by Brad Thor
“The Old Man says you’ll be going to the site in Iceland now. Better medical there.”
Riley nodded again.
“He also said he sent a team into Mansoor’s apartment outside London. They didn’t find much,” continued Harvath. “We are assuming he uses a cloud.”
Cloud computing referred to virtual networks where data was stored. It acted as a fail-safe for terrorists in particular, in case they were captured. If they didn’t give up their cloud, it was nearly impossible to locate their data. They could also set up their clouds in a way that required them to “touch back” at regularly scheduled intervals or a countdown would be enacted and all of the data on that cloud would be destroyed.
“Don’t worry,” said Riley. “I’m going to be with him the entire time. As soon as he regains consciousness, I’ll press him for the cloud.”
“Good,” said Harvath. For a moment, he stood there just looking at her. She was, hands-down, one of the best-looking women he’d ever seen.
“The answer’s no,” she said.
Harvath snapped out of it. “What answer?”
“The answer to whatever it is you’re thinking of asking me.”
“Who said I was going to ask you anything?” he replied.
Riley shook her head. “I know that look.”
“I didn’t give you any look.”
“Fine,” she said. “There was no look.”
“You need anything else before I go?” he asked.
“I’m sure if I need anything, Andy will help me.”
Harvath shook his head. She was playing with him. He knew she was. Pointing at Mansoor he said, “Stay in touch. I want to be kept up to speed on how he’s doing.”
“Will do,” said Riley as she turned away to prep another IV for her patient.
With nothing else to say, Harvath walked toward the door and exited the barn. But just as he had the first time they had met, he could feel her eyes on him as he walked away. He thought about turning around, but then decided against it. He needed to get his head into the game for what was awaiting him and the rest of the assault team in Uppsala.
The takedown was going to have to happen very fast. In and out in three minutes or less. They had to be gone before the Swedish police arrived at the scene and an international incident was made of the raid. That meant there was no margin for error. It also meant that there was a very high likelihood that something could go wrong. And as Harvath drove away from the farm toward Uppsala, that was exactly what his gut was telling him was going to happen.
CHAPTER 19
Harvath had wanted to keep the parameters of Chase’s operation as limited as possible. This wasn’t a long-term, deep-cover operation. He was to be their inside eyes for the takedown.
Chase was to ascertain how many members the cell contained, with whom and how they were communicating, what critical intelligence was being kept at the safe house, and where, as well as what their defensive capabilities were.
At the accident scene, Harvath had cloned the dead terrorists’ SIM cards. They also had the mobile number the driver had called after picking up Mansoor Aleem at the Stockholm airport, and Chase had dialed after the accident. Did it belong to the cell leader? Would the Carlton team back in the States be able to track it? As Chase left the accident scene, no one knew. Therefore, Harvath had developed a two-pronged plan.
The most critical information for the assault team, if they could pinpoint the location of the terrorists’ safe house, was how many people were inside, whether they were armed, whether there were any explosives present, and what, if anything, had been booby-trapped. Assuming that Chase was not going to have access to a cell phone, and might not have access to a computer, Harvath laid out a simple means of communicating the critical information via whatever window coverings the safe house employed. It was a simple espionage tactic that would draw little to no attention. Blinds, shutters, shades, or curtains, unless the windows had been painted or newspapered over, would communicate the details. Harvath had every confidence that it would work.
To communicate to Chase that they had pinpointed his location, Harvath’s car would be parked on the street outside with a book left on the dashboard. This was where Harvath was upset to have lost Riley. If they couldn’t get a parking space, they were going to have to create one. Riley could have been used as a diversion, perhaps dropping her purse as her companion, Harvath, got into the car they needed to move. While she was gathering up the contents to place back in her bag, Harvath would work on starting the car. To anyone watching, it would simply appear as if he was waiting for her before starting the vehicle. If he needed extra time, or was having some sort of trouble hotwiring, they could even stage an argument. With Harvath’s hands working beneath the dashboard, no one would be able to see what he was really doing.
That option, though, was now off the table.
If Chase didn’t see the car with the book on its dash by midnight, he had been told to assume that they hadn’t been able to pinpoint his location and that the cavalry wasn’t coming. He would be on his own. He was to gather as much intelligence as he could and somehow get himself out. Once out, he was to contact Harvath with details and keep the safe house under surveillance from an optimum distance.
The good news was that they had caught a break. The satellite team back in the United States had been able to track the mobile phone of the cell member Chase had spoken with. Now all Harvath had to do was position his vehicle with the book near the safe house where Chase could see it and wait for him to signal.
Southwest of Uppsala, in the low-income suburb of Gottsunda, Scot Harvath began to believe the fates were smiling on him. On a dirty street flanked by rows of drab apartment complexes, he found the perfect parking space.
With the book on the dash, he got out of the car, removed two sacks of groceries from the trunk, armed the alarm, and walked away.
The area was so rough, thanks in part to rampant lawlessness by Muslim youths, that even Swedes hired to pilot Google’s “Street View” cars had refused to drive through and map the area. It was yet another in a long and growing list of Europe’s sensitive “no go” areas. While Swedish police still responded to calls, they only did so in great numbers because bricks and Molotov cocktails normally greeted them upon their arrival.
