by Brad Thor
When Tang identified a low-level smuggler he wanted to recruit, he posed as a representative of the Jopok, South Korea’s mafia, and made the young man an enticing offer. In exchange for drugs, Tang offered him something very hard to acquire in North Korea—real American products, not knock-offs. The young man had jumped at the chance.
The CIA purchased iPads, MacBooks, Xboxes, Jack Daniel’s, American cigarettes, and smartphones, among other coveted items. Tang made only limited quantities available to the smuggler. He didn’t want to turn him into such a big player that he drew the attention of the larger syndicates—only enough to make him reliant on Tang and hungry for more.
The kid wasn’t some country bumpkin, but he wasn’t a criminal mastermind either. Not yet. That might come at some point in the future. For now, he had just the right combination of guts and smarts to make him both useful and dangerous. Tang had made up his mind to fully exploit both qualities.
There were only two types of people who could afford the prices Tang’s American products would fetch in the North Korean marketplace—organized crime figures and DPRK officials. The young smuggler, named Hyun Su, didn’t have those kinds of contacts. He would sell the goods to the next person up the criminal ladder from him. From there, they might pass through two more rungs, their prices doubling and tripling, until they were sold to the final customer.
Knowing the electronics were destined to end up in influential hands, the CIA and NSA had made sure that all of them contained the most advanced spyware available. Thanks to Tang and his young smuggler, U.S. intelligence had been welcomed into the homes of some of the DPRK’s most powerful families and none of them had a clue.
It was a brilliant operation and one the Agency began replicating in other parts of the world. But there was an additional benefit that Tang didn’t uncover until two years into their relationship. While all North Koreans hated the DPRK government, Hyun Su’s hatred of it was very personal.
Highly distrustful of everyone, the smuggler had kept Tang at arm’s length. Over time, though, remarks had begun to slip. Finally, after Tang had spent the better part of an evening getting him drunk, Hyun Su’s walls had come all the way down and the truth had poured out.
Six years prior, his family’s village had been near an army barracks—a particularly unsafe place for North Korean citizens to live. One evening, there had been pounding on their door. Hungry soldiers were out looking for food. When his father told them that the family didn’t have any extra food, the soldiers beat him with the butts of their rifles. His mother and older sister begged them to stop. The soldiers did, but only long enough to brutally rape them both before moving on to the next house.
The attack left his father paralyzed—a death sentence for a family forced to physically eke out its daily existence. After a string of indignities that followed, his sister committed suicide. Shortly thereafter, his mother stopped eating. Then she stopped getting out of bed. Soon she began having fevers. When she died, it was blamed on pneumonia. Hyun Su knew better. A broken heart could not be expected to pump life-giving blood through the body.
He had only been thirteen and his world had completely crumbled. The final straw was when his father begged the boy to kill him. It was a request no parent should ever make of a child. Hyun Su couldn’t do it. As hard as it was to find food and take care of his father, he couldn’t kill him. He loved him. His father was all he had left in the world.
Then one day, he, too, was gone. Someone, Hyun Su never knew who, had done what he couldn’t do. What he wouldn’t do. Someone in the village had waited for the boy to go out and had then smothered the father, putting him out of his misery.
Others in the village told Hyun Su to take it as a blessing. His father had begged to die. He was now released and so, too, was Hyun Su. He would not have to “suffer” the burden of taking care of his father any longer. He was free.
That life could be seen as so cheap disturbed him beyond words. He couldn’t live in the village any longer, especially not knowing who the murderer was.
Hyun Su gathered what few possessions were of value to him and disappeared. He left behind his innocence, his childhood, and any grudging respect he might have had for authority. The military, and the country at large, had become his enemy.
Back in the United States, Billy Tang had two small children of his own. He couldn’t begin to fathom the pain Hyun Su had been through. It did, though, explain a lot about his personality. It also meant that Tang could bring him deeper into his operations and use him for more than just feeding NSA-rigged electronics into the local pipeline. If anyone had told him that the young smuggler would eventually become his most valuable asset, Tang wouldn’t have believed it. But at this moment, that’s exactly what he was. Hyun Su was their lifeline.
