by Brad Thor
Angela Taylor brought the trauma surgeon back to the matter at hand. “What do you mean by someone working for us from the inside?”
“Lots of cops moonlight,” replied Stern. “Many do security. But they also do other things. I’ve done a lot of tactical medicine with the SWAT team and have a friend who is now over in the department’s Organized Crime Division. He happens to be a lawyer and he moonlights taking cases.”
Burt Taylor looked at him. “So you’re telling me that if we want our daughter’s case to get the attention it deserves, we’ve got to pay someone off? What the hell kind of police department is your city running?”
The surgeon put up his hands. “Absolutely not. What I am suggesting is that you meet with him, talk about what happened, and share your frustration over the lack of progress by the CPD. He might be able to help you.”
“I’m afraid I’m confused as well,” added Mrs. Taylor. “Once the police find who did this, the city or district attorney will bring charges, won’t they?”
“Correct. It’ll be the state’s attorney,” said Stern. “But I want you to understand, I’m not trying to sell you anything. You’re either going to like John and want to work with him or you’re not. He wouldn’t be acting as a Chicago police officer; he’d be acting as an advocate for Alison and your family. He’d be your attorney, and his role would be to push the CPD’s investigation. He’d also launch his own investigation so that you can not only nail the person who did this and have the state’s attorney bring him up on criminal charges, but you’ll also have a person you can sue in civil court for damages.
“That’s what I mean by having someone working for you on the inside. He knows how the CPD works. Even though he’ll be wearing his lawyer hat, the fact that he’s also a cop will bring a lot of pressure to bear on the investigation.”
Burt Taylor thought about it for several moments. After looking at his wife, he turned back to Dennis Stern and said, “How do we get in touch with him?”
They met at an out-of-the-way restaurant not far from the hospital in the city’s Little Italy neighborhood along Taylor Street.
Sergeant John Vaughan was sitting at a table in the corner, his back to the wall, with a view of the front door. It was just after eleven a.m., and the restaurant was empty. He noticed Burt Taylor through the window before he even entered.
The hostess showed him to the table and John stood to shake his hand. “I’m very sorry about what happened to your daughter.”
“Thank you,” said Taylor as he released the man’s hand and took a seat. Vaughan was in his late thirties. He wore a brown suit with a green tie. His dark hair was cut short and he had eyes that moved around the room. “Are you expecting someone else?”
“I’m sorry,” said Vaughan. “I don’t come to this neighborhood a lot. It’s nothing personal.”
Taylor didn’t know what to make of him. So far, he wasn’t very impressed. “Dr. Stern thinks you may be able to help us.”
“Dennis is a good man.”
It was an odd reply. “You’re a police officer, but not a detective, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“But you are a lawyer.”
“I am,” he responded.
Taylor paused, waiting for some sort of a sales pitch as to why he should hire him, but nothing came. Whatever this man was, he was definitely no salesman. “Setting aside your relationship with Dr. Stern, why should I consider hiring you?”
“Well, it depends on what you want.”
“We want to find the driver of the taxi who ran down our daughter.”
“Good, because that’s what I want too.”
Finally, Taylor saw a spark in the man.
Vaughan continued. “Are you familiar with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? You know, categories of needs that have to be met before a person can start focusing on achieving the needs of the next category?”
“I am.”
“Well, when it comes to cops, detectives in particular, that’s pretty much BS. There are two types of cases that will always get solved—the easy ones and the ones where there is so much pressure grinding down on the investigators that they absolutely have to climb out of the ring with a victory.”
“So which one is Alison’s?”
“Unfortunately, neither. There are more than five thousand Yellow Cabs in this city and the only witnesses to the crime were so inebriated, their testimony is worthless. So that scratches your daughter’s case from the easy category. And let’s face it, if this was an easy case, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here.
“As far as crushing the investigators with pressure, unless you have a very close relationship with the mayor, our police superintendent, or your daughter is some sort of notable personality, there’s just not going to be enough pressure to make this case a priority and get it solved.”
Taylor was confused. “Then where does that leave us?”
John Vaughan smiled. “It leaves you with me.”
“And what would you do differently?”
“For starters, I’d do the job the detectives were supposed to. I’d investigate the entire incident from front to back.”
“Then what?”
“I’d follow up on any leads and see where they take me.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s how it’s done,” said Vaughan.
“Officer, how many hit-and-run cases have you ever investigated?”
“To be honest with you, none.”
“How many violent crimes?”
There was a pause, so Taylor added, “Give or take.”
“Two or three,” responded Vaughan.
Taylor was beginning to feel that this had all been a waste of time. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“And exactly how long have you been an attorney?”
“Six months, sir.”
“Six months? When the heck did you get out of law school, yesterday?”
“Actually, four years ago.”
Taylor was now completely convinced that he had wasted his time. “It took you that long to pass the bar?”
“No. I took a four-year leave to fight in Iraq.”
