by Brad Thor
It was a despicable tactic, but one Harvath had learned long ago to accept. In the war against Islamic fundamentalists, often the only tie greater than the tie to their god was their tie to their families, especially when children were involved. It made Harvath wonder if maybe he was actually better off without children himself. Maybe Tracy had been doing him a favor. He could only imagine how horrifically gut-wrenching it would be to be on al-Yaqoubi’s end of the phone right now.
They watched as al-Yaqoubi hung up the receiver, stood up from his desk, and exited the office. The team in the surveillance van watched and confirmed that he had not spoken a word to his confused colleagues.
Walking up to the Mercedes, he opened the door and got in. Harvath pointed the SIG-Sauer at his chest and told him in Arabic to sit down. The man did so.
“Close the door.”
Al-Yaqoubi complied. Harvath looked at de Roon and said, “Drive.”
“Who are you? What have you done to my family?” the man demanded in English. He was far from being frightened. In fact, he was indignant.
“How do we stop the attack?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
De Roon said, “The surveillance team says the men in the office seem confused. They are all standing at the window trying to figure out what just happened. Should the men go in and get them, or do you want our guest to make the call?”
This was where Harvath was going to have to take a gamble. If the men in the office were in on the plot, al-Yaqoubi’s sudden departure might seem odd, but they would likely rationalize that something had come up that he needed to take care of right away. As far as they would have been able to tell, he had left of his own free will. Besides, he had climbed into a Mercedes, not a police car. While indeed unusual, and while it may have put them in a state of unease, it wouldn’t have been enough to cause them to ring any alarm bells. Not yet.
Harvath decided to leave them in the office. “Tell your team to keep watching and to let us know if any of them pick up a landline or cell phone.”
“Understood,” said de Roon as he radioed the orders to his team.
“How do we stop the attack?” Harvath repeated to their passenger.
“I want to know what you have done to my family!” the man demanded once more.
Harvath nodded at Casey who brought de Roon’s Taser up over her seat, aimed it at al-Yaqoubi’s torso, and pulled the trigger.
Instantly, he cried out and his body seized as if he’d been overcome by rigor mortis. Harvath waited until it was safe and after tucking his weapon into his waistband, zipped the man’s wrists together behind his back with a pair of Flex Cuffs. Pushing him back in his seat, he patted him down and removed the man’s cell phone, keys, and pocket litter, which he set in a pile on the floor.
“How long until we’re there?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes,” replied de Roon.
Harvath looked at his watch. “We don’t have that kind of time. We’re going to have to interrogate him here.”
He wrapped al-Yaqoubi’s ankles with duct tape and then took the Taser from Casey.
Catching de Roon’s eyes in the rearview mirror he said, “No matter what happens do what I say and don’t stop driving.”
CHAPTER 57
You tell me how I stop this attack,” said Harvath, who knew the fear that Moroccans had of their country’s secret police, “or I will tell the DST to begin torturing your family in Rabat.”
There was a flash of anger across al-Yaqoubi’s face. He looked like he was about to spit at him, so Harvath pulled his fist back and broke the man’s nose.
There was a crack of cartilage followed by a gush of blood that poured down the front of his shirt.
“We’ll start with your children,” said Harvath.
“I don’t believe you,” spat al-Yaqoubi. “Your country and your president forbid you from torture.”
Harvath smiled. “That’s what you think?”
“That’s what I know.”
“Let me disabuse you of that notion right now,” said Harvath, as he told de Roon, “Speed up and do not slow down.”
He then slammed his fist into the accountant’s stomach and shoved the man, doubled over, onto the floor of the backseat.
Reaching for the heavy, armored door, he opened it and forced al-Yaquobi’s legs outside.
“Faster,” he ordered de Roon.
The intelligence operative complied as Harvath bent down and yelled into the accountant’s ear so he could hear over the rush of the wind whipping past them. “When I let go of this door, it’ll pin your legs against the sill. When that happens, your knees will be forced to bend and your feet will begin dragging along the pavement.
“At this speed, your shoes will be burned through in a matter of seconds. Your socks will go even faster. Then the flesh from your feet will be ground away. The road underneath this car will eat through sinew and grind down your bones. The pain will be like nothing you have ever known.
“When I pull you back in, both of your feet will have been eaten away. You will beg me to kill you.”
“You cannot torture me. The Geneva and Hague conventions forbid it.”
“Those treaties prevent me from torturing lawful combatants. You’re a terrorist. This is your last chance, Khalil.”
This time, the man was able to spit before Harvath could stop him. He caught it in the face and it was full of blood. He let the door go.
They all knew when al-Yaqoubi’s shoes and socks had been burned away because the man began screaming.
Harvath pushed the door open just enough to pull him back inside. His feet looked like hamburger. “How do we stop the attack? Tell me.”
Al-Yaqoubi’s head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.
