Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  “Well, what I need right now is more time.”

  “How much more?” asked the Old Man.

  “I’ll know better once I have a location for Tsui. In the meantime, tell DOD that we’re making progress.”

  “Body bags aren’t progress, Scot.”

  “I promise you,” said Harvath. “I’m going to find who did this and I’m going to make sure they never do it again.”

  “I agree with you. But first, give me something I can give DOD. If you can prove the Troll had nothing to do with this then bring me Tsui—alive. Do that and then we’ll be able to take the next step.”

  It was Sunday and the sun was just beginning to rise when Harvath’s phone rang. “I’ve got a location,” said the computer-modulated voice on the other end.

  “Where?”

  “Geneva.”

  “That’s terrific. How’d you find him?” asked Harvath.

  “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when I pick you up. Be at the General Aviation terminal at the Marseille airport in two hours.”

  “What about customs in Switzerland?”

  “Already taken care of,” replied Nicholas.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  The white Learjet 45 touched down in Marseille and taxied to a revetment area near the General Aviation building. An attractive aviation services hostess walked Harvath to the plane. He was met at a set of air-stairs by the copilot, who offered to take his bag. Harvath politely declined and stepped aboard.

  Argos and Draco were the first to say hello. The dogs weren’t the only company Nicholas had brought with him. Surprisingly, Padre Peio had come along as well. He was dressed in a pair of tan trousers and a blue button-down shirt.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, Father,” replied Harvath, dropping his pack on one of the forward seats. The Troll was lying on a leather couch toward the rear of the cabin. “You should have stayed in Spain. You’re not up for this.”

  “That’s exactly what I told him,” said Peio.

  “And yet here I am,” replied Nicholas as he reached for the intercom. “I want to get this over with.”

  Harvath looked at Peio. “You’ll forgive me, Father, but I would think that this is something you wouldn’t want to be mixed up in.”

  The priest smiled wistfully. “There is great evil in the world. I know that. Hundreds of people were killed yesterday. But I don’t believe that the answer is more killing.”

  “I wish it was that simple, Father.”

  “For God’s sake, Peio. Lighten up,” added the Troll. “You of all people should know what’s at stake here. When it comes to Muslim fundamentalists the only thing they respect is force. Imagine if Christian Europe had simply turned the other cheek at the Battle of Lepanto or the gates of Vienna. We’d be living in a much different world than we are now.”

  “But we’ve come a long way since the Battle of Lepanto.”

  “We may have come a long way, but they haven’t. To paraphrase Churchill, individual Muslims may show splendid qualities, but Islam’s fanatical frenzy is as dangerous in a man as hydrophobia is in a dog. It’s been over a hundred years since he spoke those words and yet there is still no more dangerous retrograde force in the world.

  “And before you give me that tired argument that the fundamentalists have perverted the faith, let me be perfectly clear on something. A religion must stand or fall on its own writings and holy books. The fundamentalists haven’t perverted anything. In fact, Osama bin Laden is the best practicing Muslim out there. He is practicing Islam exactly the way that violent nutcase Mohammed wanted it practiced.

  “It’s the world’s peaceful Muslims, the majority of the followers of Islam, who have perverted the faith. They have strayed. If Mohammed came back today you can bet there’d be hell to pay. He’d be lopping off heads left and right. And he’d have a lot of help too because in case you haven’t noticed, the largest killer of Muslims in the world isn’t us filthy infidels, it’s other Muslims. Fundamentalist Islam is booming, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  Peio turned to Harvath. “I’m here because I was concerned about Nicholas making this journey alone.”

  The Troll laughed as he activated the intercom and relayed instructions to the pilot. “Don’t believe him. He misses the intrigue. Don’t you, Father?”

  Harvath couldn’t help wondering if maybe that was true.

  CHAPTER 28

  Once the plane had reached its cruising altitude, Peio unbuckled his seatbelt and walked back to the galley. As he removed the trays of food that had been stocked for their flight, Nicholas explained to Harvath how he had tracked Tsui.

  “So in other words, you planted a Trojan horse in his computer system.”

  “A very expensive, extremely difficult to trace Trojan horse,” clarified the Troll. “He’s one of my key competitors, so I viewed it as an insurance policy. You can’t trust anybody these days.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” replied Harvath. “Have you put one of these on my computer?”

  Nicholas looked sheepish. “When this is over, I’ll show you how to deactivate it.”

  Peio emerged from the galley and could tell from looking at Harvath that he wasn’t happy.

  “Everything okay here?” he asked.

  “Fine,” said Harvath as the priest set the food down. “Nicholas is going to buy me a new computer when I get home. A very expensive and extremely difficult to trace computer.”

  When the Learjet landed in Geneva, it taxied to a small hangar where it was met by two Swiss customs officers in suits.

  Harvath watched through his window as the copilot deplaned and handed over their passports. The officials stamped each one, handed them back, and then disappeared.

