by Brad Thor
“What’s the Carlton Group’s role in this supposed to be?” Harvath asked.
She thought for a second about how best to frame her response. “If the CIA needs a total gut rehab, the Carlton Group is the home we’re going to live in while it’s being done.”
The Old Man had always believed, and Harvath had agreed, that the CIA needed to be burned to the ground and rebuilt in the model of its predecessor, the nimbler Office of Strategic Services. With all of the bureaucratic calcification in Washington, though, he had doubted whether he’d ever live to see it happen.
He knew that anyone who tried to carry out such a mission was going to get overwhelming pushback— or worse. “You’re going to tick off a lot of people.”
“That’s why it’s being kept quiet,” she replied, “along with Reed’s diagnosis. I’m telling you because I think you should know.”
Harvath appreciated her being straight with him. Reed Carlton had been more than just a mentor. He’d been like a father. “What can I do?” he asked. “Does he need anything? Do you need anything?”
The list was miles long. The task she had taken on Herculean. There was one item, though, right at the top. “The Carlton Group needs its own Special Operations Group.”
Harvath wasn’t surprised. Covert operations were a vital part of national security. One of the most counterproductive things the CIA had ever done was put its operatives in embassies around the world. Too many of them began to think like State Department employees. They brought their families along on each two-year rotation, focusing on the next promotion, while the Ambassador, not the Chief of Station, had final say over what ops they could and couldn’t conduct. It was poisonous.
In an environment controlled by the State Department, diplomacy came first. Espionage, depending upon the steel of a given Ambassador, came a distant second.
The stories of good men and women in the clandestine service missing out on big intelligence wins because of State Department fears were legion. Trolling diplomatic cocktail parties, running low-risk recruiting operations, and waiting for foreign walk-ins all had their place, but so too did complicated, high-risk operations that offered potential windfalls. As long as Foggy Bottom was calling the shots, Langley was operating with one arm tied behind its back.
If the Carlton Group was going to be a leaner, meaner version of the CIA, it would need its own Special Operations Group.
Based on the amount of work the Agency had been feeding him, Harvath wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him, though, was that Ryan was raising the issue with him.
“Why are we talking about this?” he asked. “The Old Man isn’t hoping I’ll lead one of the teams, is he?”
Ryan shook her head. “No. He’s hoping you’ll lead the entire thing.”
Harvath couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re both losing your minds.”
She put up her hands. “Now’s not the time. Right now, you need to focus on what Mustapha Marzouk was up to. We’ll talk about everything else when you get back.”
• • •
They worked for several more hours, refining Harvath’s plan and making several final preparations.
When he stood up to leave, McGee and Ryan accompanied him outside. It had been a long day. He needed a drink and some time to process.
More important, he wanted to pay a visit to the Old Man. Ryan, though, cautioned against it. “See him when you get back. He’ll still be here. Don’t worry.”
She was right, but he did worry. There were few things he could think of worse than having your entire mind taken from you. It was heartbreaking. Part of him felt like he should apologize for letting the Old Man down—as if doing so might help reverse his Alzheimer’s. It was stupid and he knew it, but that didn’t stop him from feeling it.
Another part of him just wanted Carlton to know he wasn’t alone. He was one of the best men Harvath had ever known. He deserved better.
Ryan seemed to be able to read his thoughts. Instead of a handshake, she put her arms around him and gave him a hug. McGee shook his hand and wished him good luck.
As they turned back to the lockhouse, Harvath’s mind turned to what lay in front of him.
Had he been paying better attention, he might have sensed the figure hidden in the woods. Two hundred yards away, a man was snapping photos of him with a long-lensed digital camera.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
* * *
SUNDAY
SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA, SPAIN
The Catholic pilgrimage trail known as the Camino de Santiago was a vast network of routes across Europe. They culminated at Santiago’s massive Romanesque cathedral, where the remains of Saint James the Elder—one of the twelve apostles, and patron saint of Spain—were buried.
Tursunov could have picked any religious building, but this one was special. From his position on the Praza do Obradoiro, he noted the masses of tourists. The body count would be exceptional.
But it wasn’t just the cathedral’s popularity that had appealed to him.
While researching his Burning Man attack, he had come across something remarkable. Black Rock City was laid out in such a way that its central axis pointed directly to the Cathedral in Santiago. He knew this wasn’t an accident.
His mother, a follower of the mystical strain of Sufi Islam, had always encouraged him to see the hand of the Divine in all things, everywhere. It was as if Allah himself was directing him.
James was also known as Santiago Matamoros, or St. James the “Moor-slayer.”
By the time King Alfonso the Second of Asturias died, the Moors already controlled most of the Iberian peninsula. A popular myth held that in return for allowing his Christian kingdom in northwest Spain to continue enjoying its autonomy, the neighboring Islamic Emirate of Córdoba demanded the reinstitution of the “Tribute of One Hundred Virgins”—an annual payment of fifty virgins of noble birth and fifty of common birth in return for the promise of Muslim forces not to invade.
Alfonso’s successor, Ramiro the First, though, refused to pay, and both sides readied for war.
