Use of Force

by Brad Thor

  CHAPTER 42

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  * * *

  Leaving the bedroom, he stopped in the kitchen for a second cup of coffee. Unplugging his satellite phone from its charger, he carried it upstairs, along with his coffee, out onto the balcony.

  It was at least fifteen degrees cooler at the coast than it had been inland. As he fired up the phone and waited for it to acquire a signal, he took a deep breath of the ocean air. It smelled and sounded exactly the same as it had yesterday. Despite everything that had happened, at least that hadn’t changed.

  There might have been a lesson in there somewhere for him, but at this moment he didn’t have the mental bandwidth to grapple with it.

  When the signal icon appeared on his phone, he relayed everything the smuggler had told him to Deborah Lovett, his CIA contact at the Embassy in Rome. She told him she’d get back to him as soon as she had something. After that, all he could do was wait.

  He needed sleep, but with two cups of coffee in his system and so many things weighing on his mind, he was too wired. That wasn’t like him.

  Normally, he could calm his thoughts enough to slip into an almost meditative state that allowed him to replenish his strength. Today, though, had been anything but normal. He was still keyed up, expecting a fight. Until the boats arrived, he wouldn’t be able to relax. Not even for a moment.

  He felt fully responsible for his team, including their injuries. But, considering everything that had happened, it could have been much worse.

  The bullet that hit Haney could have severed an artery or shattered his leg. It hadn’t. And while Gage would have his left arm in a sling for a while, his wound could have been a lot worse too. All things considered, they’d been pretty fortunate to all be getting out of this alive. It was a testament to both their courage and their skill. Sometimes, shit just happened.

  Unable to unwind, he put his mind toward what to do with the smuggler and the satellite phone salesman. Neither had any further intelligence value.

  He thought about killing them. Halim certainly deserved it. And in his mind, Harvath could make the argument that the phone salesman deserved it too. He certainly wasn’t going to cut them loose.

  Listening to the sound of the ocean on the beach below, he let the pieces tumble in his mind.

  As he did, an idea began to form. After making sure it was fully baked, he transmitted it back to Langley.

  It was common knowledge that the locals, as well as the fledgling Libyan government, didn’t like the human traffickers. Plenty of their boats had sunk only a few miles out to sea. When that happened, bodies washed up on Libya’s beaches.

  Harvath decided the best thing he could do was to leave their two captives right where they were—tied up in the safe house.

  Once he and the team were safely away, the Libyan government could be tipped off. They could then “perp walk” the smuggler and his accomplice on TV. Rounding up one of the most-feared smugglers in the country would make them look strong and competent.

  Freeing all the refugees locked up at his compound would further burnish their image as just and compassionate. And if they were smart, they’d vilify and undermine the power of the Libya Liberation Front by tying them to the monstrous smuggler.

  By claiming that it was government forces that had clashed with the militia overnight and this morning while attempting to capture Halim, they’d look strong and brave.

  It was a win, win, win that gave the new government everything tied up with a ribbon.

  McGee liked the plan too, and felt a high degree of confidence that the Libyan government would go for it.

  He also shared with Harvath that identifying the stolen Glocks from Camp 27 had turned out to be a big help in speeding up the earlier drone handoff.

  This made the Defense Department, which was eager to settle that score, move faster. Also, once the Tunisians were informed of the evidence connecting the Libya Liberation Front and Ansar al-Sharia, they gladly took themselves out of the loop and allowed the attack to happen.

  They were two small hash marks on a much larger balance sheet, but had just one of them been removed, there was no telling how things might have turned out.

  • • •

  When darkness fell and the High Speed Assault Craft with their knifelike hulls arrived off the coast, six SEAL Team members slipped over the sides and swam to shore.

  Harvath was on the beach, waiting for them when they arrived and led them up to the safe house.

  There, the SEALs passed out waterproof dry-bags for everyone to load up their gear, including the surveillance equipment Morrison had stripped from the van.

  The SEALs then did a quick assessment and made plans for getting everyone out.

  Harvath had his own ideas, but he kept them to himself. This was what these men were paid to do. If they wanted his opinion, they’d ask for it.

  The biggest challenge was moving Haney, but the SEAL Team had come prepared.

  HSACs, as long as they weren’t getting pounded by waves in a surf zone, could come in very close to shore. The CIA couldn’t have known when they chose the safe house, but the location had been perfect.

  Using an inflatable stretcher that looked like some kind of tactical pool toy, they were able to carry Haney out of the house and down to the beach. Once everyone was assembled, they called in the boats.

  Harvath and Staelin stayed behind with two of the SEALs to cover the rest of the team as they waded out chest-high in the water and climbed onto the boats.

  When they were aboard, Harvath and Staelin followed. The two SEALs on the beach came next.

  The newcomers were issued Mustang inflatable flotation devices and headsets, which were quickly put on and plugged in.

  Blankets were offered, but none of Harvath’s steely-eyed killers would be caught dead wrapped in a blanket. They had come into Libya like warriors and that was exactly how they were going to leave.

  With all present and accounted for, the boat crews pointed their HSACs toward open water and slammed the throttles forward.

