Foreign Influence

by Brad Thor

  “You can stop all of this right now,” said Harvath. “Your family will be spared.”

  The man didn’t reply.

  Harvath looked back at Casey, who had withdrawn her BlackBerry. “Khalil would like the DST to start torturing his family. But make sure to let them know that they are to leave them as close to alive as possible so that al-Qaeda gets their turn.”

  As Casey took her phone off speaker and lifted it to her ear, al-Yaqoubi yelled from the backseat.

  “No!”

  “No, what?” replied Harvath.

  “I will tell you what you want to know.”

  “How do we stop the attack?”

  Al-Yaqoubi started shaking. He was slipping into shock. Harvath slapped him to get his attention. “Where is the attack going to take place?”

  “The Red Light District.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not,” pleaded al-Yaqoubi.

  “We know the target is Dam Square,” said Harvath.

  “That was before London was interrupted.”

  “What time?”

  “Sometime before midnight. I don’t know exactly when.”

  “How do we stop it?”

  The accountant’s shivering increased.

  “How do we stop it?” Harvath repeated.

  “You can’t.”

  “Bullshit. How are they planning to attack?”

  Al-Yaqoubi’s eyes were unfocused and when he failed to respond, Harvath slapped him again and repeated his question.

  “Explosive vests,” the accountant stammered.

  “Not bicycles?”

  “After London, everything was changed.”

  “Do the men have cell phones? Can they be recalled?”

  “The only phones are on the explosives they are carrying. They are in their final stage and are not supposed to have contact with each other or anyone else.”

  Chicken switches, thought Harvath. Just like London. He believed al-Yaqoubi was telling him the truth. It also made sense. You wouldn’t want your martyrs reaching out to a girlfriend or family member at the last minute only to have that bring about a change of heart.

  “Someone will be watching them to make sure they carry out the operation, correct?”

  The accountant nodded, his pupils beginning to dilate.

  “Where will he be positioned?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about the bombers? Where will they be?”

  “De Wallen,” he mumbled.

  Harvath looked up at de Roon.

  “I know it,” said the intelligence operative, “but it’s only a general district. He needs to be more specific.”

  Harvath shifted his attention back to al-Yaqoubi, who was decompensating. His pulse was rapid and thready, his skin cool and clammy to the touch. They were going to lose him.

  Harvath tried slapping him again, but it had no effect. He yelled into the man’s ear and knuckled his sternum without any success. “He’s crashing. He needs medical attention.”

  “If we take him to a hospital, your interrogation is over,” said de Roon.

  “If we don’t, he’s going to die.”

  “You’re a SEAL. You have experience with battlefield medicine. Can’t you stabilize him?”

  “With what?” asked Harvath, looking around. “Duct tape?”

  De Roon slammed on his brakes and pulled to the shoulder. As he leapt from the car, he yelled for Casey to climb into the backseat to assist.

  He removed a trauma bag from the trunk and tossed it to Harvath as he got back in the car, put it in gear, and peeled back out.

  Harvath quickly unzipped the bag and emptied out its contents. It was full of QuikClots, Israeli bandages, and other odds and ends. “This isn’t enough. This will only help me stop the bleeding. At the very least, he’s going to need an IV and painkillers.”

  Al-Yaqoubi had been laid across the backseat. Casey found a reflective space blanket in the supplies and opened it up and laid it across him, while Harvath began to tend to his wounds.

  “If you had those supplies, could you stabilize him?”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  “But could you do it?”

  “Probably.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy de Roon, who began issuing orders over his radio as he put his foot down even harder on the accelerator.

  CHAPTER 58

  The rusting Liberian-registered freighter was called the Sacleipea and had the filthiest infirmary Harvath had ever seen. Nevertheless, it was well stocked and de Roon’s men had everything Harvath had asked for ready and waiting when they carried Khalil al-Yaqoubi in.

  Casey helped get an IV going and began administering pain meds while Harvath plucked as much road debris from the accountant’s shredded feet as possible. Once he had cleaned and rebandaged the man’s wounds, he taped up his nose and gave him a dose of antibiotics to begin fighting any potential infection.

  Harvath opened a package of smelling salts and waved it under al-Yaqoubi’s nose until he came to. The man shook his head violently to get away from the odor, but soon opened his eyes. He tried to move his arms, but they were Flex-Cuffed to the infirmary gurney.

  “Where am I?”

  “Not nearly close enough to save your family,” said Harvath as he tossed away the salts.

  “I told you everything.”

  Harvath was in no mood to argue. “How many bombers are there?”

  “Six.”

  “Plus one making sure they detonate, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want physical descriptions of all of them. I also want to know where the bombs were assembled and how.”

  The accountant nodded his assent.

  “And, Khalil,” said Harvath, locking eyes with the man. “The descriptions you give me had better be perfect. If we are unable to stop them, if even one bomb goes off, your family is as good as dead.”

  Al-Yaqoubi’s bombers had picked one of the most densely packed tourist areas in Amsterdam. De Wallen was the most popular red-light district and was located in the heart of the oldest part of the city. It was a network of alleys and small streets crisscrossing several blocks and canals south of the Oude Kerk.