“Oh no you don’t, motherfucker,” said Harvath as he juiced him with the Taser again.
The accountant’s body went rigid, and he screamed even louder this time.
Once Harvath could get him to focus, he said to Casey, “Tell the team in Rabat to start with his youngest child. Make sure the family, and in particular the children, know that this is happening because their father doesn’t care about them.”
Casey relayed the orders over her cell phone and then placed it on speaker phone and pointed it toward the backseat so al-Yaqoubi could hear the DST operator addressing his family in Rabat. The children immediately began sobbing and their mothers screamed at the news that they were to be held responsible for al-Yaqoubi’s crimes.
Harvath watched as the man began to sob. He was breaking. Harvath leaned in to rub salt in the gaping wound that had been torn inside him. “After the DST is done with them, your family’s nightmare will only get worse.”
The accountant looked at him as if to say How could it get worse?
“We will make it known to al-Qaeda that you are a traitor and that you gave up the London cell. We’ll then let them know where to find your family.”
Harvath let that sink in before adding, “The DST is very creative, but al-Qaeda is going to come up with things for your family that no one has ever heard of before. They will make an example out of them that no one will forget.”
The tears were openly running down al-Yaqoubi’s bloody face.
“You can stop all of this right now,” said Harvath. “Your family will be spared.”
The man didn’t reply.
Harvath looked back at Casey, who had withdrawn her BlackBerry. “Khalil would like the DST to start torturing his family. But make sure to let them know that they are to leave them as close to alive as possible so that al-Qaeda gets their turn.”
As Casey took her phone off speaker and lifted it to her ear, al-Yaqoubi yelled from the backseat.
“No!”
“No, what?” replied Harvath.
“I will tell you what you want to know.”
“How do we stop the attack?”
Al-Yaqoubi started shaking. He was slipping into shock.
Harvath slapped him to get his attention. “Where is the attack going to take place?”
“The Red Light District.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” pleaded al-Yaqoubi.
“We know the target is Dam Square,” said Harvath.
“That was before London was interrupted.”
“What time?”
“Sometime before midnight. I don’t know exactly when.”
“How do we stop it?”
The accountant’s shivering increased.
“How do we stop it?” Harvath repeated.
“You can’t.”
“Bullshit. How are they planning to attack?”
Al-Yaqoubi’s eyes were unfocused and when he failed to respond, Harvath slapped him again and repeated his question.
“Explosive vests,” the accountant stammered.
“Not bicycles?”
“After London, everything was changed.”
“Do the men have cell phones? Can they be recalled?”
“The only phones are on the explosives they are carrying. They are in their final stage and are not supposed to have contact with each other or anyone else.”
Chicken switches, thought Harvath. Just like London. He believed al-Yaqoubi was telling him the truth. It also made sense. You wouldn’t want your martyrs reaching out to a girlfriend or family member at the last minute only to have that bring about a change of heart.
“Someone will be watching them to make sure they carry out the operation, correct?”
The accountant nodded, his pupils beginning to dilate.
“Where will he be positioned?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the bombers? Where will they be?”
“De Wallen,” he mumbled.
Harvath looked up at de Roon.
“I know it,” said the intelligence operative, “but it’s only a general district. He needs to be more specific.”
Harvath shifted his attention back to al-Yaqoubi, who was decompensating. His pulse was rapid and thready, his skin cool and clammy to the touch. They were going to lose him.
Harvath tried slapping him again, but it had no effect. He yelled into the man’s ear and knuckled his sternum without any success. “He’s crashing. He needs medical attention.”
“If we take him to a hospital, your interrogation is over,” said de Roon.
“If we don’t, he’s going to die.”
“You’re a SEAL. You have experience with battlefield medicine. Can’t you stabilize him?”
“With what?” asked Harvath, looking around. “Duct tape?”
De Roon slammed on his brakes and pulled to the shoulder. As he leapt from the car, he yelled for Casey to climb into the backseat to assist.
He removed a trauma bag from the trunk and tossed it to Harvath as he got back in the car, put it in gear, and peeled back out.
Harvath quickly unzipped the bag and emptied out its contents. It was full of QuikClots, Israeli bandages, and other odds and ends. “This isn’t enough. This will only help me stop the bleeding. At the very least, he’s going to need an IV and painkillers.”
Al-Yaqoubi had been laid across the backseat. Casey found a reflective space blanket in the supplies and opened it up and laid it across him, while Harvath began to tend to his wounds.
“If you had those supplies, could you stabilize him?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“But could you do it?”
“Probably.”
The answer seemed to satisfy de Roon, who began issuing orders over his radio as he put his foot down even harder on the accelerator.
CHAPTER 58
The rusting Liberian-registered freighter was called the Sacleipea and had the filthiest infirmary Harvath had ever seen. Nevertheless, it was well stocked and de Roon’s men had everything Harvath had asked for ready and waiting when they carried Khalil al-Yaqoubi in.
