by Brad Thor
The cryptic call went on for several minutes as the men spoke in code. Rhodes’s iPhone was recording the entire thing and broadcasting it to Casey.
“I understand,” the controller finally said. “It is the right thing to do.” He then disconnected the call and removed his headset.
Rhodes paid no attention to the man as he stood up to leave. Once he was at the door, she picked up her phone and said, “He’s coming out. Take him down.”
In case the man had some sort of a relationship with the café, they waited until he was half a block away and then Harvath and Rodriguez did the honors with a blast from one of the Taser X3s.
By the time Harvath had the man’s wrists bound with a pair of EZ Cuffs, an MI5 van was in the street, its sliding door wide open.
He and Rodriguez chucked the man inside and then watched as it raced away. Turning to her, he asked, “Did that guy smell like goat to you?”
Rodriguez shook her head and went back to join the rest of the team at the café.
A small, nondescript car pulled up to the curb, dropped off Bob Ashford, and then took off in the same direction as the van.
“Do we have any idea who he is yet?” asked Harvath as Ashford approached.
“We think he may be a former Yemeni Intelligence Service operative, but we’re not sure.”
“Based on the way he conducted his surveillance detection routes, he’s had formal training. And if that’s true, he won’t be an easy interrogation subject.”
“Suffice it to say that the people he’s just been handed over to will get to the bottom of who he is, sooner rather than later,” said the MI5 man. “Trust me.”
Harvath didn’t doubt it. There were certain things the Brits did very well and were able to keep away from the press. One of those things was the interrogation techniques they used to drain intelligence from suspected terrorists.
He was about to ask if the techniques involved things the American press found so hateful like calling terrorists names and hurting their feelings when Casey emerged from the Internet café and hurriedly walked over to them.
“I think we may have caught a break, but we’re going to need some real muscle in there.”
“Let’s get to it then,” said Harvath.
He took a step forward but Gretchen put her hand against his chest and stopped him. “Not your kind of muscle, Prince Charming,” she said, turning to look at Ashford. “His.”
CHAPTER 53
Once Casey explained what she wanted and why she believed the café manager not only had it, but was lying to her about it, Bob Ashford went straight inside and turned the woman’s world upside down.
Law enforcement in the U.K. had exceptional powers to deal with terrorism. Ashford also had an incredibly powerful personality. He had a way of being polite, yet terrifying all at the same time. He left no room for argument and was very clear about what would happen to the manager if she didn’t cooperate, immediately.
When he asked her for identification and began to question her about any past difficulties she might have caused for police, her tough facade crumbled.
Within minutes, she had not only confessed to the café’s keystroke-logging program, but had explained how it worked and had blamed it all on the café’s owner. Casey had been right. The café not only spied on its customers, it probably trafficked in their personal data as well. Without an Iron Key, very few people were safe anywhere.
Ashford didn’t much care about what the café did with its other customers’ data. What he wanted was what the man they had apprehended outside had typed into his computer.
The manager pulled up the information for the terminal and printed out all of the man’s keystrokes. Unfortunately, there weren’t very many. He had logged on to his Skype account, searched for another Skype user named Jamal, and made one call before leaving the café and being taken down.
Casey sat down and pulled the man’s Skype account back up, but he had deleted everything.
“I just did a search for any accounts with the name Jamal,” she said.
“And?” asked Harvath
“And there’s so many, Skype doesn’t even list them all. Without knowing which drop-down menus he clicked to focus his search, we won’t be able to zero in on him.”
“What about going to Skype directly?” said Ashford. “They have London offices.”
“You can try, but they’re not going to do anything other than talk to you without a judge’s order.”
Harvath removed one of his cell phones and sent a text message to Nicholas. Moments later, a response came back. Yes. The Israelis are rumored to have already cracked it.
Excusing himself, Harvath stepped outside and called the Old Man.
“Did you get him?” Carlton asked when he picked up his phone.
“We did. He ran SDRs for about an hour and then slipped into an Internet café where he made a Skype call.”
“Do we know who he called?”
“No. All we know is that it was another Skype user named Jamal. The Brits can lean on Skype via their offices here, but that could take a while. Word on the street is that the Israelis have cracked Skype.”
“A few months ago, I’m told,” said the Old Man. “But you have to give me more than somebody named Jamal who received a Skype call within the last hour.”
“How about our guy’s username and password?”
“That’s better.”
Harvath rattled off the information and Carlton told him he’d reach out to some friends he had in Tel Aviv and get back to him as soon as possible.
When he stepped back inside, Ashford was bagging the keyboard and headset as evidence. He then asked Rhodes to e-mail the recording she had made so he could see if there was a voiceprint of the man on file somewhere.
Those tasks complete, he looked at Harvath. “It’s your call. What do you want to do now?”
“Where are you doing the interrogations?”
“At a lovely country estate outside the city,” said the MI5 man. “Why? You want to watch them? I thought interrogations made you squeamish.”
“Only if I don’t wait at least a half hour after eating before jumping into one.”