  Once their passports had been returned, the three men deplaned and crossed the hangar to two waiting vehicles: a windowless panel van and a dark blue Range Rover. It had been decided that Peio would use the van to drive Nicholas and the dogs to the warehouse the Troll had rented, while Harvath would drive the Range Rover to the five-star Beau Rivage hotel they had traced Tsui to.

  With the airport only six kilometers away from the city, Harvath arrived at the hotel within fifteen minutes of leaving the hangar.

  It was an elegant, white stone structure in the tradition of the grand hotels of Europe. It sat on the Quai du Mont Blanc, facing the lake within sight of Geneva’s famous Jet d’Eau; a magnificent fountain which shoots an enormous plume of water over 450 feet in the air.

  Harvath valeted his car and checked into his room. He pulled out a Diet Coke and a jar of almonds from the minibar, then opened the laptop Nicholas had given him on the plane.

  According to the Troll, Tsui had used the hotel’s Wi-Fi service to plant viruses on the computers of multiple guests. Once the computers were infected, he could control them remotely, even after they had left the hotel. Without their owners being any the wiser, he used his network of zombie machines to covertly send and receive data without revealing his involvement.

  Tsui, though, had made one mistake. All of his cleverly hidden, sophisticatedly encrypted data came and went via the hotel’s Wi-Fi system. By accessing it and pushing small packets of data toward him, Nicholas believed his Trojan Horse would help them pinpoint the exact location Tsui was operating from. Or so he had hoped.

  Harvath opened the French windows that looked out across the lake, settled in at the desk, and dialed his cell phone.

  Nicholas answered on the second ring, his voice disguised as usual. “I didn’t get a chance to power the battery all the way up. This could take a while so make sure you plug the power cord in.”

  Harvath fished the cord from his pack and plugged the computer into the outlet. “Done,” he said as peered down at the Quai du Mont Blanc. “I don’t see the van. Where’s Peio?”

  “He’ll be there shortly. Now, I want you to log on to the system, open a brow
ser window, and surf over to any site you like. I’ll take it from there.”

  Harvath did as he was instructed. After entering his room number and agreeing to the charges, he plugged in the URL for the midget and dwarf wrestling federation.

  “Very funny,” said the Troll, who was remotely monitoring the laptop.

  Glancing back out the window, Harvath saw the van pull up. “Peio’s here.”

  “Good,” replied Nicholas. “Turn up the TV and leave the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob.”

  “I’ll talk to you from the van.”

  Harvath stood up from the desk and closed the windows. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he grabbed his Coke and his almonds and headed downstairs.

  Peio was finishing up a conversation with Nicholas when he climbed into the van and shut the door.

  “So where to?” asked Harvath as the priest ended the call and pulled away from the hotel.

  “Nicholas wants us to stay in the area. Once he pinpoints Tsui’s location, you’re going to have to move fast.”

  Harvath studied the man. “You do miss the lifestyle, don’t you?”

  “Maybe a little,” he admitted.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, motioning to several small grocery bags on the floor behind them. “I didn’t know how long we’d be out.”

  “I’m okay for now. Thank you.”

  A couple of blocks from the hotel a parking space opened up and Peio pulled in. He put the van in park, but left the engine running.

  Rolling down the window, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Harvath, who declined. The priest removed one from the pack, pulled out his lighter, and lit up.

  He took a deep drag and out of respect for his nonsmoking passenger, blew the smoke out the window. “I gave it up for Lent last year,” he said. “Put on twenty pounds almost overnight.”

  “Those things will kill you,” replied Harvath with a grin as he took a sip of his Coke.

  Peio smiled back. “My wife used to bother me all the time about my smoking. I quit once, for her.”

  “Didn’t take?”

  “I became so difficult to be around she begged me to take it back up again.”

  Harvath laughed.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  The priest was silent for a moment. “Assuming I am correct in what you do for a living, it must be difficult finding the right woman; someone who understands the demands of your job.”

  “To be honest, Father, I found the right woman. She knows me better than anyone else in the world. She has no problem with what I do for a living. She not only supports me, she encourages me. She’s an exceptional person in that regard.”

  “Why do I detect a but?”

  Peio didn’t miss much. Harvath imagined he’d probably been a pretty good intelligence operative. “My personal life isn’t that interesting, Father.”

  “Everyone’s personal life is interesting, Scot. Yours I find particularly interesting. Tell me why you are hesitant. Were your parents divorced?”

  Harvath laughed again. “No. In fact, just the opposite. They were made for each other. After my father died, my mother never remarried.”

  “I’m sorry,” said the priest. “Is that your concern about marriage? Are you afraid something may happen to you and that you would leave this … I’m sorry, what is this woman’s name?”

  “Tracy.”

  “Are you afraid that if something happened to you that you would leave Tracy alone?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to die, but if that happened, Tracy is an incredibly resilient woman.”

  Peio looked at him. “So this is about having children.”

  Harvath couldn’t believe it. The man had put his finger right on it. At least he had until he added, “You’re afraid that the same thing that happened to you could happen to your children. If you died, you’d be doing exactly the same thing to them that your father did to you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed about. Obviously, your father’s passing had a very profound impact on you. How old were you when he died?”