  Scantily clad women, midgets, hermaphrodites, and transvestites offered themselves from behind large windows or glass doors often accompanied by a red light. The prostitutes’ places of business were often interspersed with sex shops, peep shows, hash bars, and live-sex theaters.

  Tourists gawked at the women, but for the most part kept moving. The challenge for Harvath and Martin de Roon was how to field their teams. Dutch law enforcement officials were similar to their American counterparts and were easy to spot by their physiques and demeanor.

  Regardless, no one spent hours upon hours wending their way through De Wallen. It wasn’t that big. Anyone who did so would be pegged as unusual and therefore suspect. The last thing they wanted to do was tip their hand.

  Harvath came up with an idea to put four of Martin’s youngest operatives in soccer jerseys. They looked like athletes anyway and could convincingly pass themselves off as teammates out celebrating a win. De Roon thought it was a good idea and decided to okay it, suggesting the men park themselves at one of the hash bars in the center of the red-light district.

  He also agreed that since most people never looked up, placing snipers out of sight along as many of the rooftops as possible was a good idea. Using small cameras to observe the streets below them, they acted as extra eyes in the skies and wouldn’t need to expose themselves unless they were ready to take a shot.

  The positions for the last assets to be placed in were the hardest to decide upon. While couples and bachelorette parties strolled through De Wallen, they kept moving and rarely passed the same location twice unless it was on their way home after a night out on the town.

  Casey didn’t need to be asked. She knew placing the Athena Team in the windows was the best way to watch the flow of people and they al
l volunteered. All that needed to be decided was which windows they would take. Once Harvath and Martin had identified the best possible locations, de Roon contacted a cop he knew and trusted who dealt with the red-light district and explained that he was running a very quiet sting. The occupants of the windows in question were paid a hefty sum of cash from Harvath’s funds and given the night off.

  Everything was ready to go except for one thing. The Athena Team members were probably some of the most attractive “prostitutes” the red-light district had ever seen. Before the operation could begin, they needed to figure out a means by which to dissuade potential customers from bothering them. The plan they came up with actually helped distribute their remaining operatives.

  Operatives, including Harvath and de Roon, were placed out of sight with each of the women. If a potential suitor approached and wanted to arrange for her services, each operative would say that he had bought her for the night and to take a hike. In addition, they would also be wearing the same soccer jerseys. If someone did hit up all five women, they’d be left thinking some soccer team or hooligan fan club had taken over the best talent in the district and hopefully move on.

  With positioning out of the way, Harvath was left to reflect on the men they were looking for. Al-Yaqoubi had been quite ingenious. Instead of recruiting Arab Muslims for his attack, he had recruited Indonesians.

  Indonesia was the most populous Muslim country in the world and had once been a Dutch colony. People of Indonesian descent could be found throughout the Netherlands. They had largely assimilated themselves into the culture and weren’t considered threatening, unlike their Arab brethren. They also could move through the red-light district, even during a time of heightened anxiety and security, without drawing attention to themselves.

  Al-Yaqoubi was in bad shape, and it was a fight to keep him conscious. He could only give rough descriptions of the men. They were of average height, with dark hair and eyes; all in their mid twenties. He had no idea how they would be dressed except to say that they would have to employ some means to cover their bomb vests.

  The cell’s controller was in his late thirties and also Indonesian. He had a thick, white scar behind his left ear from a motorcycle accident in his youth. The accountant only knew the bombers by their Muslim names and not their given names under which they lived their Dutch lives. He did, though, know the controller’s given name, Joost Moerdani. It was all they got out of him before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  With that information, Martin had been able to pull the man’s driver’s license and passport photos. Everyone, including the plainclothes police that had been brought in to form a covert ring around the red-light district, knew what he looked like. If he was spotted, everyone had been given strict orders not to take him down. They were to report his location and attempt to keep him under surveillance.

  It was a warm night and Harvath hoped that would help them spot their suicide bombers. Indonesian men wearing sweatshirts, sweaters, jackets, or bulky shirts would get very special attention.

  Once a potential bomber was ID’d, the nearest team members would go to work. Posing as a tourist taking video of the red-light district with a camera phone, one member would try to get the man’s picture while the other would track him.

  The picture would be sent to de Roon’s men on the Sacleipea. If al-Yaqoubi was awake, then he would be shown the picture to help confirm identification. If he wasn’t awake, they were going to be in a lot of trouble.

  Assuming al-Yaqoubi would be able to ID the bombers, the rules of engagement became very clear. The target needed to be taken out. The only question was how to do it without starting a panic that would send tourists screaming.

  De Roon’s men had come up with a solution that showed strong faith in their snipers. When the sniper was ready to take his shot, the AIVD team tailing the target would close ranks, come up right behind him, and catch him as he was being neutralized.