The team had hiked five kilometers in from the coast and had dug into a hide site just before daybreak. They rotated the watch. As the team leader, Jimi Fordyce went first. No one spoke and they kept all movement to a bare minimum. When Hyun Su arrived at the rendezvous point that night, he was right on time. Only after Tang had checked everything out and had given them the all clear did the camouflaged SEALs reveal themselves.
After they had been secreted in the back of the truck, Tang and Hyun Su climbed into the cab. They were both dressed in the peasant clothing seen throughout the country—a black Mao cap, baggy cotton trousers, and a loose-fitting tunic.
Hidden beneath his tunic, Tang carried a four-and-a-half-inch-long, razor-sharp CRKT knife called the Otanashi noh Ken, which meant “Silent Sword” in Japanese. It was a deep-concealment folding blade that had been created for the Special Operations community by famed knife-maker and close-quarters combatives expert James Williams. Designed for maximum penetration through clothing, it was small enough to be hidden, but long enough to reach critical organs and finish the job. The Otanashi noh Ken had one purpose and one purpose only—to kill as quietly as possible.
While firearms were excellent tools for rapidly killing one or multiple targets, there was no way to totally silence a firearm. Even a suppressed pistol emitted a muffled pop when fired. That was why Billy Tang preferred knives. They were completely silent. Only the victim made any noise, and that could be mitigated if you knew what you were doing.
That didn’t mean firearms didn’t have their place in Tang’s toolbox. Tucked into the door pocket next to him was a full-sized 9mm SIG Sauer P226 Tactical Operations pistol with a SWR Trident 9 suppressor. The five-hour drive would take them into parts of the country he had never been before. They had no idea who or what they would encounter.
In addition to his weapons, Tang had come armed with a stack of currency, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a carton of cigarettes, and three Playboy magazines. In the DPRK, those items were equivalent to a small fortune. If they found themselves in a tough situation, Tang’s goal was to bribe their way out of it. They were behind enemy lines. Shooting was to be avoided at all costs. The minute one police officer or soldier went missing was the same minute the alarm bells would start ringing.
Their objective was to get in and get out without the North Koreans ever knowing they had been there.
As Hyun Su fired up the engine of his truck, Tang looked him over once more. He was transporting foreign soldiers—a death penalty offense—yet he appeared completely calm. No, Tang thought. Not calm. Content. This was his way of getting even.
The young smuggler had no idea who the men were or why they were here, but judging by their appearance, he had probably guessed that they weren’t friends of the regime in Pyongyang. That was all that mattered to him.
Hyun Su’s only job was to drop them off and pick them up. So far, so good, thought Tang. If everything else went this smoothly, they’d be back in the United States in a matter of days.
But Tang knew all too well that the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. In the darkness of the cab, he reached for his SIG and wondered if this would be the trip where his good luck would finally run
out.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
* * *
USS FLORIDA
Harvath had been asleep for about four hours when the communications room sent for him. He could feel the submarine ascending toward the surface. “We picking somebody up?” he asked the young sailor maneuvering through the narrow hatchway in front of him.
“No, sir,” the sailor replied. “Dropping off.”
Something told Harvath he didn’t need to ask who was getting dropped off.
Moments later, via a secure satellite uplink, he had his answer.
“I hear you are looking for Khuram Hanjour,” said a voice from CIA headquarters in Northern Virginia. It belonged to the Agency’s Deputy Director, Lydia Ryan.
Believing the Agency needed more overhaul than could be handled by one person, President Porter had originally tapped Ryan to be a codirector, along with her CIA mentor, Bob McGee. It had been a bear trying to get that through the confirmation hearings. The CIA was highly protective of its turf, as well as its long-standing way of doing things. It didn’t like change and it had some key allies on the Hill. The unprecedented idea of two DCIs, especially one only in her early thirties, was more than the bureaucracy at Langley could abide.
