey went around the room and introduced the rest of the team. “So from left to right, we have Julie Ericsson, Megan Rhodes, Alex Cooper, and on MP5, Nikki Rodriguez.”
Ericsson had jet black hair and looked like a Brazilian volleyball player. Rhodes was the tallest of the bunch, had blue eyes, and was the only blonde. Cooper had fine Ethiopian features with a light-brown complexion and brown eyes. Rodriguez was the shortest of the group, but despite her tough exterior was easily the best-looking, with dark hair and even darker eyes.
“Nice to meet you all.”
“We’re not going to have any goat trouble with you, are we?” asked Rodriguez with a smile.
“Give the guy a break, Nik,” said Rhodes as she stood up and offered her hand to Harvath. “It’s bad enough he has to be surrounded by women who can shoot better than he can.”
“All right already,” said Casey. “He may just be a Navy man, but I think he gets it.” She gestured to the women and then looked at Harvath. “Tough ladies, get it?”
“Got it.”
“Good.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“What do you have in mind?”
“We need to recon Piccadilly, but we can’t all walk through en masse.”
“True.”
“I want to do it in teams; separated out over the next few hours. You and I will get a bite to eat and then when it’s our turn we’ll go in. When everyone’s done, we’ll meet back here to debrief. Sound good?”
“Sounds good,” Harvath replied. Smiling at the Athena Team as he headed for the hallway, he added, “There’s one more thing.”
“What is it?” asked Casey.
“Make sure I get the bedroom with the lock on it.”
The women snorted and rolled their eyes.
“Got your lock right here,” said Cooper, as she flipped Harvath the finger.
Ericsson made a lewd gesture while Rhodes blew him a kiss, and Rodriguez started stripping the MP5.