  CHAPTER 43

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  PARIS

  It was after 9:00 p.m. when the chemist, accompanied by two other young men, also in prayer caps, exited the mosque in Aubervilliers.

  Puffing on a Gauloise, Tursunov watched from across the street. The two young men were the same he had seen Younes with that morning. Now, instead of saying good-bye and heading home, Younes was walking off with them in another direction.

  There were only two reasons Tursunov could think of for why the authorities would be following a young, unemployed Muslim chemist. One reason was terrorism. The other reason was drugs.

  It wasn’t until he saw the second cop following Younes that morning that the scales tipped for him. With his longer hair and goatee, that officer had drug detail written all over him.

  Drugs and terrorism often went hand in hand. The Taliban made the bulk of their income from opium, and the cell that carried out the Madrid train bombing had financed its attack by selling drugs.

  If Younes and his colleagues were involved with drugs, it was no wonder that the French authorities had taken an interest in them.

  The surveillance team appeared about a block from the mosque. They were different players than Tursunov had spotted that morning.

  Over the next six blocks, there were at least three different police officers who rotated in and out behind the young men as they walked. Tursunov also spotted a small Renault hatchback that had looped around the block twice, ignoring two perfectly good parking spots.

  After another block, he could see where they were headed. Younes and his colleagues entered a crowded café and disappeared inside.

  None of the surveillance team followed. The Renault hatchback double-parked several doors down. The first man from the rotation, who was now wearing a jacket and a ball cap, walked into a pharmacy and browsed near the window where he could watch the street. Tursunov decided to make his m
ove.

  Stepping into the café, he noticed that it was filled completely with men. There wasn’t a single woman to be seen.

  It was loud and smelled like urinal disinfectant. Soccer games were on all of the TVs. Many men were playing cards. Others were smoking sisha pipes.

  Approaching the comptoir, he ordered a Coke. The North African behind the bar looked at him long and hard. It was obvious his customer wasn’t from the neighborhood. He seemed to be deciding whether to serve him, or throw him out.

  Removing a large roll of cash from his pocket, Tursunov peeled off a ten, set it on the counter, and then turned his back on the barman to study the room.

  Off in a corner, Younes and his buddies had joined a group of other young North African men. Tursunov doubted any of them had just come from the mosque.

  They sported gold jewelry and expensive basketball shoes. They were street thugs, probably gang members. It would not have surprised him if they had violent criminal histories.

  He watched as the man who appeared to be the leader nodded at one of his lieutenants. The lieutenant withdrew three envelopes from inside his waistband and handed one each to Younes and his two friends. As he did, Tursunov thought he could see a pistol.

  Neither Younes nor his colleagues opened the envelopes to see what was inside. As quickly as they appeared, they disappeared into the young man’s pockets.

  Tursunov was all but certain at this point that his hypothesis regarding Younes was correct. All he needed was a confession.

  So, when the lieutenant stood up to go use the men’s room, he decided to extract one.

  Taking another sip of his Coke, he glanced at the barman, who was at the other end of the comptoir. His attention was on a newly arrived group of customers.

  Back at Younes’s table, the young men were engrossed in a serious discussion. None of them were even keeping an eye on the front, much less the traffic headed to and from the restroom.

  Setting his Coke down on the bar, Tursunov collected his change and walked back to the men’s room, eyeballing the location of the rear exit as he did.

  As he opened the door, he saw one man at the sink washing his hands, and heard another man standing at one of the urinals.

  The man finishing up at the lone sink looked at him in the mirror. The Tajik raised his hands like a surgeon and nodded at the water, indicating he needed to use the sink next.

  Turning off the water, the man grabbed several paper towels from the dispenser and dried his hands as he exited.

  Tursunov turned the water back on to mask the sound of his movements. Slipping across the dingy tiles, he quietly locked the door. Then, like a ghost, he materialized behind the lieutenant at the urinal.

  The street thug was three inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a good thirty years younger than the Tajik. But if life had taught him anything, it was that there was no substitute for experience and treachery.

  It had also taught him that a man was never so vulnerable as when he had his dick out.

  Taking full advantage of the element of surprise, he drove the lieutenant’s head right into the wall above the urinal.

  Simultaneously, he pulled the man’s pistol, a 9 mm PAMAS G1, from his waistband and drove the barrel into the base of his skull.

  When the man tried to fight back, Tursunov slammed his boot into the back of the man’s right knee, causing him to fall, face-first, into the urinal.

  Grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair, he forced him to remain there. “What were the envelopes for?” he demanded.

  “Va te faire enculer!” the man replied defiantly. Go fuck yourself!

  Tursunov knew some French, but not enough to carry out an interrogation. “English,” he demanded, as he moved the pistol to the man’s temple, cocked the hammer, and released the safety. “What were the envelopes for?”

  “Money,” the man relented. “Money.”

  “Money for what?”

  When the man didn’t answer, the Tajik jerked his head back and slammed his face into the porcelain urinal, breaking three of his teeth.

  “Money for what?” he repeated.