It became clear pretty quickly that it wasn’t going to pass. To help the President save face, and also to save McGee’s candidacy for Director, Ryan had graciously stepped aside and agreed to accept the deputy directorship.
In her opinion, she had gotten the better end of the deal. For the most part, she’d be free from having to deal with the politicians on the Hill and could focus on day-to-day intelligence operations, as well as helping to clear out the deadwood at Langley that prevented the Agency from being the absolute best it could be. There was plenty of time left for her to become Director of Central Intelligence—if that was even what she wanted. Right now, she liked where she was. She believed in the CIA and its potential to be even better. She also liked serving a president who was determined to give those on the front lines anything and everything they needed to succeed.
Harvath had worked with Ryan before and he liked her. She was a tall, striking woman with dark hair and green eyes who was half Irish and half Greek. She had been a highly adept field operative who also knew how to navigate the Agency’s personalities and inner workings. “What do you have?” he asked.
“Khuram Pervez Hanjour, age fifty-seven, current base of operations Dubai. Suspected of recruiting for Al Qaeda and other Islamic terrorist organizations. He’s also done recruiting for sundry criminal enterprises in Russia, South America, and Asia.”
“Where in Asia? China?” Harvath asked, hoping there was a connectable thread.
“No, Thailand mostly. Which doesn’t mean that he hasn’t done work for the Chinese, just that prima facie there isn’t any direct connection.”
“And his ties to Yaqub?”
“Based on the phone you took off Yaqub in Karachi, we were able to trace some calls back and forth to Dubai, but we don’t know yet if any of the numbers belong to Hanjour,” Ryan replied. “The NSA is working on it.”
“How about financials? Any indication that money has moved between them?”
“I wish we had something concrete, but you know how murky the transactions usually are with these guys.”
Harvath did know. Following the money used to be a surefire way to build relationship trees in order to see who was working with whom. The problem now was that traditional banking transfers had been abandoned in favor of what were known in the Muslim world as Hawalas.
Hawalas were networks of Muslim money brokers. Money was left with one Hawaladar somewhere in the world and it could be picked up from another anywhere else. It was based on the honor system and was described as money transfer without money movement. There weren’t even any promissory notes involved. It was all done via personal relationships, which made it virtually impossible to track. Only informal records were kept, and the Hawaladars settled up accounts between themselves, sometimes doing so by exchanging things other than cash, such as precious stones, property, even employees. The system was confounding for law enforcement and counterterrorism agencies.
“So nothing conclusive connecting Hanjour and Yaqub?” said Harvath.
“Not yet, but a week ago Emirati intelligence rolled up a Hawaladar in Dubai on a narcotics charge. He was having synthetic cannabis, also known as Spice, along with crystal meth, shipped to him from abroad. The UAE has a zero tolerance policy on drugs and he’s looking at anywhere from four years minimum to a max of fifteen in prison. The authorities haven’t rushed to get him a lawyer, but he’s been rushing to make a deal. He’s telling them anything they want to know. He’s already named all of his clients, legit or otherwise, including a Khuram Hanjour.”
“He listed Hanjour as a drug client?”
“No,” Ryan replied. “From what we understand, he ID’d Hanjour strictly as a Hawala client.”
“Do we know for sure if this is our Hanjour?”
“We’re talking to the Emiratis now.”
“Where is this Hawaladar being held?” Harvath asked. “Dubai?”
“We think so. We should have more information soon.”
“If his client is our guy and he’s in Dubai, how fast can you get eyes on him?”
“Our local people are working on it.”
“What about leverage? Is there anything we can use against him?”
Ryan flipped through some notes before replying. “The French and the Brits also have files on Hanjour. We’re going through those now, but there do seem to be two interesting items that could be useful.”