  Harvath didn’t like it. There was too much that could go wrong. If the bombers were walking around buttoned down with a dead-man switch, the minute they released their trigger their device would explode. There was still a chance that any interdiction could happen within sight of the controller, who would then activate the device remotely. According to al-Yaqoubi, the cell phone detonators were sewn into each vest in the back. It wouldn’t be easy to get them out and deactivate them. Therefore, neutralizing the controller was an integral part of their plan.

  Despite all of the risks, Martin’s men wanted to go ahead with the operation. Harvath had a tremendous amount of respect for them. They were a tribute to law enforcement officers the world over.

  The evening progressed, and the crowds of tourists in De Wallen grew heavier. Harvath had been paired with Nikki Rodriguez, who was wearing a lace bra, matching panties, a garter belt with stockings, and a pair of high heels.

  “Are you getting a good eyeful from there?” she asked Harvath.

  “I’m not looking at you,” he said. “I’m watching the street.”

  “Yeah, sure you are. How’s my ass look?”

  He was used to inappropriate banter in tense situations, but normally, it was with men, not a very attractive, half-naked woman. “I’ve seen better,” he replied.

  “You’re a liar.”

  “No offense, Rodriguez, but you’re not my type.”

  “What? A hot-looking woman in peak physical fitness turns you off?” she asked. “Honey, you can come look, I don’t have an Adam’s apple.”

  Harvath chuckled. “I’m the Navy man, remember? I’ve been to some pretty interesting ports of call. If you had an Adam’s apple, I guarantee you I would have spotted it from a mile away.”

  “So we’re agreed I’m all woman?”

  “Absolutely,” said Harvath, “just like my fiancée.”

  Rodriguez shook her head. “I knew it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Just tell me she isn’t a goat.”

  “She’s not a goat,” said Harvath with a smile, but the smile quickly faded from his face. “Look. Do you see that guy out the window?”

  “Where?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  Rodriguez looked and when she did, Harvath could hear her draw in her breath. The man was going to pass right beneath her window.

  Harvath activated his radio, identified himself, and said, “Player one has entered the game.”

  CHAPTER 59

  CHICAGO

  I don’t get it, Marwan. Are you trying to tell me that you trust him more than you trust me?” asked Abdul Rashid.

  “It is not a question of trust, Shahab,” replied the older man. “It is a question of loyalty.”

  They were sitting in the lobby of the Chicago Marriott on Michigan Avenue. Rashid was drinking a coffee, Marwan a Diet Coke.

  “So what are you saying? That I should swear allegiance to Aazim Aleem?”

  “As long as you are loyal to me, that’s all I care about.”

  “How do we make sure we don’t repeat the mistakes that the brothers in Europe have made?”

  “That’s not something you need to be concerned about,” said the older man.

  Rashid set his coffee down and leaned forward. “I don’t even know what our plans are after Chicago.”

  “And you’re not supposed to know. It is—”

  “For my own good and the good of the operation,” said Rashid, finishing the man’s sentence for him.

  “As long as you follow my orders, everything will go according to plan.”

  “And whose orders do you follow? Aleem’s? I’m not exactly comfortable with the fact that he may be our supreme leader.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with matters beyond your control.”

  Rashid glanced around to make sure no one was listening to them before continuing. “Marwan, look at us. We’ve spent half the day surveilling hotel lobbies. Do you have any idea how crazy this is?”

  “Circumstances have dictated that we change
our methods.”

  “Circumstances? What circumstances?”

  Marwan took a sip of his Diet Coke and looked at his watch. “You will know this afternoon.”

  “What’s happening this afternoon?”

  “Insha’Allah, the final attack in Europe. Then it will be our turn.”

  The young man lowered his voice. “Can I speak honestly with you, Marwan?”

  “I should hope you always do.”

  Rashid smiled and bowed his head. “Always. But I am concerned.”

  “I’ve told you that you worry too much.”

  “Maybe, but you made me operational director of the Chicago event. I helped train the recruits and do the planning. Now, you and Sheik Aleem want to throw all of our planning and all of our training out the window. That worries me.”

  “It shouldn’t,” replied Jarrah.

  “But it does. We have this operation perfectly planned, everything. Then, all of a sudden, you want to switch us to a Mumbai-style event.”

  “Straying from what is comfortable is often stressful.”

  “Marwan, it would take us months to get our men properly trained.”

  “We don’t have months,” said the older man. “We only have two days.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  Rashid looked at him. “It’ll never work.”

  “You must have faith. There is great wisdom in what Sheik Aleem has suggested.”

  “I’m sorry, Marwan—”

  The older man smiled and cut him off. “Let me finish. I have decided that the original event will continue as planned.”

  “But—”

  Marwan raised his hand to quiet his protégé again. “As a contingency, and hopefully to strike even greater terror into the hearts of our enemies, we will follow Sheik Aleem’s suggestion.”

  Rashid shook his head.

  “Sheik Aleem wants you to be in charge of both.”

  “I am honored.”

  The older man looked at him. “You should be.”

  “But changing everything at the last minute will make success nearly impossible.”

  “With faith in Allah, nothing is impossible.”