by Brad Thor
Reynolds downloaded the real daily threat assessment and then cherry-picked e-mails and memos that had flowed between the kingdom’s various intelligence branches over the last twenty-four hours. As he read, something unusual caught his eye.
Over the last two years, Reynolds had compiled his own terrorist watch list. Almost all of the list’s distinguished honorees were radical Muslim fundamentalists from the militant Wahhabi sect, and all were young men the Saudi Intelligence Services currently had under surveillance. The report he was seeing now, though, gave him a strange sense of déjà vu. He had read this same report somewhere before. But how was that possible? He had to be imagining it. Tailing subjects and writing up daily reports were two of the few things the Saudis actually did correctly.
Accessing his removable drive, Reynolds opened the folder he had created for the surveillance subject in question—a young Saudi militant named Khalid Sheik Alomari—and pulled up his previous surveillance reports. It took the security consultant over twenty minutes, but he eventually found what he was looking for. Six months ago, the Saudi agent tailing Alomari had filed the exact same report, verbatim.
It had to be some kind of mistake. Reynolds decided to check the most recent reports on some of the other young Saudis who were known to be close associates of Alomari’s and who attended the same militant mosque on the outskirts of Riyadh. Anything having to do with Khalid Alomari gave Reynolds a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t without cause. The fact that Alomari had been suspected, but never convicted, of several ingenious terrorist attacks within the kingdom, as well as hailing from Abha, the same remote mountain city in the southern province of Asir as four of the fifteen 9/11 hijackers, had cemented his position at the top of Reynolds’s list of Wahhabi wiseguys worth watching.
Four more cups of coffee and two and a half hours later, Reynolds had pieced together a very puzzling picture. Saudi intelligence agents had been substituting old surveillance reports not only for Khalid Alomari, but also for four of his associates. Reynolds didn’t like it.
For the past two months he and his team had quietly been on heightened alert. From the various streams of intelligence he was tapped into, something big was in the works, but nobody had any idea what it was. If it was an attack on Aramco, it could be anywhere. Reynolds and his people had added extra security in spots where they felt the company was most vulnerable, but other than that, there wasn’t much else the company itself could do. There was, though, something that Reynolds could do.
Picking up his cell phone, he dialed his secretary and left her a message that he was going to be spending the next few days in the field. He shut down his computer, stowed his portable flash memory drive, and grabbed his Les Baer 1911 .45-caliber pistol. Until he knew what the Saudi Intelligence Services were up to, there was no way he could speak with any of his contacts there, especially Faruq. For the time being, he’d have to figure this out on his own.
FIFTY-FOUR
W ASHINGTON , DC
I t took the man sitting in the car outside the Washington Plaza Hotel three rings before he found his ear bud, plugged it in, and answered his cellular phone. Very few people had this number. When he heard a woman’s voice say that she was calling from “The Flower Patch, “He knew right away who was behind the call.
“We have your order ready,” said Jillian, “but our driver is out sick, so we were wondering if you could arrange to pick up the roses yourself.”
Lawlor was all too familiar with the code. Harvath had a person, or persons, who needed to be brought in to protective custody right away. “Can you remind me again what color I ordered?” he asked. “Pink or red?”—meaning were the person or persons foreign or domestic.
“Pink.”
Foreign.
“It might take me a while to get there,” replied Lawlor.
“Well, we’re going to be closing early, so you’ll have to hurry.”
“Understood. I’m sorry to be so forgetful, but has the bill already been posted to my account?”
“Not yet,” said Jillian.
Lawlor knew that meant that Harvath had not yet posted the details for him on their clandestine electronic bulletin board. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for it.”
“Good. We’ll get it to you as soon as we can.”
“In the meantime,” said Lawlor as he tried to figure out how to phrase the next piece of information in such a way that it would make sense to Harvath, but not to anyone else who might be listening in on their call, “the special blue roses I asked you to look for overseas are rumored to be available domestically now.”
Jillian looked at Harvath, who suddenly had a very concerned look on his face. Blue roses was how they referred to their current assignments. Lawlor was talking about the illness. Somehow, it had made its way to the United States.
“The roses haven’t been put on sale yet, “Gary continued, “but I’d sure like as much information as you can provide me. Rumor has it that they’ll be on the market in just a few days.”
“We’ll get right on it,” Jillian said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, one last thing. I’ve gotten several calls that Wal-Mart has gotten into the blue roses business as well. You might want to check into it and see what they know.”
With that, Lawlor punched the end button on his cell phone, set aside the pad of paper he had been taking notes on, and looked up just in time to see Helen Remington Carmichael’s car emerge from the hotel’s underground parking structure.
FIFTY-FIVE
I TALY
W hat did he mean by the blue roses are about to go on sale domestically?” asked Jillian.
Harvath looked at her and said, “It means they have intelligence that al-Qaeda has managed to smuggle the illness into the United States.”
“How?”
“Who knows? There’s got to be a million ways they could have done it. All that matters is that it sounds like they have succeeded in getting it in.”
“They haven’t released it, though, right?”
“No, but apparently they’re planning on doing it within the next several days.”
