by Brad Thor
Harvath was about to comment on it, when movement caught his eye. “Zoom in,” he instructed.
A woman, presumably the shopkeeper’s wife, had just opened a door from the house to let the two boys play. Their timing was perfect.
Harvath looked at the man and said, “This is your last chance, Fayez. Tell me where I can find Umar Ali Halim.”
The shopkeeper stared at the laptop, speechless, his eyes moist. It wasn’t the answer Harvath was looking for.
Hailing the drone team, he requested a readout of the Reaper’s weapons package.
The screen split in two and a digital rendering of the drone’s underbelly appeared next to the live feed. The Reaper was carrying a contingent of highly accurate air-to-ground Hellfire missiles and a pair of five-hundred-pound laser-guided Paveway II bombs.
“Arm Hellfire missiles,” he said.
On the weapons readout, the Hellfires were highlighted in red, followed by the word Armed.
When the shopkeeper finally broke, he spoke so softly Harvath could barely hear him.
“Riqdalin,” he whispered. “Umar Ali Halim lives near the village of Riqdalin.”
CHAPTER 20
* * *
* * *
PARIS
Tursunov chose a small hotel in the twelfth arrondissement near the Gare de Lyon. It was in the eastern part of the city, north of the Seine. There were lots of tourists and plenty of turnover. It was an easy neighborhood to disappear in.
He had begun his morning as he always did. After conducting a partial ablution, he had directed himself toward Mecca, had prayed, and then begun his exercises. The Americans and the Russians had been sticklers for physical fitness. In the quiet of his room, he had carried out thirty minutes of intense push-ups, sit-ups, chin-ups, and dips.
When his workout was complete, he had showered, dressed, and left the hotel. Near the train station was a café with an outdoor table that allowed smoking. He had taken a table and ordered un serré—a shot of the blackest coffee you could get in Paris.
Unwrapping a pack of Gauloises, he had lit his first cigarette of the day and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The nicotine relaxed him and helped him focus.
He had been taught that like his body, his mind was also a weapon. It was yet another area in which his Russian and American instructors agreed.
Both countries had taken an active interest in counterterrorism measures in Tajikistan. As an elite operator, he had been invited to travel abroad and train with their Special Forces units. He had grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
He learned as much traveling to Russia as he did traveling to the United States. He hadn’t spent much time outside Tajikistan before that. They had been eye-opening experiences.
Instead of developing a greater appreciation for and deeper commitment to his homeland, he began to loathe the Tajik government. Everything was corrupt—from the President, with his grand palace in Dushanbe designed to look like the American White House on steroids, to his own command structure within the National Police Force.
As he had exhaled a trail of smoke into the air, his eyes had tracked the people moving up and down both sides of the street. He had seen a police officer chatting with a grocer. He had wondered if it was about money.
In Tajikistan, everyone was on the take—even the cops. But while they took just a little, the politicians took a ton and lived like royalty.
Everything was based on a pecking order. You knew where you stood based on your license plates. The president had 8888. His family was just beneath him. The numbers, along with a person’s status, dropped from there.
Tajikistan was such a poor country that just to make ends meet, street cops resorted to shaking down citizens by “arresting” their cars if they didn’t have the right safety equipment onboard. Tajiks would have to bribe the officers on the spot, or face an even steeper payment when they went to retrieve their vehicles from the government impound facility. He hated Tajikistan.
The more corruption he saw, particularly from fellow Muslims, the angrier he became. It got to the point where he couldn’t even stand to attend mosque with cops or politicians.
He had searched for good, pure men of faith. He had found them in a small religious center outside the capital. It was there that his introduction to true Islam began, and his passion to wage jihad in the name of Allah was ignited.
Removing a small map of Paris from his coat pocket, he established where he was and planned his route. There were a handful of sights he had wanted to see before his afternoon meeting.
After paying for his coffee, he headed west toward Notre Dame. As expected, in the wake of the attack at Santiago de Compostela in Spain, France had beefed up security at its major churches.
Security had also been stepped up at the Louvre museum and the Pompidou Center, the Musée d’Orsay and the Eiffel Tower. The French authorities were everywhere they should be, which was exactly what Tursunov had wanted.
Moving around the city, he took great pains to make sure he wasn’t being followed. By the time he made it to the sprawling flea market north of Paris, it was late afternoon.
There was still a sea of people milling about. Their faces were a mix of white, brown, and black—European, North African, sub-Saharan. The smell of roasting meats, of shawarma and kebabs, wafted through the air from food carts out on the street.
He had committed the shop’s name and location to memory—the matchbook cover with the information long since discarded.
It was in a section, deep within the market, that was a maze of tiny alleys and passageways. The sign above the door was made from hammered copper, weathered to a chalky-green patina—L’Ancienne.
When he opened the door, an electronic bell chimed, alerting the owner to his arrival.