According to legend, on the night before the battle, St. James appeared to Ramiro in a dream, reassuring him that he would be victorious. The next day, at the Battle of Clavijo, Ramiro invoked the name of St. James and with his men slew more than five thousand of the Moorish forces.
It was claimed that St. James, riding on a white horse, with a white banner and a long silver sword, rode among Ramiro’s men, cutting down every Muslim soldier who appeared before him. Hence, St. James became known as Matamoros, and there were paintings and statues of him performing his abhorrent deed all over the city.
The attack on the cathedral that held his bones, and more important, his name, would be an undeniable victory for the Islamic State and Muslims around the world. Tursunov had planned its timing very carefully.
More than 250,000 pilgrims visited the cathedral every year. August was considered peak season. He was pushing things by waiting until the end of the month, but it had been important to attack at Burning Man first. The Americans were reactionary. In light of a successful attack in Europe, they would have hardened targets, possibly making it too hard to strike. It had been better to catch them by surprise. Now it was time to surprise the Europeans.
Tursunov had attended the “Pilgrim’s Mass” only once, but it was enough. Like everyone around him, he had filmed the entire thing with his camera phone.
Based on his estimates, the service at the high altar catered to just over a thousand worshippers, all tightly packed into the pews.
He would have loved to collapse the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, but with its sweeping arches, barreled ceiling, and soaring columns, its structural DNA eluded him.
He didn’t have the engineering expertise of a bin Laden. His experience came from his service in the Tajik Army, followed by a career in the Special Operations Unit of the National Police Force. Neither had called for taking down churches. He was much mor
e conversant in things like artillery and blowing doors off hinges. Even so, he had tried to improve his knowledge.
Using the Christian churches and heavily columned archeological sites of ISIS-held territory, he had conducted experiment after experiment.
And while the structural DNA of the sites continued to elude him, something more dramatic was revealed. With each test, they learned how to build better bombs. In particular, their martyrdom vests took a huge leap forward.
As the technology improved, so did their understanding of how best to maximize the effects. Whether indoors or out, they developed a whole new approach that would accelerate the lethality of their attacks.
With these advancements, he had pushed for a new way of structuring personnel. There was no need to create one operational cell. He wanted multiple small cells, with each believing it was acting alone.
If one was captured, the operation would still be able to continue. In fact, authorities might even drop their guard, believing that they had successfully interrupted the entirety of the plot.
It meant more work, more cutouts and double-blind intermediaries, but Tursunov’s ability to strategize on a higher plane was what had earned him his position as the senior ISIS commander for Europe. His brothers in America would have been smart to follow his lead.
Opening a new package of Dunhill cigarettes, he placed one between his lips and lit it. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and tried to picture how everything would unravel inside.
The highlight of the Pilgrim’s Mass was the flight of a massive brass incense burner. Suspended high above the main altar, the cathedral’s Botafumerio was controlled by a series of ropes, the pulling of which caused it to soar to amazing heights as it released its sweet-smelling smoke.
Tursunov imagined the quiet titter of excitement as the red-robed Tiraboleiros—the men charged with lofting the frankincense-packed censer—walked past the faithful and made their way toward the altar.
Once there, the lead Tiraboleiro would light the Botafumerio and it would begin to release its heavy aroma.
Once the other Tiraboleiros were ready, the chief would give a signal and they’d pull on the ropes in unison, dramatically launching it heavenward.
As it swung back and forth in a hypnotic, pendulous motion that seemed poised to touch the walls of the cathedral itself, its intoxicating smoke would fill the air. So effortlessly would it swing, and so wonderful was its heady perfume, that the entire spectacle would seem to provide a way to commune with the Divine. As the organ played, a nun would sing.
Exhaling, Tursunov opened his eyes and glanced at his watch. They were seconds away.
Inside, the organ would be building to a thunderous crescendo as the lead Tiraboleiro reached out to capture the swinging Botafumerio. Tursunov counted down from ten as he took another drag from his cigarette.
Looking up, he fixed his eyes on the glazed windows adorning the structure’s western facade.
Three seconds later, the entire city shook as a series of explosions rocked the cathedral—sending shards of stained glass, chunks of flaming stone, and pieces of bone, blood, and human flesh in all directions.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
* * *
AL JMAIL, LIBYA
MONDAY
When news of the attack on the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela broke, the CIA had accelerated Harvath’s timetable.
More than four hundred people had been killed, ninety-two of them American. Four hundred more people were wounded, including more than one hundred Americans. The numbers were still climbing.
Though the Spanish had only begun to gather intelligence, McGee and everyone back at Langley were already convinced. Santiago de Compostela was the kickoff of the series of attacks they had been worried about.
And if that attack was just the beginning, things were going to get much, much worse. They needed to get ahead of this fast, or many more people were going to die.
“In case nobody’s on record yet,” Matt Morrison stated from the front passenger seat, “this is a really bad fucking idea.”
The five-foot-eleven, thirty-one-year-old former Force Reconnaissance Marine from Cullman, Alabama, kept his head on a swivel as he peered through the tinted windows.
