by Brad Thor
“The operatives there were steeped in American culture and the American way of thinking. Most of them had previously worked or studied abroad in the U.S. Their job at Site 243 was to study America and to find its weaknesses. Under the supervision of their military handlers, they were then charged with developing the most unusual and devastating attacks they could come up with.”
“Attacks from the side,” said Harvath.
“Yes,” replied Nicholas as he put up another image. “Someone discovered what the Chinese were up to and hired an extremely adept hacker to steal the unrestricted warfare plans. Then they launched an attack on Site 243, making sure no one was left alive and no copy of the plans was left behind. But they didn’t stop there.
“Any Chinese military or intelligence officer who had any knowledge of the program, regardless of where he was, was hunted down and killed. Whoever stole the plans wanted to make sure that they had the only copy and that they were the only ones who could activate it.”
“But we don’t have any idea who stole it or why, do we?” asked Harvath.
Nicholas shook his head. “At this point, no. We have the hacker who helped steal the unrestricted warfare plans. She has been interrogated and is still being held at an offshore site. She claims she never knew the identity of the person or persons who hired her. The interrogators believe she is telling the truth.
“What we were able to get from her, though, is that despite her clients’ warning against it, she opened the package she stole. What’s more, she copied some of the data onto a separate drive.”
“Which you were able to recover,” said Harvath.
“And which you tried to sell back to the United States government rather than doing the right thing and turning it over,” added Carlton.
Nicholas put up his hands. “I eventually saw the error of my ways and delivered the drive to this organization.”
“What was on it?” asked Harvath.
“As you’ll recall, you and I spoke while you were in Yemen. Just before—”
Harvath held up his hand. He didn’t need to be reminded. The call had come in just before his car and Aazim Aleem had been hit by the RPG.
“What I had shared with you,” continued Nicholas, “was that there was some pretty interesting information on that drive. That was how we learned that Aazim had a nephew in London who was a digital courier for him. I also discovered that the drive held some highly encrypted data. From it, we began to get a better handle on what unrestricted warfare was. The problem, though, was there weren’t any specifics. I was able to figure out that the recent attacks we had seen in Europe and in Chicago were only a small wave preceding a giant tsunami, and that the tsunami was meant to crush the United States, but that was all. At least I thought it was all, until I came at the encryption from a different angle and found this.”
Harvath watched as Nicholas pushed a key and all the screens showed the same image, a map of the United States. A black dot popped up in Chicago, followed by one in New York and one in Los Angeles.
“What are we looking at?”
“Based on what Chase learned inside Aazim’s network, we believe we are looking at—”
“Target cities?” interrupted Harvath.
“Exactly. We know Aazim had been in Chicago and that he wanted Chase to handle an attack in New York while he went to oversee one in L.A. We think these represented the first wave.”
“First out of how many?”
Nicholas looked at Carlton, who nodded. “See for yourself,” said the little man as he pressed another button on his keyboard.
Instantly a dot appeared in Dallas, followed by Houston and Miami. Then Philadelphia had a dot and then Newark and San Francisco. Next came Atlanta, Phoenix, Seattle, and Denver. The dots were multiplying so fast, Harvath couldn’t keep track. Some cities had more than one dot.
In addition to major American cities, there were smaller ones, ones not immediately thought of when considering potential terrorist targets. There were dots next to Madison, Wisconsin; Casper, Wyoming; and Wichita, Kansas. Bloomington, Indiana; Hartford, Connecticut; Johnson City, Tennessee; Springfield, Missouri; and Billings, Montana, had also been marked.
“My God,” Harvath said. “How many are there?”
“Over two hundred,” replied Nicholas.
“Cells?”
“That’s what we think. The scope is amazing. But now watch this.”
Nicholas pressed another button and Harvath watched as all of the dots changed color.
“Why are they doing that?”
“We think the colors represent the style of attack,” said the little man. “You can see Chicago is lit up red, blue, orange, silver, and brown.”
“You mean there may have been five different kinds of attacks planned for Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“And we only disrupted two?”
“Unfortunately.”
Harvath studied the map, looking at the different colors. “Chase was inside the Chicago cell and he only uncovered the suicide bomb and active shooter plots. You think they kept things that compartmentalized? Aazim Aleem had three other types of attack planned for Chicago that Chase never learned about?”
“It’s very possible,” replied Carlton. “Especially if the actors were working alone and didn’t need the support of the overall network. It’s the way I’d do it.”
Five different attacks was a large number to throw at one city like Chicago, but there were plenty of cities on the map that appeared to have been targeted for multiple attacks. Harvath was looking for some sort of pattern. “Orange dots seem to be pretty randomly dispersed. Any idea what those represent?”
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, took a sip from his cup, and studied the map. “No idea.”
“Not even a guess?”
“Guesses are something I’ve got plenty of. Honestly, orange could be anything. There are orange dots in New York City, San Jose, Dallas, Atlanta, Cincinnati, and a bunch of other locations. Silver and gold seem to be just as random.”