The small shop looked like an Arab souk had exploded inside someone’s garage. Hand-crafted pots and pans hung from beams across the ceiling. A pile of Persian carpets sat stacked shoulder high. Hookah pipes were organized in neat rows like a company of soldiers. There was clay pottery next to delicate side tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
Bolts of jewel-colored silk leaned against intricately carved wooden dressing screens. Dusty mirrors framed in polished silver hung alongside vintage Janbiya daggers from Arabia. Nearby hung ornate flintlock rifles clad with ivory from the time of the Ottoman Turks.
The store even smelled as if it came from another era—as if he hadn’t stepped through a door in Paris, but rather through the flaps of a trader’s tent somewhere along the ancient spice route.
An older man of Moroccan descent greeted him. He wore a crocheted prayer cap, thick black glasses, and walked with a limp.
Tursunov handed him a business card from a Dutch antiques dealer. On the back was written the name of a nearby boutique hotel, Maison Souquet.
“Is it true that their rooms are named after famous courtesans?” the man asked.
“Yes, but their hammam more than makes up for it,” Tursunov replied. The Maison Souquet was known not only for its private indoor pool, but for its hammam, or Turkish-style bath, as well.
Having presented the business card and responded correctly to the man’s question, Tursunov’s authentication was complete.
“As-sala-mu ‘alaykum,” the man offered. Peace be upon you.
“Wa ‘alaykum al-salaam,” Tursunov replied. And unto you peace.
The man stepped past him, locked the door, and turned the sign so that it read Fermé. Closed.
He pulled the draperies across the front windows, then stepped back and embraced his guest.
“Welcome to Paris, brother.”
Tursunov returned his embrace. “Thank you, brother.”
“I am Abdel.”
The man was nervous. Tursunov smiled. “Abdel El Fassi. Yes, I know you.”
“And you knew my brother,” he replied. “Aziz. You fought together for the Caliphate in Syria.”
“We did. Your brother was a great warrior. A lion.”
Abdel beamed with pride. “Will you take some refreshment?”
A meteor could be screaming toward the earth and the Arabs would still want to stop to take tea.
“Is everything ready?” Tursunov asked.
“Yes. The Paris operation is ready.”
That was a relief, but only partially. “What about the new chemist I need?”
The Moroccan forced a smile. “Let’s take some refreshment.”
Tursunov didn’t smile back. He didn’t want refreshment. He wanted his chemist. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Abdel shifted uncomfortably. “There is a problem.”
CHAPTER 21
* * *
* * *
Abdel brewed a pot of Moroccan tea for them. It was a staple of the Maghreb and a cornerstone of daily life for its people—at home and abroad.
It combined green tea with spearmint leaves and sugar. The host poured it with great panache from several feet above the glass.
Not only did it provide a dramatic presentation, but it also aerated the liquid and created a foamy, white head likened to the prophet Mohammed’s turban.
Because the ingredients were left to steep, the flavor of the tea changed over time.
Traditionally, a guest was offered three glasses—each more flavorful than the last. It was considered extremely impolite to accept anything less than all three.
The two men took their tea Bedouin style, on a rug in the middle of the floor. Abdel set out a plate of Moroccan cookies filled with almond paste, known as Gazelle’s Horns.
After their first glass, Tursunov got down to business. While he had been placed in charge of all European operations for ISIS, Abdel was the terror organization’s point person in France. He was highly thought of. A methodical man. A good thinker. A planner.
“You communicated that you had found me a chemist,” said Tursunov.
The man nodded.
“What’s the problem then?”
“The chemist may be under surveillance.”
“So find me another one,” the Tajik ordered.
Abdel shook his head. “There isn’t time.”
The Moroccan was right. “Why do you suspect surveillance?”
“Over the last few days, several members of his mosque have been followed.”
“Followed by whom?”
Abdel shrugged. “No one knows.”
“How were they followed?” Tursunov asked. “On foot? With vehicles?”
“Both.”
Coordinated surveillance, thought the Tajik. Not good. “Tell me about the mosque. Is it considered a problem?”
“All mosques in France are considered a problem.”
“But why would authorities be surveilling this one?”
The Moroccan removed his glasses and polished them on his sleeve before putting them back on. “French intelligence monitors all mosques.”
“Mosques, yes,” replied Tursunov. “Mosque members, no. Not unless they suspect something.”
“I think we should assume French authorities suspect something.”
This was a problem the Tajik neither wanted nor needed right now. He needed razor-sharp focus on their pending operation. Nevertheless, it raised a critical question. “Is there any connection between this mosque and the brothers you have recruited for the operation here in Paris?”
“None,” Abdel replied with a shake of his head. “One team is from Roubaix, in the north of France near the border with Belgium. The other comes from Marseille, in the south. They have no connection with Paris.”
“So the only connection is you.”
The Moroccan paused. “What are you suggesting?”
Tursunov brushed his question aside. “How did you find this chemist?”
“Brother, if you think that—”
“Answer my question.”
“I find it very insulting—” Abdel began, but the Tajik cut him off again.