Next to him, driving, was his fellow Force Recon Marine, Mike Haney. The forty-year-old Marin, California, native stood six feet tall.
In back of the white Toyota HiAce panel van, Harvath—a Southern California native—leaned against his plate carrier and manipulated the feed from the 360-degree camera mounted to the roof. Across from him, five-foot-ten, thirty-nine-year-old Tyler Staelin, the Delta operative from downstate Illinois, read a Brad Meltzer paperback.
Trailing a block back in a blue Land Cruiser were Navy SEAL Tim Barton and 5th SFG Green Beret Jack Gage.
They were all wearing civilian clothes with baseball caps, sunglasses, and keffiyehs. Even though they were all tanned, they didn’t really blend in. The point, though, was to minimize how much they stood out.
Harvath hadn’t intended to drag his Burning Man team along with him, but McGee had insisted.
Libya was one of the most dangerous places in the world. It had gone from the wealthiest country in Africa, with the highest life expectancy on the continent, to a failed state.
These days, instead of rule by a ruthless dictator, local militias with shifting allegiances held sway. Your best friend in the morning could be your worst enemy by the afternoon. That made it difficult to conduct business and practically impossible to gather intelligence.
The key to success was to stuff your pockets with carrots and carry the biggest stick anyone had ever seen. Fortunately, McGee was able to provide Harvath with access to both.
As a new government of “national accord” was struggling to unite Libya from its capital in Tripoli, the CIA and U.S. military had been providing cover and breathing room by helping to hunt and kill Islamic militants. The last thing they wanted was for Libya to become another Caliphate or pre-9/11 Afghanistan.
In its multimillion-dollar game of whack-a-martyr, the CIA paid for actionable intelligence, which the United States Africa Command then used to carry out drone strikes. There was enough to keep everyone busy.
But with so much at stake, no one—especially Libya’s fledgling government—had time to deal with the smugglers. Paying off their local militias, they ran their businesses with virtual impunity.
For one smuggler, though, that was about to change.
Harvath had made it his mission to understand how they operated. What he learned made him want to kill all of them.
The smugglers employed two types of vessels: decommissioned, no-longer-seaworthy fishing trawlers and inflatable rubber boats. A decent-sized trawler could cram anywhere from 300 to 600, sometimes even 1,000 migrants looking to be smuggled to Italy. The rubber boats could only take 100 without sinking, but even so, they always tried to squeeze more on board.
Migrants came from all over Africa and the Middle East. From places like Niger, Mali, Sudan, and Syria. They handed over their life savings in hopes of making it to Europe and starting over in a better place.
None of the vessels they were loaded into had lights, flare guns, or safety equipment. Bottles of water and cans of tuna, if offered at all, were sold by the smugglers for a hundred dollars apiece. Rarely was enough fuel provided to make the trip—just enough to sail beyond Libyan territorial waters.
Of course the smugglers didn’t do any of the actual transporting themselves. Instead, they selected one or two passengers—often at gunpoint—handed them a satellite phone and a compass, and then sent them out into the open ocean.
In case of emergency, which was “smuggler speak” for when your boat runs out of fuel or falls apart and begins to take on water, the satellite phone had been preprogrammed with the emergency phone number for the Italian Coast Guard.
Even though the Europeans were operating a massive interdiction operation in the Mediterranean, they didn’t
have enough assets to be everywhere. Under good weather, the smugglers were launching ten to fifteen boats a day, up and down the Libyan coast. Under bad weather, they still launched, though fewer boats.
Passengers along the route died from drowning, hypothermia, disease, starvation, shark attack, rape, beatings, and even murder.
Harvath had read harrowing accounts of people being reduced to eating toothpaste and drinking urine to stay alive, of women thrown overboard because observant Muslim men suspected them of menstruating and therefore being “unclean,” of people being packed so tightly in sweltering holds belowdecks that they all suffocated. The inhumanity of the smugglers, and even some of the passengers themselves, was on par with barbarity he had only seen in war.
And at the very top—the worst of the worst—was the man he had come looking for, Libyan smuggler Umar Ali Halim.
Plenty of Halim’s customers never even saw the water, much less a boat. He was notorious for splitting up families, selling women and children into the sex trade, or forcing them into his own private harem.
Anyone who resisted—be they husbands, mothers, fathers, it made no difference—was dealt with on the spot. They were savagely beaten, sometimes even to death, as a warning to the others.
Gang rape, lashings, being folded in his “flying carpet”—a board with metal hinges in the middle meant to shatter the victim’s spine—and other methods of torture, spoke to Halim’s depravity.
In his line of work, Harvath saw killing men like Halim as a public service. It needed to be done and required a willingness that not everyone possessed.
He knew that there were people who objected even to the thought of what he did for a living. Every once in a while, he wished he could get them an up-close view of animals like Halim. Maybe then they’d better understand not only what he did, but also why it was necessary.
Harvath had voiced that desire to a handful of people, one of them being Reed Carlton. He still remembered the Old Man’s response, “Everyone else wants to be appreciated. Not you. You’re not looking for thanks. You want to be understood. That’s what makes you different.”
