by Brad Thor
“I didn’t get to see all of it.”
“But you got to see some of it.”
Sterk nodded.
Harvath was trying to make sense of it all. “Why would they bother targeting Americans in Europe? Why not move right to attacks on American soil?”
“I don’t profess to understand the mind of the Chinese,” Sterk said with a shrug.
“Try.”
She thought about it for a moment. “The easiest answer is that Muslim attacks in Western Europe erode support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The less support America has from its allies, the deeper it will get drawn into those conflicts. Its military is stretched too thin. Stretch it even further, maybe open up another war somewhere, and all that stretching could lead to a snap.”
It was a good point and one that Harvath and others had grown increasingly concerned about. With the Madrid train bombings, Islamic terrorists had proven that they could influence Western elections and help catapult politicians to power who would withdraw support for American military actions. Why wouldn’t the Chinese have picked up and expanded upon this as well? It was an exceptional tactic.
Aside from a few people who could see what was going on, the Europeans were a lost cause. Rather than fight the Islamists in their midst, they chose to commit cultural suicide. They starved their law-abiding citizens with high taxes in order to gorge an invading army on massive social programs. Europe’s steadfast devotion to the failed religion of multiculturalism and political correctness not only emboldened its enemies, but encouraged more attacks and was hastening its downfall.
The other thing that troubled Harvath was the knowledge that with each attack in Europe, the United States would be focusing more and more of its limited resources abroad. That invariably meant less attention to what was going on at home. Sooner or later, America wouldn’t have enough eyes on the ball in its own backyard, and that’s when its enemies would strike.
“What U.S. cities have been targeted?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit,” spat the Troll.
“I’m telling you the truth,” Sterk insisted. “They’re playing the American attacks close to the vest.”
“How about when?” asked Harvath.
“After the bombings in Europe have all been carried out.”
“How many are left?”
Sterk was silent.
Harvath grabbed her throat and clamped down. “How many?”
“Two,” she finally coughed. “Please. I can’t breathe.”
“Where?”
“Please, I can’t—”
Harvath squeezed harder. “Where?”
“London and Amsterdam.”
“Where in London and Amsterdam?”
“Piccadilly and the Dam Square.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. Now, please. My throat—”
Harvath dug his fingers in. “How do we stop them?”
“You can’t. They’re fully operational. The cells have gone dark.”
“The Brits need to shut down Piccadilly and the Dutch need to shut down Dam Square,” said the Troll.
Sterk could no longer speak. She shook her head.
Harvath relaxed his grasp.
“It won’t work,” the woman said as she gasped for air.
“Why not?”
“Both cells have alternate targets. No one but them knows what they are. If you shut down Piccadilly and the Dam Square, they’ll just move to the second location on their list.”
There was more that Harvath wanted to know, but Carlton needed this information right away. He stepped to the other side of the warehouse and pulled out his phone.
CHAPTER 40
CHICAGO
Vaughan and Davidson both had their hands tied behind their backs and their ankles bound to the legs of the chairs they were sitting on.
They were in a dank room somewhere in the basement. Their pockets had been turned inside out and all of their belongings were now laid out on a table.
One of the men from the alley did all of the talking. “You are police?” he said.
“You’re damn right we are,” stated Davidson, “and you’re in a lot of fucking trouble, my friend.”
The man walked over to Davidson and punched him so hard in the face, his chair rocked onto its rear legs and almost fell over.
He then looked at Vaughan. “Tell me what you are doing here.”
The pain of having his wrist broken was nothing compared to his conviction that these men were up to something very bad and had nothing to lose. He felt certain they wouldn’t think twice about killing them. “You have taken two Chicago police officers hostage,” he said. “This entire building is going to be crawling with police very soon.”
The man drew back his fist and hit Vaughan even harder than he had hit Davidson. The Marine was knocked so far backward that his chair fell over and even having his arms tied behind his back couldn’t stop his head from cracking against the cement floor.
Immediately, two of the other men stepped forward, picked his chair back up, and returned to where they had been standing.
The man bent down and looked into Vaughan’s eyes. He was so close the Marine could smell his foul breath. “Back in my country, I spent ten years as an interrogator in one of the worst prisons you could ever imagine. My colleagues and I laughed at your Abu Ghraib scandal. I know what real torture is and I will show you unless you answer my questions.”