  “Putain,” the lieutenant cursed as blood gushed from his mouth. Fuck.

  Tursunov jerked his head back again and the man yelled, “Drugs. It was for drugs.”

  Just as he had thought. “What kind?”

  “Crystal.”

  “They sold you methamphetamine?”

  “No,” said the lieutenant. “Partnership. They cook. We sell.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Mon bande.”

  “English,” the Tajik growled, whacking the man’s forehead on the urinal.

  “Fils de pute!” he replied. Son of a bitch. “My crew sells it. My gang.”

  Tursunov’s mind was already turning, three steps ahead. Every gang had to deal with turf wars and competition.

  “What gang is your enemy? Which one is trying to take your business?”

  “Les GBs,” the man sputtered. “The Ghetto Boys. From Saint-Denis.”

  That was all Tursunov needed to hear.

  This time when he slammed the lieutenant’s head into the porcelain, he did it hard enough to knock him out.

  Letting go of his hair, he pulled a knife and slit the man’s throat. Then, holding the lieutenant’s index finger and using his blood as ink, he wrote the letters GB on the wall.

  After washing his hands, he unlocked the bathroom door and left the café by the rear exit. He had just taken the first step in helping his chemist disappear.

  CHAPTER 44

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  * * *

  MALTA

  The trip took over four hours. They stopped once to refuel. Bladders full of diesel, with special beacons attached, had been air-dropped over the water.

  When they got within range of Malta, Harvath made a call. By the time they reached the drop point, several vehicles were already waiting for them.

  It was on a secluded stretch of coastline, which was good for a covert insertion, but the rocks made it difficult to get in as close as they would have liked. Instead of wading into shore, they had to swim.

  The warm waters around Malta were a particular favorite of great white sharks, which flocked there to give birth.

  Harvath tried not to think about it as he helped swim Gage’s stretcher into shore behind Haney’s. Neither man was up to the task of swimming, and the last thing they needed was the scent of blood in the water.

  Standing in the surf, ready to help bring the stretchers in, was a team of men. Harvath knew one of the faces well.

  Dr. Vella was a slim man in his fifties. He was of average height with dark hair and glasses. He looked like someone better suited to picking stocks than running a highly fortified, top-secret interrogation and detention center a half-hour outside the capital of Valetta.

  Nicknamed the “Solarium” because much of it existed below ground, it was one of the most efficient black sites on the planet. Harvath had rendered more than a few high-value targets to Vella for interrogation.

  As Haney’s floating stretcher neared shore, the doctor gave orders in Maltese and his men took over. Wading into the waves they lifted it, carried it to the beach and up to a waiting black Suburban in which all of the seats had been folded down.

  By the time they returned for Gage, he had already hopped off his stretcher and was wading in. He didn’t need or want any further help.

  With their cargo safely delivered, the SEALs returned to their boats and headed off to rendezvous with a ship from the Sixth Fleet.

  Harvath stepped out of the water and shook Vella’s hand.

  “You look terrible,” the doctor said.

  “It’s been a long couple of days.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he replied, gesturing toward the vehicles. “I have two medical teams standing by. The sooner we get back, the sooner I can have your men looked at.”

  Harvath thanked him and, once all his guys and their dry-bags were loaded, climbed into
the lead Suburban with Vella.

  Vella had outfitted all of the vehicles with PowerBars and bottles of water. Harvath helped himself.

  “There’s hot food waiting at the farm,” Vella offered.

  The Solarium was built beneath a rustic farmhouse. When he took breaks from observing interrogations, Harvath liked to sit outside with a drink. Often, Vella would join him and the two would discuss all sorts of topics.

  Sometimes, Harvath would just sit alone and enjoy the sights and sounds of rural Malta. It was one of the most peaceful and picturesque places he had ever been.

  Tonight, though, all he wanted was a hot shower, a bed, and silence. He’d even be willing to take one of the isolation cells if it meant a solid eight to ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Leaning back against the seat, he wanted to close his eyes, but he willed himself to stay awake. Not until the Solarium. Then, they’d be safe and he could let his guard down.

  He looked out the window and thought he recognized where they were. “This looks familiar.”

  Vella smiled. “You have a good memory. The last time you were here, we ate at a restaurant off this road. Very few people ever come back here. That’s why I like it.”

  Harvath nodded. He didn’t feel much like making conversation. He had been sent halfway around the world to piece together the itinerary of a dead ISIS chemist. Two of his team members had now been shot, and all he had to show for it was a single name, allegedly tied to the Sicilian Mafia.

  Vella could tell Harvath was wiped out. He left him alone and they made the rest of the drive in silence.

  Arriving at the farm, Haney and Gage were offloaded first and taken to the infirmary.

  Because interrogations at the Solarium could be so intense, each prisoner was given a workup beforehand to try to identify any pre-existing medical conditions. There were also the occasional subjects who succumbed to strokes or heart attacks during the process.

  When that happened, Vella’s team couldn’t simply summon the local ambulance service. They had to take care of things on their own. Therefore they had a fully equipped medical suite, as well as a team of highly paid medical personnel who quietly worked at the facility on a rotating basis.