Brad Thor Collectors' Edition #3

by Brad Thor

  Harvath dug the forceps in again. “It’s too late, Khalil,” he shouted so he could be heard above the man’s screaming. “I warned you what would happen if even one of those bombs went off.”

  The man was crying and begged Harvath to stop. “I will do anything. Anything. Please.”

  De Roon looked at Harvath and he backed off. “I want to know who you’re working for.”

  “I don’t know,” he stammered and Harvath shoved the forceps back in.

  Al-Yaqoubi’s body went rigid and he arched his back so high it looked like his spine was about to snap. Tears were rolling down his face.

  “Stop lying to me, Khalil.”

  The man was hyperventilating. Harvath drew back the forceps and waited for him to catch his breath. “Last chance, Khalil. Who are you working for?”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I do not know.”

  Harvath moved the forceps closer.

  “Al-Qaeda!” the man yelled. “Al-Qaeda. We swore our oath to Sheik Osama.”

  “You only say that because that’s what you think I want to hear,” said Harvath as he studied the man’s face to discern whether or not he was telling the truth.

  “It’s true. I swear to you.”

  “Tell me about site 243.”

  “What?” replied al-Yaqoubi.

  “Site 243.”

  “I don’t know what that is. I have never heard of it.”

  “What about the Chinese?”

  “I don’t know any Chinese.”

  Harvath sensed he was telling the truth. Whoever had put this network together, especially if it was the Chinese, would have used third-party nationals from top to bottom. Al-Yaqoubi probably believed he really was working for al-Qaeda. The idea that his network had been assembled by China only to be hijacked by someone else would have been utterly incomprehensible to him.

  Harvath switched his line of questioning. “Where did you train?”

  “Yemen and Pakistan.”

  “Who do you report to? Who gives you your orders?”

  “I don’t know his real name.”

  Harvath noticed a slight change in the man’s expression and rammed the forceps back into his foot. Once again, al-Yaqoubi’s body rose off the bed and writhed as he tried to escape the pain.

  “Aleem,” he yelled, “Aazim Aleem.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” said Harvath as he twisted the tool inside the man’s foot like a fork into a plate of spaghetti.

  Al-Yaqoubi howled and had trouble catching his breath. “He, he, he preaches on the Internet and on CDs and cassette tapes. They call him the Mufti …” his voice trailed off.

  “The what?” Harvath demanded.

  “The Mufti of Jihad.”

  That was a name Harvath had heard of. The man was a rock star to jihadists around the world. He kept a very low profile and as far as Harvath knew, no one had ever been able to identify him.

  Harvath disengaged the forceps and slid them out of the man’s foot. “The Mufti of Jihad is a ghost,” he said. “No one knows who he is. Why would he make his identity known to you?”

  It took a moment for al-Yaqoubi to respond. “Because he and I were in the camps together. He was my instructor. He recruited me.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  The accountant strained at the wrists and remembered that he was tied down. He was breathing heavily. “Hands. He has no hands. Only hooks.”

  “Why?”

  “Jihad, Afghanistan.”

  The man was slipping away again.

  “Focus, Khalil,” Harvath ordered. “Where is he from?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Saudi Arabia? Egypt? What languages does he speak?”

  “Arabic and …” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “And what?”

  When he didn’t answer, Harvath slapped him. “What other language does he speak?”

  “English. Very good English. Like an Englishman.”

  “Does he live in England? Is that where he’s based? Who else is involved?” Harvath demanded. “Tell me about America. Who is in charge of the attacks in America?”

  The accountant didn’t answer, and Harvath knew he was on the verge of blacking out again. He grabbed a package of smelling salts and looked at de Roon.

  The intelligence officer nodded. He had no intention of getting in Harvath’s way this time.

  Harvath opened the salts and waved them under the terrorist’s nose.

  Al-Yaqoubi began coughing and his eyes started to normalize as he shook his head back and forth. Harvath tossed the salts aside and asked his question again. “Who is in charge of the American attacks?”

  “There is an Iraqi,” sputtered al-Yaqoubi. “He is in charge of American operations.”

  “What’s his name? How do I find him?”

  “I don’t know his name. Aleem was the only one I knew by name. The rest of us used code names.”

  Harvath doubted Aleem was his real name. He would have used a pseudonym as well.

  “The man in America,” said Harvath as he raised the forceps again and hovered over the accountant’s foot, “what’s his code name?”

  “Yusuf. We called him Yusuf.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “He is a businessman of some sort.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Harvath debated shoving the forceps back inside the man’s foot, but held back. “You said he was an Iraqi. How long has he been in the United States?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I am losing my patience, Khalil. You don’t seem to know much at all. Where in Iraq is the man from?”

  “Fallujah. He comes from a large family there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Iraqis like to brag about their families. He had a cousin who was the local commander of the National Guard. He talked about him a lot. He said that was how he was introduced to al-Qaeda.”

  Harvath lowered the forceps. “What was his cousin’s name?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Try harder!” Harvath shouted. “Your family’s life depends on it.”