Taylor wondered if maybe he had the man. “What branch of the service?”
“The Marine Corps.”
“You’re a Marine?”
“Yes, sir. I worked in intelligence and helped shape our counterinsurgency strategy.”
After several moments of silence Taylor said, “Do you believe you can help with my daughter’s case?”
“I wouldn’t waste your time, sir, if I believed otherwise.”
Waving the waiter over, he replied, “Then let’s order some lunch and talk about what you can do for my family.”
CHAPTER 6
VIRGINIA
Coming up from the dock, Harvath decided to stay out of sight until he knew what was going on.
He cut across his neighbor’s property and used a stand of trees for cover. Peering toward his house, he saw two blacked-out Suburbans parked in his driveway. Either Nicholas had someone watching his house, or he had access to real-time satellite imagery. Knowing the little man’s skills, he suspected it was the latter.
A small contingent of hard men in crisp suits with earpieces stood near the vehicles, their heads on swivels. They definitely hadn’t come to sell Girl Scout cookies. Harvath wished he’d taken his .45 down to the dock with him.
As he watched, one of the men spoke into a microphone at his sleeve. When the passenger door of the second vehicle opened, Reed Carlton stepped out and Harvath relaxed.
He was a tall, fit man in his mid-sixties with a prominent chin and silver hair.
“You really should call first, Reed,” said Harvath as he slipped from behind the tree line and took Carlton’s security team by surprise.
“Sorry about that,” said the Old Man as Harvath met him in the driveway and the two shook hands. “Something has come up. Can we talk inside?”
&n
bsp; “As long as you’re okay with casual Monday,” replied Harvath, referring to his shorts-and-no-shirt look.
The older man nodded and followed him inside. After pulling a shirt from the hall closet and putting it on, Harvath directed his new boss to the kitchen.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Please,” said Reed as he sat down at the kitchen table and placed his briefcase next to him. “I understand Iraq was a success.”
“Not for the little boy who died.”
“I was sorry to hear about that.”
Harvath didn’t reply. He kept his back to the man, pulled two large mugs out of the cupboard, and set them on the counter.
“I haven’t read your full debrief yet,” continued Carlton. “Did you go through with the whole thing?”
There was silence, and the Old Man waited. Finally, Harvath said, “All of it.”
While Carlton was a master at psychological operations, this assignment had been Harvath’s from start to finish. He had dubbed it Paradise Lost. The idea was to shake any other al-Qaeda cells who might be considering the kidnapping and torture of children. Upon each terrorist body at the safe house was left a black envelope. Inside the envelope was a detailed account, in Arabic, of horrible things supposedly done to the men before they had been killed. Placed into the mouth of each terrorist had been a pickled pig’s foot from a jar that Harvath had brought with him from the U.S.
The idea of the notes in the black envelopes was to send a message to all of the other terrorists preying on children in Iraq. They would not die martyrs’ deaths. They would not go to Paradise. They would be defiled before their god. They would be unclean and unworthy. And to make sure the point was driven home, the pickled pigs’ feet were placed into the mouth of each of the corpses.
It was a derivative of the Colombian necktie, and Harvath was confident word of it would spread quickly, its meaning clear.
Carlton changed the subject. “You heard about Rome?”
Harvath filled the coffee cups and brought them to the table where he sat down. “I did. Twenty American college students.”
“Plus their teacher, the bus driver, and eleven others who had the misfortune of being near that bus when it detonated at the Colosseum. Current count has over forty wounded.”
He shook his head. “Do we have any leads?”
Reaching into his briefcase Carlton withdrew a folder. “The Italians are investigating a rumor about four Muslim men trying to purchase military-grade explosives in Sicily. The same kind used in the attack in Rome.”
Sicily could mean only one thing. “They think the Mafia’s involved?”
“That’s what they thought at first. And considering the fact that the Cosa Nostra did over two billion dollars in illicit-weapons trafficking last year, it makes sense to start with them.”
“So there’s a connection?”
Carlton shook his head. “From what they’ve uncovered, the Mafia was happy to sell the suspects guns, but they drew the line at explosives, fearing correctly that they might be used on Italian soil.”
“Then where did the terrorists get the explosives?”
“According to the Italians, the explosives came in through another channel. A man mentioned in chatter before and after the attack—Moscerino.”
“Who is Moscerino?” asked Harvath.
“It’s not a who exactly, it’s a what,” replied Carlton, as he slid the file across the table. “Moscerino is Italian for ‘dwarf.’”
Harvath hesitated as he reached for the file. It was only a fraction of a second, but the old man noticed.
“Based on a tip they received, the Italians located a private airfield in the north of Sicily where the exchange supposedly took place. Sifting through air traffic control records, they traced the plane to a charter company in Naples. After being served with a court order, the company handed over its records and made the pilot available for questioning.”