Once she explained to Harvath what they were, he told her what he needed and then asked, “How soon can you get me to Dubai?”
CHAPTER 12
* * *
* * *
UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
Forty-five minutes later, Harvath was standing topside on the Florida along with a squad of SEALs and a hooded and bound Ahmad Yaqub.
It took over fifteen minutes to get everyone winched up to the U.S. Navy Seahawk helicopter hovering above the submarine. Once everyone was aboard, the helo banked and took off for the USS Abraham Lincoln.
The Nimitz-class aircraft carrier was the flagship of Carrier Strike Group Nine and home to the United States Navy’s Carrier Air Wing Two. In addition to its Growler, Hawkeye, and Greyhound fixed-wing aircraft, Air Wing Two boasted four strike fighter squadrons. Strike Fighter Squadron 2, aka the “Bounty Hunters,” flew the F/A-18F Super Hornet.
The almost $70 million aircraft had a range of more than twelve hundred nautical miles, a top speed of 1,190 miles per hour, and—best of all for Harvath—a second seat.
By the time the Seahawk touched down on the deck of the Abraham Lincoln and the SEALs unloaded their prisoner, Harvath’s flying taxi was already fueled, hot, and ready to take off.
In all of his time with the Navy, Harvath had never flown in a Super Hornet. He was given a rapid briefing, during which the ejection seat was explained and he was told not to touch it. After he changed into an anti-G flight suit and put his helmet on, he climbed into the aircraft and was strapped in.
The pilot made a joke about there not being a beverage service because of the short duration of the flight, then after communication with the air boss, the yellow-shirted catapult officer gave a series of signals and the pilot throttled his engines to military power. Twenty seconds later, the steam catapult fired, shooting the plane down the deck of the Abraham Lincoln and out over the Persian Gulf.
While a special request could have been made to allow the Super Hornet to land at Dubai International Airport, Harvath wanted to keep his arrival in the UAE quiet. The United States 380th Air Expeditionary Wing was already stationed at Al-Dhafra air base outside Abu Dhabi, and that’s where he was flown.
When the pilot landed at Al-Dhafra and slid the Super Hornet’s canopy back, the cockpit was instantly enveloped in desert heat. Waiting on the tarmac wa
s one of Ryan’s people from Dubai, a sharp-as-nails case officer named Anne Reilly-Levy. She was an attractive blonde in her forties with a distinct Texas drawl. “Welcome to the United Arab Emirates,” she said, extending her hand.
Harvath shook hands and followed her to a waiting SUV. Levy had left it idling with its air-conditioning on full blast. “It’s so damn hot,” she said as they climbed in, “I saw two trees fighting over a dog.”
Her comment made him smile. “What part of Texas are you from?”
“Dallas.”
“So you’re used to the heat.”
She shook her head. “You never get used to this kind of heat.”
Harvath agreed. “But at least they make up for it with the culture, right?”
Levy chuckled. “Yeah, in spades.” She pointed to a large shopping bag on the backseat as she put the truck in gear. “There are shoes and a couple changes of clothes in there. If they don’t fit or you need something else, let me know.”
Harvath glanced at the bag and thanked her. “How long have you been here?” he asked.
“In the UAE? Almost a year now. Before that I was in Iraq. And before Iraq, Saudi and Yemen.”
“Somebody back at Langley must hate your guts.”
She smiled. “My father was in the oil business. I spent most of my childhood in the Middle East. I’m good with languages. Arabic in particular.”
“You’re lucky the CIA got you and not the Navy. With language skills like those, they would have sent you to South America.”
“They’re that screwed up?”
“I’ve seen some dumb stuff.”
Levy turned onto a service road and increased her speed.
“If you’re not a fan of the culture,” Harvath asked, “what are you doing here?”
“This is where the fight is. Yemen, Saudi, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, every Muslim country is rotting with jihadists. This isn’t a vacation, this is work, and I go where they send me. Fortunately, I enjoy what I do.”