  Al-Yaqoubi’s pulse was pounding as he searched his brain for the name. “Hadi? Halef? I can’t remember.”

  Harvath looked at de Roon. “Call Rabat. Tell the DST that Khalil has been uncooperative and that they should begin.”

  “Hakim!” the accountant yelled, the name rushing back to him. “His cousin’s name was Omar-Hakim.”

  Omar-Hakim was the Iraqi National Guard commander Harvath had forced into helping him take down the al-Qaeda safe house outside Fallujah; the same safe house where the child hostages had been kept. Stunned, Harvath dropped the surgical instrument he was holding and ran from the infirmary.

  Bursting through one of the exterior bulkheads, he began dialing the number for his contact in Fallujah before he even had a full-strength signal.

  The call failed. Harvath cursed and dialed again. A few moments later, Mike Dent answered his phone.

  “Mike, it’s Scot,” said Harvath. “Is Omar-Hakim still alive?”

  “No,” replied the man from Fallujah. “He was tortured to death a couple of days after you dropped him off. Are you having an attack of conscience or something?”

  The Iraqi had gotten what he deserved. In fact, he probably deserved much worse, but that didn’t matter now. “Do you know any of his family members in Fallujah?”

  “I don’t know any of them, but everyone knows of them. Why?”

  “He has a cousin. A businessman in America. I need you to find out everything you can about him.”

  “How soon do you need it?” asked Dent.

  “I need it immediately and I don’t care what you have to do to get it. Do you understand?”

  “Can I use local talent?”

  “Use whoever you have to and agree to pay them whatever they want,” said Harvath, “but you get me that information
and you get it for me ASAP.”

  CHAPTER 63

  CHICAGO

  I have already made provisions for weapons and ammunition,” said Marwan. “Your trip is not necessary. Focus on the remaining elements which need to be accomplished.”

  Rashid tried to explain. “When we left the hotel, did you notice the two cops standing there?”

  “Yes, I saw them, but I don’t—”

  “How about their vests?”

  “Level-two soft body armor,” said the man. “Level three if they have upgraded from what they were given at the police academy.”

  “That’s the armor. What about the carriers they use?”

  “Carriers don’t provide ballistic protection, Shahab.”

  “No, they don’t,” replied Rashid, “but a lot of cops now have trauma plates in addition to their armor.”

  Marwan Jarrah waved his hand dismissively as he liked to do when he felt a point was beneath his discussion. “That’s why our men have rifles. It will be like shooting through tissue paper. It won’t be a problem.”

  “But suppose it is? Suppose some young cop doesn’t mind the weight of hard plates.”

  The older man laughed. “Everyone minds the weight. You know this. You were a soldier. No one wears hard armor unless they expect an attack. This is going to be a surprise; something they will not see coming.”

  “Maybe, Marwan. Maybe. In fact, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say nobody expects this attack. But just for fun, let’s also say that the two cops we saw at the Marriott aren’t standing outside when our men arrive, but they show up one minute after.”

  Jarrah exhaled. “And?”

  “How’d they get there?”

  “This is foolish. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “It’s not foolish,” insisted Rashid. “Those cops came in a patrol car. Patrol officers are now being issued patrol rifles. So, firepower-wise they are equal to your men. And if they’re smart, which many of them are, especially the younger, more aggressive cops, they are also going to have hard armor. It’ll take them two seconds to get it out of the trunk and throw it on.

  “Our men could have plowed through half the lobby, but they won’t get to the other half, much less their next hotel. And what if it’s not patrol officers, but one of the city’s roving tactical teams that arrives?”

  The man was silent as he pieced together what his protégé was saying.

  “It will take me less than five hours to go and come back.”

  “Why Wisconsin?”

  “Because Illinois requires a firearms identification card to buy reloading supplies and Wisconsin doesn’t.”

  “It seems like a great risk to me this close to the attack.”

  Rashid looked at him. “I’m going to break up the purchases at three different locations. I’ll get the reloading machine at one, powder and primers at another, and the rounds and jackets at the third.”

  “What about video cameras?”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “What if you get stopped?”

  “I’m not going to get stopped, Marwan. But even if I do, my driver’s license has my Christian name on it.”

  “I want Fadim and Uday to go with you.”

  “That’s a great idea. I think we should all wear turbans and Islam is a dynamite religion T-shirts. How about that?”

  “I’m in no mood for disrespect,” Marwan snapped.

  “Those two get enough looks here in Chicago. If I take them with me to Wisconsin we’re going to raise a lot of eyebrows, or a lot of unibrows in Fadim and Uday’s case.”

  “This is why people in our organization are uncomfortable with you.”

  Rashid raised his hands, palms up. “Because of my sense of humor?”

  “No. It is your belief that you know better than everyone else.”

  “I do when everyone else is not using their heads. C’mon, Marwan. The first thing people think of when they see Fadim and Uday is terrorist. You can’t walk them into a store that sells guns and not expect to create a stir. I thought the idea was not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “That is the plan,” replied Jarrah. “I am sending them along for your protection. They will ride in a separate vehicle and keep an eye on you. You will not go armed and I do not want you using your cell phone. Is that understood? You go buy the items you need and you return immediately.”