“We’re the Chicago police, asshole. We’re not answering shit,” stated Davidson.
The man turned his attention to the Public Vehicles officer and smiled. He then gave a command to one of the other men, who opened the door and exited the room. Vaughan’s Arabic was not the best. It sounded like he had sent the man for water.
The interrogator then focused on Vaughan. “I will ask you again. What are you doing here?”
Davidson, his face swelling, said, “We were looking for your sister.”
The man was about to strike the cop again, but caught himself when Vaughan admonished Davidson. “Cut it out. That’s not going to help.”
“It won’t. You are right,” said the interrogator. “What will help you is if you tell me why you are here.”
“We have your mosque under surveillance,” replied the Marine. His jaw, his head, and his wrist were all throbbing.
“Who is we?”
“The Chicago Police Department.”
The man lined up his captives’ credentials and studied them. “And while you are on police business, you carry other business cards and badges as well?”
Davidson didn’t know when to shut up. “Tell him to fuck off.”
“Listen,” Vaughan continued, blood running from his mouth. “You may think you know how this works, but you don’t. The police will not negotiate for our release.”
“I don’t expect them to.”
“What do you want then? I already told you that your mosque is under surveillance.”
“But you haven’t told me who is monitoring it.”
“I have. The Chicago Police Department.”
The interrogator smiled. “You’re lying.”
Vaughan knew that if he told the man the truth, if he told him nobody else except for Josh Levy even knew they were here, they were as good as dead. Their only hope was that Levy would realize something had gone wrong and that he would bring reinforcements.
Vaughan was trying to come up with a response when the door opened and the man who had left a few moments ago returned. He was carrying a case of large water bottles with two towels laid across the top.
“I’ll pass on the sponge bath,” shot Davidson, “but there’s a couple of you who should definitely consider it. Maybe some back waxes too.”
The interrogator picked his foot up and kicked Davidson over backward. The sound of his head cracking against the floor could be heard across the room.
Calling two of the men over, the interrogator had them tilt V
aughan back. Another man grabbed a towel, and though the police officer resisted, managed to wrap it around his face and pull it tight at the back of his head.
The interrogator opened half of the bottles and sent the man to go get more. Picking up two of them, he walked over and stood looking down at the Marine. “We have much more water and I have all night. Let’s see if we can decide once and for all whether or not this is torture.”
CHAPTER 41
Rashid had seen enough. He opened the door and stepped back out into the hallway.
Marwan Jarrah was waiting for him and could read the younger man’s face. He signaled for him to hold his tongue until they got upstairs.
The two men proceeded in silence to the mosque’s office, the faithful having long dispersed since the end of evening prayers. Once they were inside and the door was closed, Rashid wasted no time getting to the point. “We’re in big trouble.”
“Everything will be fine, Shahab,” replied Jarrah.
“No, it won’t. Do you have any idea how serious this is? You have two Chicago policemen as prisoners in your mosque.”
“A police officer does not carry a private investigator’s badge when he is on duty as a policeman. Nor does another carry business cards identifying him as an attorney and a little notebook with the information about his case.”
“It doesn’t matter what they were carrying, Marwan, they’re still cops.”
“I understand the situation,” said Jarrah. “I also understand that they were carrying a picture of Mohammed Nasiri and that it wasn’t my idea to bring Nasiri here. It was yours.”
“We had no choice.”
“We should have killed him.”
“Please, Marwan. We’ve been through this. We need Nasiri.”
“So what do we do now?”
“You mean now that your thugs have tortured those two cops?”
“It’s not the time for recriminations,” replied Jarrah.
“I told you that those guns were supposed to stay in the mosque until we were ready to use them.”
“Shahab, what is done is done. We need to plan.”
“You want to make a plan?” said Rashid. “Here’s my plan. We pack everything up, send everyone home, and put this entire operation in a box and bury it for at least two years; maybe longer.”
The man shook his head. “We can’t do that.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“There are always choices.”
“Marwan, your thugs tortured two cops. Do you understand that? Maybe we could have made up a mistaken-identity story about how we thought they were breaking into the mosque when we found them, but not now.”
“Then we need to kill them.”
Rashid shook his head. “We could, but that might not be the right move; not yet.”
Jarrah looked at him. “Then what would you like to do?”
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 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.