Ashford smiled as his phone vibrated. He removed it from his pocket, unwrapped the earbuds, and read the text message that had just come in. “If we’re done here, I’ve got transport for us outside.”
Harvath looked at Casey. “Are we done?”
The Athena Team leader nodded. “We’re all good.”
Outside there were two passenger vans waiting. Ashford turned to Harvath with a suggestion. “Why don’t you and your team get something to eat? I’ve assigned two of my best men to you. They were both Royal Marines. Whatever you want, they’ll see to it.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to drop the evidence at my office and then pay an unannounced visit to the Skype people over on Lexington Street.”
“I want to come with you to Skype.”
The MI5 man pointed over his shoulder. “This was just a warm-up. If I encounter resistance from Skype, that visit is going to be considerably more unpleasant.”
“I can probably help bring some pressure to bear.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said, putting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You and Peaches do seem to have a very similar approach. Neither of you ever take no for an answer.”
Harvath was flattered to be compared to the Old Man.
Ashford looked at him. “In my country, the fact that I have to order you to take five very attractive ladies to lunch would be grounds for immediate dismissal.”
“What about Amsterdam?”
“Let’s worry about Skype first. Without that, there is no Amsterdam,” he said as he removed his hand from Harvath’s shoulder. “Relax and eat with your team. I’ll let you know what happens at Skype, and if we somehow get a break in the interrogations, I’ll call you immediately.”
“You’ve got all my numbers, ri
ght?”
“Yes,” said Ashford as he walked toward his vehicle. “Don’t worry.”
Harvath watched as Ashford climbed into the number-one van and it pulled away. A tall, well-built man in his early thirties, dressed in a sharp blue suit and perfectly polished shoes, stepped out of the remaining vehicle and walked over to Harvath.
He stuck out his hand and said, “My name is Bloom. Commander Ashford has instructed us to take care of you.”
They had gone from one hundred miles per hour to five, and Harvath hated it. All-ahead-stop was not a maneuver he was fond of. He didn’t know how to channel his energy. If he wasn’t careful, it could wind up as anger.
He shook the man’s hand and tried to be nice. “You’re aware that the situation we’re in is still active, correct?”
“Yes, sir. The commander briefed us.”
The Brits were so damn professional, and polite. “I guess we need to eat,” he said and then added, “Someplace where we can keep the vehicle close in case we have to move quickly.”
“Understood, sir.”
“It would also be nice if we could eat someplace where we’re not going to stick out and the ladies won’t be bothered.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
Once the team was in the van, Bloom and his colleague, Michaels, took the team to Number 8 Herbert Crescent. It was an unremarkable Victorian building behind Harrods department store in Knightsbridge. It was perfect and Harvath had no doubt that Ashford had made the reservations himself.
There was no name plaque on the shiny, black door; only a brass lion knocker with a buzzer recessed into the frame. Up above, a camera recorded the comings and goings of guests.
Bloom pressed the doorbell and when the door clicked open, ushered his charges inside. Standing in the small, carpeted foyer was a well-dressed man cradling an MP5. They had just entered London’s Special Forces Club.
Harvath’s suspicion that the lunch had been put together by Ashford was confirmed by the fact that there was already a table waiting for them under Bob’s name.
The club’s membership was open to anyone who had a clandestine role in or out of uniform. Its motto was: Spirit of Resistance. Simply put, it was the private club for current and former secret agents, Special Forces operatives, MI5, MI6, and CIA officers in London.
They were led to a large table in the dining room. After they were seated, menus were passed around and the day’s specials were explained. Bloom and Michaels sat at a table nearby.
None of the team felt they were dressed appropriately for a private club, but none of the other members seemed to mind. Perhaps some of the more wily intelligence operatives suspected what kind of work their American guests were up to, but if they did, they didn’t let on.
They were halfway through lunch when Harvath’s cell phone rang. Standing up, he walked back down to the entry hall to take the call. It was Reed Carlton.
“The Israelis broke the Skype transaction for us.”
“You’ve got the regional controller’s location? Where is he?” asked Harvath. “London?”
“No,” replied Carlton. “Amsterdam.”
CHAPTER 54
CHICAGO
Abdul Rashid rubbed the stubble on his cheeks and massaged his eyes with the heels of his hands as he poured more tea. It had been a long night.
It was bad enough the two police officers had happened upon them, but then the third man had come in through the alley door with his shotgun and the shooting had happened. Rashid had been forced to act quickly.
The first thing he had done was to call the police from one of his prepaid cell phones, which he promptly disposed of afterward. He reported shots fired, but gave the location as four blocks away. He also made up descriptions of the shooters, the vehicles they were driving, and the direction they were headed in.
Though the building they used as a mosque was in a largely commercial area and the shots had been fired late at night, there was still a chance that someone might have heard the exchange and reported it. Unless they were looking out a window onto the alley where it happened, they wouldn’t be able to give the police much more to go on than that they heard gunshots nearby. By phoning in a believable account of a gangbanger shoot-out four blocks away, Rashid all but guaranteed where the police would focus their efforts. That, though, would buy them only so much time.