  “You don’t want me using my cell phone now?”

  “Sheik Aleem is concerned that the network may have been penetrated.”

  “Because of what happened in London?”

  “Because of London and Amsterdam.”

  “Amsterdam?” said Rashid. “That’s the site of the final European attack?”

  The man nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “There were six bombers. Only one successfully detonated. Sheik Aleem is correct to be concerned that the network may have been compromised.”

  “Then all the more reason to put our plans on hold.”

  “No,” replied the man. “It is more important than ever that we succeed. That’s why I agree with you about the ammunition and why I am letting you go get the things we need.”

  “But without my cell phone and with Fadim and Uday keeping me company.”

  “For once, Shahab, would you do something without arguing with me? That’s all I ask.”

  Rashid bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Marwan. We’ll do it your way.”

  “Good. Thank you. Now we need to talk about the police officers we are holding. They’re a liability and need to be dealt with.”

  “I agree.”

  Jarrah was taken aback. “You do?”

  “Yes. No good can come from holding on to them.”

  “So then they should be disposed of.”

  “Yes.”

  The man smiled. “This is very good, Shahab. I’m pleased that for once you see things my way. I’ll let you, then, decide how to handle it.”

  “I already know how I want to handle it,” said Rashid.

  “How?”

  “They are going to be martyrs for our cause, and they will take many of their fellow officers with them.”

  CHAPTER 64

  WEDNESDAY

  It took Mike Dent about three hours to get Harvath the information he needed. Within forty-five minutes of Dent’s call, he and the remaining Athena Team members were on a Citation X to Chicago.

  It was a tough decision to leave their teammate behind in the hospital, but they knew Rodriguez would have wanted them to finish the job.

  From that point forward, the Dutch took over the interrogation of al-Yaqoubi, though Harvath doubted they’d get much more out of him.

  Meanwhile, Carlton’s people were still working on Adda Sterk. She was producing only small amounts of intel, much of it not very useful. The same could be said of the controller for the London cell who had been broken by Ashford’s team. Whoever had assembled this network had done a very good job. Everything was compartmentalized and cutouts had been used all along the way. It was only when you got closer to the top, as they had with al-Yaqoubi, that the payouts began to get bigger.

  The last piece of information Harvath had harvested from the accountant had been the most terrifying. Whatever “Yusuf” had planned for America, it was set to begin in the next forty-eight hours.

  Per Mike Dent, Yusuf was actually a furniture importer in Chicago named Marwan Jarrah. He had fled Iraq during the 1980s and eventually became a U.S. citizen. He was an influential member of the American branch of the Islamic Relief Foundation, or IRF, a Saudi Arabia–based charity and member of the Conference of NGOs. The IRF had conducted multiple projects with the World Health Organization, the United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund, the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, and the World Food Program. Prominence in this organization had provided Jarrah cover to travel anywhere he wanted. It was no coincidence that the greatest hotbeds of terrorism and radical Islam were
in the same parts of the Muslim world so keenly focused upon by the IRF.

  In order to prevent Jarrah’s relatives from tipping him off, Dent had arranged for the ones he had questioned to be detained until Harvath okayed their release. For the first time since this operation had begun, Harvath felt that he had been able to take more than just one step forward before getting knocked on his ass.

  He had to block the scenes from Amsterdam from his mind or he wouldn’t be able to focus on what still needed to be done. Along with the pit of children from Fallujah and the little Iraqi boy who had died in his arms, he tucked them all into the iron box he kept for the unpleasantness of his job and shoved it back into the deepest recesses of his mind.

  He tried to think of something positive, something he could look forward to, and was surprised when Riley’s image bubbled up in his mind. It made him feel disloyal to Tracy, and Tracy brought him back to the issue of having children; the exact thing he’d been sitting on his dock thinking about when all of this had begun.

  As quickly as thoughts of Tracy and the hard decision he needed to make about his relationship with her came to mind, they were pushed aside by the work he had yet to do.

  There had been some debate as to how the team should proceed once it landed in Chicago. They had no arrest or law enforcement powers. Acts of terror plotted and committed on American soil were treated as criminal acts, which Harvath had always thought a big mistake. By not treating them as acts of war, the United States government was only inviting escalation, greater bloodshed, and exponentially greater loss of life. The jihadists were at war with America, yet American politicians refused to go to war with them. They saw them as petty criminals to be tried and given all the benefits of the American legal system. The Department of Defense, though, saw it a different way.

  The entire idea behind the Carlton Group was to protect America and her citizens, period. That was where things were now very sticky. Harvath and his organization had knowledge of pending terrorist attacks on U.S. soil. They also had intelligence regarding the man they believed to be in charge of those attacks inside the U.S. It could very well be argued that the information should have been shared with the FBI. But that was not how Reed Carlton or the small cadre of men to whom he answered inside the Pentagon saw it.