Tursunov was leaving nothing to chance. He had fought alongside Abdel’s brother, but that was a lot different from having gone into battle with Abdel.
The ISIS hierarchy had selected the Moroccan to oversee operations in France. He hadn’t been Tursunov’s pick. Organizations, no matter how noble or devout, made mistakes. He, on the other hand, survived by avoiding them.
“Answer my question,” he repeated.
The Moroccan looked at him. He was disappointed by his distrust. Finally, he said, “He is my nephew.”
Tursunov had been right to question him, but it was obvious the man was insulted.
Before he could say anything, Abdel added, “You bled with his father in Syria.”
The Tajik was confused. “Aziz?”
Abdel nodded. “Yes. Your chemist is the son of a lion.”
“I don’t understand. He never spoke of a son. Only a wife and daughter in Marrakesh.”
The Moroccan poured them each another glass of tea. As he did, he recounted his brother’s story. “The boy is from an earlier marriage. It was not a good match. His wife, Safaa, was beautiful, but not a good Muslim. Aziz was devout. He was also strict and they often fought.
“Much of her family lived in France. One year, she took her son for a visit and never returned home.
“She divorced Aziz from abroad, renounced her Moroccan passport, and took full French citizenship.
“Eventually, Aziz remarried. His new wife gave birth to a daughter and soon thereafter he took up arms for the jihad.”
“Did he ever see the boy again?” Tursunov asked.
“He made only one visit to France. Its decadence repulsed him, and Safaa’s family treated him quite badly.”
The Tajik could only imagine what the experience had been like for Aziz. It was understandable that the man would keep such an embarrassing chapter of his life hidden. “How did you become connected with the boy?” he asked.
“He found me. Years ago, after he had moved to Paris and had begun his university studies, he walked into this very shop. For a long time, he had wanted to reconnect with his father’s side of the family, but his mother had forbidden it.”
“And you encouraged him, as a good and pious Muslim, to pursue jihad?”
“No,” Abel replied. “As a good and pious Muslim, he came to that decision on his own. My job was to direct him. Younes is a smart, talented young man. He better serves our cause through his mind. Picking up a rifle or strapping on a suicide vest would be an insult to Allah and the gifts He has bestowed upon him. I merely made these truths clear.”
“I see,” said Tursunov, still concerned about the surveillance of the mosque and Abdel’s connection to the chemist. “Has your nephew been involved in any previous operations?”
“None.”
“How certain are you?”
“I am positive.”
“What about his Internet searches? The videos he watches online? The message boards and the chat rooms he visits?” the Tajik asked.
“I have trained the boy myself,” the Moroccan replied. “I would trust him with my life.”
Tursunov paused and then said, “Good. Because you are about to trust him with all of our lives.”
CHAPTER 22
* * *
* * *
RIQDALIN, LIBYA
Diverting the Reaper north of Al Jmail, they found Umar Ali Halim’s compound right where the SAT phone salesman had said it would be.
Set in the barren desert outside Riqdalin, the only glimpses of vegetation came from humble, family-owned farms with neat rows of irrigated agriculture.
Locals grew modest quantities of dates, almonds, grapes, watermelons, olives, and tomatoes—but only enough to live on. There wasn’t enough arable land or fresh water for much else.
As the drone circled above, it fed back a series of images. Double doors, large enough to drive a truck through, secured the entrance. A ten-foot-high wall surrounded the rectangular compound. There was a main house, a guesthouse of some sort, what appeared to be a
barn, a handful of vehicles under a sun shade, and a smaller structure without windows.
Stacked stones framed two outdoor animal pens. A handful of men milled about carrying rifles.
From Afghanistan to Somalia, everyone on Harvath’s team had hit targets like this before. They could almost do it in their sleep.
But Harvath had a rule about walled compounds: never go over a wall you could go through and never go through a wall you could go around.
He’d seen guys get shot off walls, fall off walls, and torque knees and ankles landing hard off walls.
One this size would require a ladder, preferably two. The first to put a sniper in place to watch over the courtyard, the second to get another team member up and over, who could then open the double doors from inside.
Special operations teams often used lightweight, collapsible ladders. The problem was that Harvath’s team didn’t have one, much less two.
Even if they had, he wasn’t sure ladders were necessary. Halim was a smuggler and Harvath had yet to meet one who didn’t have at least one alternate way in and out of his compound. It was just a matter of finding it.
Two hundred meters south of the compound was a large warehouse surrounded by chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. From what the phone salesman had told him, this was where Umar Ali Halim housed his “customers” before they were sent off in leaky, unseaworthy boats for the death cruise to Europe.
Mustapha Marzouk, the graduate student in chemistry from Tunisia, whose trail the CIA had sent Harvath to track down, had stayed in that very warehouse. He was sure of it.
When the Italians had interviewed the three survivors from the doomed fishing trawler, they had spoken of being kept in a long, metal warehouse-type building. It allegedly had large roll-up doors and ventilation fans at each end and was surrounded by razor-wire fencing—just like the images captured by the Reaper.