Casey helped get an IV going and began administering pain meds while Harvath plucked as much road debris from the accountant’s shredded feet as possible. Once he had cleaned and rebandaged the man’s wounds, he taped up his nose and gave him a dose of antibiotics to begin fighting any potential infection.
Harvath opened a package of smelling salts and waved it under al-Yaqoubi’s nose until he came to. The man shook his head violently to get away from the odor, but soon opened his eyes. He tried to move his arms, but they were Flex-Cuffed to the infirmary gurney.
“Where am I?”
“Not nearly close enough to save your family,” said Harvath as he tossed away the salts.
“I told you everything.”
Harvath was in no mood to argue. “How many bombers are there?”
“Six.”
“Plus one making sure they detonate, correct?”
“Yes.”
“I want physical descriptions of all of them. I also want to know where the bombs were assembled and how.”
The accountant nodded his assent.
“And, Khalil,” said Harvath, locking eyes with the man. “The descriptions you give me had better be perfect. If we are unable to stop them, if even one bomb goes off, your family is as good as dead.”
Al-Yaqoubi’s bombers had picked one of the most densely packed tourist areas in Amsterdam. De Wallen was the most popular red-light district and was located in the heart of the oldest part of the city. It was a network of alleys and small streets crisscrossing several blocks and canals south of the Oude Kerk.
Scantily clad women, midgets, hermaphrodites, and transvestites offered themselves from behind large windows or glass doors often accompanied by a red light. The prostitutes’ places of business were often interspersed with sex shops, peep shows, hash bars, and live-sex theaters.
Tourists gawked at the women, but for the most part kept moving. The challenge for Harvath and Martin de Roon was how to field their teams. Dutch law enforcement officials were similar to their American counterparts and were easy to spot by their physiques and demeanor.
Regardless, no one spent hours upon hours wending their way through De Wallen. It wasn’t that big. Anyone who did so would be pegged as unusual and therefore suspect. The last thing they wanted to do was tip their hand.
Harvath came up with an idea to put four of Martin’s youngest operatives in soccer jerseys. They looked like athletes anyway and could convincingly pass themselves off as teammates out celebrating a win. De Roon thought it was a good idea and decided to okay it, suggesting the men park themselves at one of the hash bars in the center of the red-light district.
He also agreed that since most people never looked up, placing snipers out of sight along as many of the rooftops as possible was a good idea. Using small cameras to observe the streets below them, they acted as extra eyes in the skies and wouldn’t need to expose themselves unless they were ready to take a shot.
The positions for the last assets to be placed in were the hardest to decide upon. While couples and bachelorette parties strolled through De Wallen, they kept moving and rarely passed the same location twice unless it was on their way home after a night out on the town.
Casey didn’t need to be asked. She knew placing the Athena Team in the windows was the best way to watch the flow of people and they all volunteered. All that needed to be decided was which windows they would take. Once Harvath and Martin had identified the best possible locations, de Roon contacted a cop he knew and trusted who dealt with the red-light district and explained that he was running a very quiet sting. The occupants of the windows in question were paid a hefty sum of cash from Harvath’s funds and given the night off.
Everything was ready to go except for one thing. The Athena Team members were probably some of the most attractive “prostitutes” the red-light district had ever seen. Before the operation could begin, they needed to figure out a means by which to dissuade potential customers from bothering them. The plan they came up with actually helped distribute their remaining operatives.
With positioning out of the way, Harvath was left to reflect on the men they were looking for. Al-Yaqoubi had been quite ingenious. Instead of recruiting Arab Muslims for his attack, he had recruited Indonesians.
Indonesia was the most populous Muslim country in the world and had once been a Dutch colony. People of Indonesian descent could be found throughout the Netherlands. They had largely assimilated themselves into the culture and weren’t considered threatening, unlike their Arab brethren. They also could move through the red-light district, even during a time of heightened anxiety and security, without drawing attention to themselves.
Al-Yaqoubi was in bad shape, and it was a fight to keep him conscious. He could only give rough descriptions of the men. They were of average height, with dark hair and eyes; all in their mid twenties. He had no idea how they would be dressed except to say that they would have to employ some means to cover their bomb vests.
The cell’s controller was in his late thirties and also Indonesian. He had a thick, white scar behind his left ear from a motorcycle accident in his youth. The accountant only knew the bombers by their Muslim names and not their given names under which they lived their Dutch lives. He did, though, know the controller’s given name, Joost Moerdani. It was all they got out of him before he slipped back into unconsciousness.
With that information, Martin had been able to pull the man’s driver’s license and passport photos. Everyone, including the plainclothes police that had been brought in to form a covert ring around the red-light district, knew what he looked like. If he was spotted, everyone had been given strict orders not to take him down. They were to report his location and attempt to keep him under surveillance.