“What about purple? I’m only seeing those in a few places. All of them port cities. New York again, Los Angeles, Houston, Seattle.”
“We noticed that, too,” replied Nicholas, “but those are also major urban centers with large populations, and there might be another factor they have in common that we’re not seeing. That’s the problem. There’s just so much we don’t know.”
Harvath looked back at the Old Man. “Any other thoughts, if you were behind this?”
Carlton was studying the monitors. “I’ve been looking at this map until my eyes bleed. Without some additional piece of information, it’s nearly impossible to unlock.”
“What kind of warning are you giving the cities that do have the dots?”
Carlton shrugged. “The FBI will quietly inform local and state law enforcement of a nonspecific terrorism threat to their jurisdictions and they’ll raise their internal alert levels accordingly.”
“No mention of this to the public, then?” asked Harvath.
“Not right now. We don’t want to tip our hand. If we go public with this, it could speed the attacks up. Whoever is pulling the strings could give the cells the green light.”
The Old Man was right, but they couldn’t just sit and do nothing. “If this map is accurate,” said Harvath, “at least we know the cities where they’re planning to strike. How do we filter it down even more?”
Nicholas waved at all of his computer equipment. “I’m doing everything humanly possible. I’m looking for any data points I can find, no matter how small. I’m turning over every single digital rock you can imagine. We’re leaving nothing unturned. The ops tempo was already very hot, but with Chase saying he felt something was about to kick off, we’ve kicked everything on our end into overdrive.”
“What about the names Chase gave us? Karami? Sabah? Some Sheikh from Qatar?”
“It’s all in the blender. We just have to see what we get out.”
&
nbsp; Harvath turned to Carlton. “How about any IDs of the cell members Chase took out in the safe house?”
“We’re working on that,” said the Old Man. “We’re also working on seeing if their forensics teams uncovered anything from the apartment building across the street where the explosion happened. For the moment, the Swedes are being very tight-lipped. They suspect the involvement of a foreign intelligence service and until they feel they’ve figured out who it was, they’re not talking with anyone.”
“I assumed you would have already helped them out with that.”
“It’s in the works. Trust me. Subtlety is a delicate art. It requires patience.”
“These guys, though, could begin lighting up American cities this morning,” replied Harvath. “There’s got to be something else we can do.”
“What you can do is go home and get some rest,” said the Old Man. “I want you ready to move as soon as we do hear something.”
Harvath was wiped out. He knew he needed sleep. Draining what was left of his cup, he stood up. “As soon as we hear from Iceland with the medical assessment on Mansoor, I want somebody to call me. They need to start interrogating him as quickly as possible. We have to access his cloud.”
“In the meantime,” said Carlton, “we’re working every other angle we have.”
“We still don’t have anything on who targeted my car in Yemen with that RPG, though, do we?”
The Old Man shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
“Obviously,” interjected Nicholas, “someone didn’t want the U.S. interrogating Aazim Aleem.”
“Obviously,” replied Harvath. “Whoever was responsible for having Aazim killed didn’t want him revealing either who he worked for or what the scope of his operation was.”
“There’s one thing that bothers me about all that. Whoever hijacked the unrestricted-warfare plan was running Aazim via whatever cutout the Chinese had established, ostensibly the Sheikh from Qatar. We don’t know if the Sheikh is a real person that members of the network have ever met with, or if he’s some disembodied figure who only communicates through emails or telephone calls.”
“What are you getting at?” asked Harvath.
“I don’t think Aazim was taken out to prevent him from revealing who gave him his marching orders. He couldn’t give away intelligence he didn’t actually possess.”
“So then he was targeted to prevent revealing the scope of his operation.”
“That’s what bothers me,” said Nicholas. “You and Chase were sitting at an outdoor café within sight of your car when it exploded. You said the RPG came from a rooftop a block or two away?”
Harvath nodded.
“Why silence Aazim? Why not simply aim the RPG a couple of degrees in the other direction and take out you and Chase at the café? In the ensuing chaos, Aazim could have been released from the trunk and then spirited away, disappearing yet again.”
Both Harvath and the Old Man looked at Nicholas. He had made an excellent point. “Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “I’m sure whoever was running Aazim didn’t want him interrogated. But it would have made more sense to kill you. The fact that he’s dead means that he either made someone very angry or had outlived his usefulness.”
“Or both,” said Carlton.
“Or both,” agreed Nicholas. “But with Aazim gone, there’s definitely tension and uncertainty within the network. I think that’s why this Karami character wanted Mansoor brought to Sweden. Maybe he doesn’t trust the Sheikh from Qatar. Maybe he wanted to pump Mansoor for as much information as possible. If that’s true, then maybe we can find a way to exploit the upheaval and use it to our advantage.”
“That’s a good idea,” replied Harvath as he said good-bye to both of the dogs. “But we’re going to need a hell of a lot more intelligence before we can even think of launching an operation like that.”