There were still ethnic Swedes to be found in the area, though many of the housing complexes were now filled with a mixture of Arab and Somali faces.
As with most of Uppsala’s poorer suburbs and neighborhoods, the residents had been co-opted by the hard left political parties. It was one of the few tidbits about Gottsunda that Harvath had found helpful. To help him blend in, he had donned a dirty pair of jeans, tennis shoes, a worn jacket, and a T-shirt with an antiestablishment slogan one of the assault team members had found near the university.
From what they had been told, the immigrants tended to stay away from the ethnic Swedes, who blamed a lot of their problems on the “Muslim invaders.” Unless he encountered a group of youths looking to start a fight, Harvath expected to be given a wide berth. His Swedish was limited. The only words he knew were those he had picked up in the SEALs when he had dated a string of SAS flight attendants and earned his call sign, Norseman.
As many people do with foreign languages, he’d learned the bad words first. If anyone did come up to engage him, he could act the part of the surly drunk, toss out a few choice phrases, and keep going. He hoped he wouldn’t even need to do that.
Right in front of the safe house and right on cue, the rip Harvath had placed in the bottom of one of his grocery bags tore the rest of the way open and spilled its contents onto the ground. He swore in Swedish and muttered to himself as he bent over to pick everything up. Stealing the occasional glance at the building, he saw that all of the window shades were drawn tight.
Chase wouldn’t communicate his message until he saw the car parked on the street with the book, so Harvath gathered up his groceries and continued down the block.
At t
he end of the street he turned the corner and walked three blocks. In a weed-choked parking area sat a large panel truck covered with graffiti. Six serious-looking, extremely fit men in matching blue T-shirts and jeans stood talking. Alongside their truck, they looked like a team of movers, which was exactly what Harvath wanted people to believe.
As he got nearer, Harvath could see that though they appeared casual, their eyes were constantly scanning the area, taking nothing for granted. The Old Man had put the assault team together himself and they were true professionals, loaded for bear and ready for anything.
The team leader was a former U.S. Special Forces soldier who then spent several years with the CIA’s “Special Activities Division” before being transferred up to the paramilitary “Special Operations Group” composed of ex–DevGru SEALS and CAG operators. He was a tall man with a fishhook-shaped scar on his left cheek. His name was Schiller and he was only a year older than Harvath.
Once the plan for raiding the safe house had been hatched, Schiller had been the one to find the truck. Inside were cardboard boxes filled with the assault team’s gear. Posing as a Swedish moving company, they would unload the boxes onto dollies and wheel them into the building. Once inside, they would unpack the weapons, radios, Swedish Security Service uniforms, helmets, and body armor, and suit up.
For a job like this, it was customary to have at least two to three times as many men as they had. Ideally, you’d also have a surveillance team watching the apartment from somewhere close by. One operator would watch the front of the building while another watched the back and a third stayed behind the wheel of the truck. On the perimeter an additional operator would be in charge of communications. Inside, the teams would post men in the stairwells and at the elevator. Finally, there would be the assault team itself, which would be in charge of actually hitting the apartment. That was how it was done on your own turf or in a cooperative assignment with a foreign government. But because the Swedes had no idea that the Americans were operating within their territory, they’d had to remain lean.
As someone who never asked people to do what he wouldn’t do, and as someone who always wanted to be the first through the door, Harvath had wanted to lead the team inside. Schiller, though, had been against it.
Harvath was in charge of the operation and thought about pulling rank, but instead he took a deep breath and stood down. The assaulters were Schiller’s men. There could be almost a telepathic bond on assault teams. They instinctively knew where each other would be and what each would do at every minute. Harvath understood not to take it personally. He hadn’t trained with them. He couldn’t blame Schiller or his assaulters for not wanting to compromise the integrity of their team.
Without Riley, they numbered seven, total. Schiller wanted Harvath to stay outside and watch the rear of the building while one of his assaulters stayed with the truck in front. The apartment complex backed up to a large wooded area where a cell member could disappear quickly.
It was a good idea, but it wasn’t perfect. None of Schiller’s men spoke Swedish—not even any of the bad words. Sitting in the truck might result in some sort of interaction with someone from the neighborhood. Therefore, this time Harvath asserted his authority and stated that he’d remain in front with the truck while one of Schiller’s men watched the back and coordinated the radio communications.
Schiller agreed and threw Harvath an extra blue T-shirt. As Harvath changed, Schiller reviewed the rest of the assignments. He would be leading three of the assaulters into the apartment, while a fifth would stay in the hall and cover their six so no one could hit the team from behind.
All of the weapons and radios had been checked before the team had left their temporary apartment in Uppsala. In a sports bag in the cab of the truck was a suppressed MP7 for Harvath along with a radio and a black plate carrier vest emblazoned with the word Säkerhetspolisen across the front and back.