The explosive compounds and all other incriminating materials had to be moved right away, as well as the hostages. Without time to go fetch two of Marwan’s trucks, they had to use the vehicles of the cell members at the mosque.
Pulling the vehicles into the alley, they loaded them as quickly as possible. Rashid personally kept watch for any other surprise visitors.
Once the vehicles had departed, he had one of his men follow him in the police officers’ Bronco, which he abandoned in a rough neighborhood several miles away. With any luck, it had been stolen within minutes.
It looked as if they had dodged a bullet. The only remaining loose end to be tied up was the mosque’s imam, whom Marwan handled with a phone call. Should the police come to question him about anything, he would simply tell the truth; after the faithful had departed following the final prayers of the evening, he had locked up the mosque and had gone home. He knew better than to reveal that things were happening in the basement. If the police wanted to look around, he was instructed to accommodate them. There was no incriminating evidence anywhere in the building.
So far, the police hadn’t showed up. Rashid doubted they would. For the time being, they were still safe. Or so he had thought.
“The timetable must be changed,” Marwan said as Rashid brought over tea for their guest.
“We should not speak in front of him,” the guest responded in Arabic, slicing one of his hooks through the air as if physically cutting off the conversation.
His name was Aazim Aleem. He was British by birth and had fought against the Soviets in Afghanistan. It was there that he had both hands blown off allegedly trying to deactivate a landmine close to a school. Only the truly naive believed the story. In truth, he had lost both of his hands when a bomb he was building prematurely detonated.
Rashid had met him once before, in Pakistan while he was travelling with Marwan. Aleem was a respected Islamic scholar who had studied at Egypt’s prestigious Al-Azhar University in Cairo. He was famous for his writings about jihad, as well as his sermons, the audio recordings of which were disseminated throughout the Islamic world and across the Internet. He was known as the “Mufti of Jihad,” but he never made any public appearances. Very few knew his true identity. Not even British or American intelligence agencies knew who he was. Back in the U.K., the man lived on a full disability pension paid for by the same government he plotted against and deeply desired to overthrow.
Rashid had been surprised to see Aleem at the mosque. It was completely unexpected and, happening so close to his cell going operational, he was quite sure that it wasn’t a coincidence.
He set down the tea and said, “I understand Arabic.”
Like an angry sea crab, Aleem leaned forward and snapped his hooks at him. “You are not one of us,” he hissed in English.
Rashid looked at Marwan. “I’m confused. Sheik Aleem grew up in the U.K. He speaks better English than I do and yet he’s got trust issues with me?”
“You were not a mujihadeen who fought against the Soviets.”
“With all due respect,” replied Rashid as he looked at Aleem, “the jihad against the Soviets is over.” He pointed at his chest for emphasis. “I represent the current jihad; the one that is actually being waged right now.”
Aleem smiled and addressed Marwan. “He doesn’t know his place very well, but he is passionate.”
Marwan Jarrah held his hand out to calm his protégé. “You will show our guest the respect he deserves, Shahab.”
Rashid did as he was told. “I apologize.”
“You are able to temper your passion,” noted Aleem. “That is important.�
��
“Important for what?”
“We’ve had a change of plans,” said Marwan.
Rashid looked at their guest and then back to his boss. “So Sheik Aleem is involved in our struggle?”
Aleem laughed. “I have been involved in this struggle since before you were born, boy.”
“Yes,” said Marwan. “He’s involved. There has been a problem in Europe.”
“What does Europe have to do with us?”
“He has much to learn,” replied Aleem.
Rashid was tempted to give the hook-handed old man a piece of his mind, but held his tongue. “So we are working in concert with the brothers in Europe.”
Marwan nodded.
“You could have told me.”
“The need for compartmentalization has always been greater than your need to know.”
“So why are you telling me now?”
“Because you are being promoted,” said Aleem as he raised one of his hooks and mimicking Rashid, jabbed himself in the chest for emphasis. “Because while you may represent the current jihad, I am the one who orchestrates it.”
Rashid didn’t respond.
“Smile,” continued Aleem. “Allah has just called you for something very special.”
CHAPTER 55
AMSTERDAM
My name is Anneke van den Heuvel,” said a tall, uniformed woman with curly hair who met the team when they stepped off the plane. “Are you transporting any weapons?”
There was no “Hello” or “Welcome to the Netherlands,” not even a “Thank you for trying to help us head off a major terrorist attack.” Instead, the woman’s only concern was if they were bringing weapons into her country.
“We’re not carrying any weapons,” replied Harvath.
“Not yet at least,” Nikki Rodriguez added quietly from behind him.
Harvath had been informed that bringing in weapons would only slow the team down.
“Good,” the woman said as she motioned the team to follow her into the terminal. “First we will proceed through passport control, and then customs. There are two flights that have just landed, so I suggest we move quickly in order to gain the advantage of the queue.”