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“First, we’re going to check in with my Wal-Mart connection. It sounds like we may have just caught a break.”
Jillian didn’t bother asking him to explain.
Harvath depressed the hook switch on his phone and dialed Nick Kampos’s cell phone on Cyprus. When the man answered, it was obvious that Harvath had awakened him from a sound sleep. “Nick, it’s Scot. I got a message you were trying to reach me.”
“Jesus, Harvath. What time is it?” asked the groggy DEA agent.
“Almost five A.M. your time. What do you have for me?”
“I posted a message on that web site bulletin board thing like you asked, but I didn’t hear back from you. Don’t you ever check your messages?”
“In all fairness, Nick, I’ve been kind of busy.”
“Well, so have I,” said Kampos. “I think I may have a lead for you on Rayburn.”
Harvath gripped the phone tighter. “What is it?”
“Hold on a second, “He grumbled as he covered the mouthpiece of his phone and coughed several times, trying to get his lungs started before he returned and said, “I contacted a guy we use occasionally and gave him that e-mail address you called me with.”
“And?”
“Apparently, your guy Rayburn wanted to look as authentic as possible with his bogus archeology foundation, so using a hotmail-style e-mail account on his business cards, which would have been nearly impossible to trace, was out of the question. He had to purchase the domain name he wanted, and then he set up his e-mail account through some cheapo filipo ISP. And he did all of that with a Visa debit card.”
“That’s great. Were you able to get any information on the account holder? A mailing address or something?”
“Nope. The information trail on the account holder ends at a bank in Malt
a. Without a warrant, I couldn’t get any further than that.”
Harvath was disappointed, but said, “Thanks, Nick. I appreciate you trying.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you? Do you think I would have left all those cryptic messages with your boss—knowing full well you were in the doghouse—if I didn’t have something more for you than that? I said the account holder’s information trail ended at the bank in Malta, but the financial trail keeps going.”
“How far?”
“According to my source, whoever has that credit card has recently been using it in a town in the Rhône Valley of Switzerland, about an hour and a half outside Geneva, called Le Râleur.”
“How recently?”
“As recently as last night.”
Harvath tore the sheet off the top of his notepad and asked, “Can you fax me the list of exact places in Le Râleur?”
“Why not?” he grunted. “I’m up anyway.”
“Thanks, Nick. I owe you another dinner.”
“You owe me a hell of a lot more than dinner, but that’ll be a start.”
Harvath thanked his friend again, then hung up the phone and turned to Jillian. “We’ve got a lead on Rayburn.”
“Where is he?” she replied.
“In some town in Switzerland called Le Râleur. Ring any bells?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither have I,” said Harvath.
“So what’s our plan?”
“First we need to find a courier service to get those tissue samples back to the States. Then we’ll need an Internet café where I can post an update for Gary.”
“And then?” she asked.
“Then we need to figure out how we’re going to get into Switzerland.”
“I take it we’re not going to be driving.”
“Not with an Interpol Red Notice out on us. It’s one thing driving over the border between EU countries, but going into Switzerland is completely different. They check everybody.”
“Trains and planes will be out as well then. What does that leave us?”
“Not what,” said Harvath, as reluctant as he was to go back to Kalachka for more help, “but who.”
FIFTY-SIX
I t was just before noon when Harvath and Alcott, dressed in the new clothes they had purchased before leaving Milan, drove into the lakeside town of Como and abandoned Khalild Alomari’s black BMW on a quiet side street. From here on out, Ozan Kalachka would be handling their transportation.
Harvath had been to Como only once before. He and Meg had stayed at the famous Villa d’Este for an entire week. It had been one of the most extravagant vacations he had ever taken. As he and Jillian now killed time strolling the lakeshore, admiring the lavish villas and lush bougainvillea, he couldn’t help but remember the time he had spent there with Meg.
Shortly before their appointed rendezvous with Kalachka’s man, Harvath entered the tiny café overlooking the water and conducted a quick security sweep. He didn’t like to walk into any place he didn’t know how to walk out of. Once he was convinced everything was okay, he signaled Jillian and she came inside and joined him at a table. Fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged Italian with a pencil-thin mustache and a copy of the International Herald Tribune tucked under his right arm entered the café and looked around.
Kalachka’s description of Harvath must have been very good, as the Italian zeroed right in on him. So much for Harvath’s copy of the International Herald Tribune which he had folded open at the sports section and left in a predetermined corner of the table. Judging from the man’s white linen blazer and pastel-colored silk trousers, subtlety was not one of his strong suits. At least the man stuck to the script Harvath had established with Kalachka when he approached their table and said in slightly accented English, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but didn’t we meet last summer in Tremezzo? You and your wife were staying at the Grand Hotel, no?”
“Actually, we were at the San Giorgio.”
“Ah sì, it was the San Giorgio,” said the man as he motioned to one of the empty chairs and Harvath invited him to sit down. Once the waiter had taken his order and disappeared, the Italian introduced himself. “My name is Marco, “He said as he extended his hand and shook both Harvath’s and Aloctt’s. “I am at your disposal.”