“And let me guess. He admitted to flying a dwarf in and out of Sicily?”
“Along with two very large dogs.”
Harvath didn’t like it. “Did the pilot see anything?” he asked as he flipped through the folder. “Did he see any Muslim men or any alleged transaction take place?”
“No. Whatever happened, it took place inside a closed hangar. The passenger and his dogs deplaned with a large Storm case on wheels, entered the hangar, and then about ten minutes later returned without the case, reboarded the plane, and instructed the pilot to take him back to Naples.”
“What? No aluminum briefcase full of cash handcuffed to his wrist?”
Carlton looked at Harvath. “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you, Scot. We both know who this is.”
“I know who you think it is.”
“You’re telling me this isn’t the Troll?”
Harvath closed the file. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“And how can you be sure?”
“First of all, he sells information, not military-grade explosives. And secondly, he’d never conduct an operation like this himself. He’d use an intermediary; a cutout. Somebody is obviously trying to set him up.”
Carlton thought for a moment. “I know he helped you track down the man who shot Tracy.”
“Only after I’d erased all of his data and emptied out all of his bank accounts.”
“So there are no underlying loyalties I need to worry about between you?”
On the surface, it was a fair question. The Troll was all about money. He lacked integrity and often worked with terrorist organizations. He had taken advantage of an al-Qaeda attack on New York, which killed thousands of Americans, including one of Harvath’s best friends, to steal information from a top-secret, U.S. data-mining operation.
At the same time, though, Harvath felt sorry for him. Not only had he been born a midget, but his parents had abandoned him as a child; selling him to a brothel in Russia where he’d been starved, beaten, and forced to perform unutterable sex acts. It was difficult for Harvath to admit that he felt pity for the little man.
The pair had worked together, and Harvath had respected the Troll’s love for animals, particularly his dogs. He also respected his ability to glean information. Though he should have seen him as reprehensible, no different from the many men who operated on the wrong side of the law whom he’d been tasked with tracking down and killing over the years, he couldn’t. Despite his flaws, Harvath had come to like him.
“What I want to know,” said the Old Man, keying in again on Harvath’s hesitancy, “is if I assign you to find him, can you carry it out?”
Harvath studied the file folder, knowing what his answer should be, but instead of answering he asked a question of his own. “Is there an order for him to be terminated?”
“Would that make a difference?”
“Maybe.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t take this assignment.”
“So they do want him dead,” stated Harvath.
“Actually, they’d prefer captured, but they’ll accept dead. Considering your history together, I thought you’d want to be the one to make the choice.”
Which option did his boss think Harvath would exercise? He studied the man’s face, but couldn’t tell.
“Why isn’t the CIA spearheading this?” he finally asked.
“Ever since the Agency snatched that radical cleric in Milan, they’ve been persona non grata in Italy.”
Like everyone else in the intelligence world, Harvath knew the story. Though the Italians denied ever giving their blessing to the operation, the CIA claimed that all of the appropriate authorities had been filled in on the plan. According to the Agency, they had been granted permission to grab the al-Qaeda-aligned cleric in Milan. As part of their extraordinary rendition program, he was then flown to Egypt where, after being released two years later, he went public with stories of how he had been tortured by Egyptian interrogators.
While it wasn’t exactly great PR, what was un
forgivable was that the fifteen CIA operatives involved had used their real names during the operation to rack up hotel loyalty points. To make matters worse, they had also used their personal cell phones. It was beyond embarrassing.
“Do we have anyone in Italy working the bombing?”
“Besides a nonofficial cover operative or two the Agency secretly still has over there, the Bureau continues to have a decent relationship with the Italians and had a couple of teams wheels up within an hour of the attack.”
Harvath liked the people at the FBI, but he knew that outside the forensics specialists they’d have working the bombing, any other agents would take a backseat to their Italian counterparts. The attack had happened on Italian soil, and despite the high number of American casualties this would remain an Italian investigation.
“I still don’t buy that the Troll was involved in something like this.”
“Maybe you put too much of a dent in his business. Maybe he needed to branch out and start dealing in explosives. It doesn’t matter. We’ve been tasked with bringing him in. If you don’t want the assignment, I can give it to somebody else.”
“No,” replied Harvath, removing the file from the table. “This is mine.”
Carlton nodded. “We have an apartment in Rome you can use, unless you want to begin in Naples, in which case we’ll arrange something for you there.”
“He’s not in Italy. He’s in Spain.”
“How do you know?”
Harvath had a lot to do. Standing, he picked up his coffee mug and said, “Because he just called me to set up a meeting.”
CHAPTER 7
BILBAO
TUESDAY
After landing in Madrid, Harvath passed through immigration and customs, then took the metro into the city. It was packed with tourists.
Near the boisterous Puerta del Sol, he entered a nondescript building, rode the aging elevator to the fourth floor, and used the key he had been given to gain access to the Carlton Group’s Madrid safe house.