Schiller also handed him a blue baseball cap, since he’d already walked right past the safe house once. To sit outside in the truck, Harvath needed to do everything he could to make sure that he wasn’t recognized. The man had raised a good point. That also meant that until they were ready to launch their operation, Harvath couldn’t go anywhere near the safe house again. Someone else was going to have to look to see if Chase had raised his signal. In fact, they were probably going to have to take turns. Once again, Harvath wished that Riley was with them.
Each of the assaulters had brought a change of clothes, so Harvath put together a surveillance roster—who would go, when he would go, and what his ruse would be while passing the safe house so that none of them would draw undue attention.
They had an additional vehicle parked a block away from the truck, and Harvath decided they would use it as well, but sparingly. If any of the members of the cell saw the same vehicle go by twice, especially one that wasn’t a regular in the neighborhood, they might get spooked and do something stupid.
With all the rotations decided upon, all they could do was wait. The ball was now in Chase’s court.
CHAPTER 20
Chase had zeroed in on the cell leader the moment he’d been shown into the apartment. Mustafa Karami was a slight man who looked much older than the other members. He sported a patchy beard, a slim nose, and a pair of deeply set, dark eyes.
He radiated a controlled, simmering anger that seemed ready to erupt at any moment. He was different from most of the jihadists Chase had come across. Not unique, just different. Most of them were not very bright, and they lacked self-control. That wasn’t Karami, though. He was the picture of self-control. He was also very intelligent. Chase could tell that just from one look at his face. That’s what made him different.
As the man embraced and kissed him on both cheeks, Chase sensed something else. This was a man who would slash your throat at a moment’s notice if he felt it necessary. He would feel no remorse about it either. He’d probably sit there and drink his chai as he watched you bleed out on the floor. Between Karami and Sabah, his number two, Chase had a lot to be concerned about.
The other cell members in the apartment were like the two men who had picked him up at the soccer field and had taken him to the garage. They were either muscle or simply jihadist cannon fodder. None of them were exceptionally intelligent nor were they particularly talented. He doubted they’d be of any intelligence value whatsoever.
After welcoming him, Karami sat Chase down and asked the huge man named Sabah to fetch tea. He made small talk as was customary and when Sabah returned with a tray, he poured the tea and offered Chase a snack. There were bowls of dates, figs, and nuts. Chase thanked him and helped himself.
“Your uncle was a wonderful soldier of Allah. He is in Paradise now.”
“Masha’Allah,” Chase replied. God has willed it.
“It was your uncle’s desire that if anything happened to him, we take care of you.”
Chase shrugged and took a sip of his tea. It was important that he maintain his aloof, disinterested hacker attitude.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Karami was testing him as Sabah had. The last time Chase had seen Aazim Aleem was when pieces of him had been blown all over a Yemeni sidewalk, but he couldn’t exactly share that. He also couldn’t exactly share how he and Aazim had first met.
Chase had spent three years infiltrating Aazim Aleem’s terrorist network. He had worked his way right into a position next to a man named Marwan Jarrah, who was helping coordinate Aazim’s attack plans for the United States. Then Harvath showed up, Jarrah was gunned down, and Aazim disappeared, but not before several attacks in Chicago were launched and scores of people were killed.
These attacks had come on the heels of a wave of attacks in Europe targeting American tourists. Aazim had built a very sophisticated network. What bothered the CIA was that many of his American cells were believed to still be in place. Nobody knew who they were, much less where they were hiding and what they had planned.
&
nbsp; Chase had met with Aazim only twice. He was the only American operative to have ever done so. The first time had been brief and had taken place while Chase and Jarrah were traveling through Pakistan. The second meeting had happened in Chicago and had been much more substantive. Chase had finally put another piece of the puzzle in place as he discovered that Jarrah was working for Aazim, who controlled the network.
The meeting had taken place in Jarrah’s office and Chase so impressed Aazim that the terrorist mastermind invited him to help execute a nationwide string of attacks beyond what was planned for Chicago. These attacks, it was alleged, would cause airplanes to rain from the sky, radiation and plague to infect American citizens, and multiple other horrors. Aazim despised America and his goal was for it to know terror like it had never known terror before.
And as that prediction began to unfold, a Mumbai-style siege was launched against three commuter train stations in Chicago and many innocent civilians had been killed.
Jarrah had explained to Chase that Aazim had come to Chicago to check on their final preparations. From there he was going to Los Angeles for the next attack, and he wanted Chase to handle an attack planned for New York City.
When one of the Chicago train station plots was interrupted and Jarrah was murdered, the L.A. and New York attacks never materialized. According to chatter, Aazim had fled the United States. That’s when Chase had been charged with hunting him down.
The hunt had led him to Yemen, but Aazim had proven elusive, at least for the CIA. Harvath, somehow, had much better luck. He not only located the terrorist mastermind, he managed to capture him and stuff him in his trunk.
Chase had just been given the keys to Harvath’s car when it was struck by an RPG and Aazim was incinerated.
The reason the CIA had allowed Chase to join Harvath’s current Uppsala operation was that they were bound and determined to uncover the remainder of Aazim’s network, both within the United States and, if possible, the rest of the world.