Harvath got right to the point. “Our mutual friend explained what we need?”
“Of course, and it’s no problem,” replied Marco, waving his hand dismissively.
The man was a little too relaxed for Harvath’s taste. Leaning across the table and fixing him with his eyes, he said, “This is serious. I expect it to go off without a hitch. No problems at all. Do you understand?’
“Sì, sì. This is why I said no problem. Getting out of Italy is much easier than getting in. If your trip was reversed, then I would be concerned.”
Somehow, Harvath had trouble believing that. “Why is that?”
“Because you are crossing over into the Swiss province of Ticino, and Ticino has legalized marijuana. It’s the new Amsterdam. Many Americans haven’t heard of it, but it is well known by the Italians. Not only is cannabis legal in Ticino, but it is also much higher quality than what can be found throughout this country. Call it reefer madness, but everyone who smokes wants their marijuana from Ticino. The Italian border guards have their hands full trying to search as many cars and motor scooters as possible coming back into Italy via our local border crossing with Switzerland.”
“What about Swiss border guards and going in?”
Again, the Italian waved his hand in the air. “We never see them, except at the crossing itself. There’s about fifteen kilometers of chain-link fence defining the border between Italy and Switzerland with holes cut through it all along. I could drop you at the edge of the forest and you would actually be able to find arrows spray-painted on the trees to lead you in the right direction.”
“So the drug trade in this part of Europe must be very lucrative then.”
“It is what I hear, but I’m not in the drug business. I am an importer of strictly legal goods.”
“Really?” said Harvath, skeptical. “Such as?”
“Gold, furs, jewelry, watches, cigarettes—you name it,” said Marco. “As long as the taxes on these items are lower in Switzerland, there will be importers, like me, bringing them into Italy.”
The man was a criminal, there was no doubt, but Harvath had to admire his entrepreneurial spirit. “How do you plan on getting us across? Through the fence?”
Stirring his Campari and soda, the Italian reflected for a moment and then said, “We are flying you over the border in a kite, my friend.”
Ten minutes later, as Harvath paid the check and he and Jillian followed the man out of the café, Harvath wondered what the hell they were getting themselves into.
FIFTY-SEVEN
M arco was the conscientious type of driver who used both hands behind the wheel—one to control the car and the other to make obscene gestures at everyone else on the road. He followed the signs for Menaggio, and when they arrived at the tiny village of Orimento, he parked the car and said, “We go the rest of the way on foot.”
The rest of the way on foot turned out to be an hour-long hike past waterfalls and mountain pastures to the top of nearby Monte Generoso.
When they reached the 1700-meter peak straddling the border between Italy and Switzerland, Harvath could finally see what Marco had in mind. In a broad meadow fifty meters downhill, four young men lay next to a pair of oversized canvas bags, enjoying the afternoon sun. It was the bags that gave Marco’s plan away. Each was emblazoned with the logo of the local Swiss paragliding club—Volo Libero Ticino.
After taking a moment to catch his breath and drain the last of the water from his bottle, Marco walked Harvath and Alcott down to meet the men, one of whom was his cousin, Enzo—president of Volo Libero Ticino.
The introductions out of the way, two of the club’s members began unpacking their gear, while Enz
o gave Harvath and Alcott a thorough preflight briefing, explaining how tandem paragliding worked and what would be required of them as passengers. Though Harvath had extensive parachute experience, he understood the key to safe paragliding was in knowing your terrain. As he listened to Enzo go over what to expect during launch, flight, and landing, it was obvious the man was intimately familiar not only with the sport of paragliding, but with Monte Generoso and its surroundings as well. Marco had chosen very well. They would be in good hands.
Harvath and Jillian next climbed into special nylon flight suits, slipped on gloves to help guard against the cold, and then were each outfitted with a helmet and a harness. Once Harvath’s technical pack was securely attached to his chest, Enzo clipped into him from behind and a man named Paolo did the same with Jillian.
With one last look to check the brightly colored canopy laid out on the grass behind them, Enzo gave the command, and he and Harvath began running full-steam down the sloping meadow toward the edge of the mountain. After about twenty steps, Harvath began to feel his feet coming off the ground, but just as Enzo had instructed, he didn’t stop running until he was told. When the paraglider finally took flight, Enzo let Harvath know that he could sit back into his harness, relax, and enjoy the view. And what a view it was.
With the Swiss city of Lugano and its sparkling lake far below them, Harvath realized this was probably one of the most enjoyable, stress-free insertions he had ever conducted. He looked back to make sure Jillian had gotten off the mountain okay and saw Paolo’s canopy floating not too far behind them.
Enzo had explained that depending on the winds, it would take them only about fifteen minutes to reach their landing site, which was a soccer field in the lakeside village of Capolago. Privately, Harvath wished they could stay aloft as long as possible. Up here, gliding through the brisk mountain air, there was no sound but the wind as it rushed past his ears. It was easy to forget, if only for a moment, all of the troubles he was facing back on terra firma. It was as if in soaring weightless, a figurative weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He would have given a year’s salary to keep floating and never have to touch the ground again.