  “I was already out of high school,” said Harvath, “and if you don’t mind, Father, I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”

  “I understand,” said Peio as he took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled out the window.

  Harvath doubted it, but he let it go and the two men sat in silence for several minutes.

  “May I ask you how your father died?” said the priest.

  “He was a SEAL. He died in a training accident.”

  “Nicholas told me you had been a SEAL. Is that why?”

  “I suppose that was part of it,” replied Harvath.

  “I think your father would be proud of you.”

  This was one of the biggest reasons Harvath hated conducting these types of ops with someone he didn’t know. What they were doing was akin to surveillance. It was grindingly boring to sit around and wait to be set loose on a target. The boredom got to some people faster than others and when it did, they always wanted to “chat.” And it was often about stuff that was entirely too personal.

  “With all due respect, Padre,” he said, “you don’t really know that much about me.”

  “Don’t I? I know you care for Nicholas. I know you care for Argos and Draco. I know you care for your country and I know you care for this woman, Tracy. You are a good man. Nicholas told me so and I can see it for myself. And no matter what has happened to you up to this point in your life, I want you to know that God wants you to be happy.”

  “Even if I want to kill all the Muslim fundamentalists in the world?”

  It took Peio a moment to ascertain whether Harvath was pulling his leg. “Let’s leave the fundamentalists out of this.”

  He was about to make a snappy remark that probably would have drawn the ire of the priest when his cell phone rang. It was Nicholas.

  “I’ve got him.”

  CHAPTER 29

  CHICAGO

  My wife called,” said Paul Davidson as John Vaughan slid back into the Bronco and handed a Styrofoam cup of coffee over to him.

  “Yeah?” replied the Organized Crime officer, pulling the passenger door shut. “What’d she say?”

  “She says she’s naming you in the divorce decree as well.”

  “Me? I only kept you out one night.”

  “Yeah, but today is punta Sunday.”

  “What the hell is punta Sunday?” asked Vaughan, vaguely recognizing the Spanish-sounding word.

  “Today’s the day, we, you know,” said Davidson awkwardly.

  “Are you serious? You only have sex with your wife on Sundays?”

  “And my birthday.”

  Vaughan started laughing.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” said Davidson, “but this is going to affect you too.”

  “Me?” he repeated. “How the hell could this possibly affect me?”

  “You’ll see. Trust me.”

  Vaughan rolled his eyes and peeled the lid off his coffee. Examining the logs from the dispatch computer in Nasiri’s cab, he had discovered a pattern. The Pakistani driver picked up fares in a certain part of the city at regular times of the day. As that area was nowhere near his apartment, there had to be another reason Nasiri favored it.

  On a hunch, Vaughan cross-referenced the pickups with Muslim prayer times and his hunch paid off. Nasiri was picking up fares after he had gone to pray. The only problem was that there were no official mosques within the entire eight-block radius they were looking at. The keyword, though, was official.

  With one phone call, Davidson was able to learn that there were unofficial, makeshift mosques and prayer rooms all across the city. Normally they were hiding right in plain sight. People just didn’t know what to look for, such as an abundance of taxicabs in front, papered-over windows, Arabic writing, or the word Masjid written somewhere on the facade.

  Once Vaughan and David
son found out, it took them several hours, but they finally located what they believed to be Mohammed Nasiri’s mosque.

  Unlike American places of worship, Vaughan knew that it wasn’t unusual for mosques, especially those frequented by fundamentalists, to be used to plot attacks, store weapons, and give sanctuary to terrorists.

  “Anything else happen while I was gone?” he asked.

  Davidson pretended to consult his notebook. “Muammar Gaddafi dropped bin Laden and Zawahiri off for Sunday school, Jimmy Hoffa pulled up with a stack of union ballots in Arabic, and Amelia Earhart has been circling overhead with this really cool banner that says Islam is the bomb.”

  Vaughan shook his head. “Hey, don’t take it out on me. My wife’s not happy either and I’m sure it goes double for my kids. I normally cook pancakes on Sunday.”

  “How old are they?”

  “My wife would tell you her age is none of your business, but the kids are five and seven. How about you? Do you have children?”

  “No. Just two extremely high-strung miniature Dobermans who piss the carpet if I shut the refrigerator too loud.”

  “I hate tiny dogs.”

  “Do you mind?” asked Davidson, his head pulled back. “You’re talking about my kids here.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Forget about it. I don’t like tiny dogs either. Can you picture what I look like walking those little apartment rats when the wife is under the weather?”

  Vaughan chuckled.

  “How about you?” continued Davidson. “Do you have any animals?”

  “We’ve got a lab mix.”

  “Mixed with what?”

  “Pit bull.”

  “Now that’s a man’s dog.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Vaughan tells me,” he said as he opened up a bag and offered Davidson a doughnut. “Sorry. They didn’t have any turkey or tofu sausage.”

  “I’ll let my wife know to add you to the wrongful death suit as well,” he said, reaching into the bag. “Which one has the Crestor sprinkles?”