Carlton stood up, placed his hand atop Harvath’s shoulder, and guided him toward the door. “Go home and get some rest,” he repeated. “I’ll call you if anything breaks.”
Harvath did as he was told. Retrieving his personal vehicle from the garage, he headed south on I-495 toward home. By the time he hit US-1, all he could think about was a hot shower and falling into bed.
He let the water pound on his body for a good five minutes before turning it off and reaching for a towel. He was too tired to shave.
After cracking the bedroom window, he lay down and closed his eyes. Sleep should have come quickly, but it didn’t. Instead, his mind took over and replayed everything that had happened in Sweden, over and over again.
He couldn’t escape his feelings of responsibility, the guilt he felt over the deaths of the assaulters. He tried to focus on something else, something positive. He thought about Riley Turner and what she might be doing at the moment.
It worked for a while, but then he was back on the mental rack, his mind torturing him with what-ifs and second-guessing over what had happened. He thought about pouring himself a stiff drink and numbing it all away, but chose instead to lie there and take it.
Finally, two hours later, he drifted off into a fitful sleep. In it, he was haunted by visions of a larger, more gruesome attack he felt sure was about to hit the United States.
CHAPTER 37
LONDON
SATURDAY MORNING
Robert Ashford possessed one of the key character flaws necessary to a traitor. He thought he was smarter than everyone else. This allowed the overeducated career bureaucrat to sell out his own country, because he believed he knew what was best for his nation and its people.
Of course, he was being well-paid for his treason, but he rationalized the money away by telling himself that it wasn’t about money. This was about right and wrong, and if only England and the rest of the West had stood up and done the right thing, none of what he was doing would have been necessary.
It was this deep-seated belief and growing disenchantment with the direction of the world that had drawn him to James Standing.
Ashford had read all of the billionaire’s books. Never had one person been able to put what he was feeling so succinctly into words. Standing was the high priest of a glorious new truth. A majestic ship was about to sail and there would be only so many seats on board. Ashford had no desire to be left behind. In fact, he thought he could be very helpful in bringing about the new dawn that James Standing was going to usher in.
The two had been introduced at a cocktail party given by a mutual acquaintance, an influential member of Parliament. Standing was impressed not only with Ashford’s thorough reading of his books, but also with his dedication to his vision of a new world. Slowly, the men’s relationship built.
Ashford was a confirmed bachelor and the billionaire had originally thought him gay until he realized the MI5 man was simply a careerist. Entanglements, familial and otherwise, were seen as something that could only slow him down. Without wife, children, or girlfriend, Ashford could work any and all hours without fear of recrimination. With both military and intelligence training, he was the perfect man for the job Standing was creating.
When the billionaire had assured himself that Ashford’s loyalty could indeed be purchased and assured, he parted the curtains and drew the man inside. Now, Ashford was trapped. Standing had him and he could never go back.
And despite most of his colleagues’ having already retired, Ashford was still in the game. It was all that mattered to him, and he was damn good at it. At least he had been. All of a sudden, though, too many things were not working the way they should.
While he still had no idea what had happened to the sanction of the Hollywood producer, the source of the rest of his operational headaches was easy to pinpoint—Arabs.
Ashford was an unrepentant bigot of the highest order. He didn’t just dislike, he actually detested working with Muslims. In his opinion, Muslims—Arab Muslims in particular—were some of the laziest and most uncreative people he had ever come across. Their zealotry bred myopia and an ina
bility to think for themselves. In his experience, the only thing they were good for was blowing themselves up. He had yet to meet enough clever members of the faith to believe that those possessed of even average intelligence were anything more than an aberration.
He was putting the finishing touches on elevating the next commander in the Aleem network, when Mustafa Karami finally made contact.
He found the email in the draft folder of the account he was about to delete. He quickly copied it into a translation program, and when the Arabic had been translated to English, he read the man’s brief account of what had transpired in Uppsala.
Both the safe house and the apartment used for their ops center across the street had been compromised. According to Karami, a team of men posing as professional movers had been behind the attack. The ops center had been detonated, but two men survived. They were both dressed as Swedish Security Service agents.
Karami reported that both he and Sabah had been able to escape to the emergency retreat location, but that he had no idea what had become of the rest of the cell members. At this point, he was standing by, awaiting further instruction.
Ashford took several minutes to compose his reply. He front-loaded the email with what he referred to as “Muslim Mumbo Jumbo”—the blessings of Allah and all of that antiquated nonsense that he felt was a complete and utter waste of time, but was important to maintain the charade of his being the number two to the man who financed the entire network, the mysterious Sheikh from Qatar.
The Chinese had established the fictitious Sheikh as the network’s financial benefactor and ultimate authority, who allegedly took his orders directly from the al Qaeda leadership. The mistake the Chinese had made, though, was that they had not perpetrated the myth of the Sheikh much past Aazim Aleem, the operational director of the network. When Ashford had been forced to kill Aazim before he could be interrogated, there was reluctance on the part of Mustafa Karami to take over.
