by Brad Thor
Vaughan still didn’t believe him, but he laughed anyway.
“I’ve been thinking about my wife,” Levy interjected, his tone morose. “We had an argument yesterday. A bad one.”
“You’ve got to stay strong, Josh,” said Vaughan. “We’re going to make it.”
“What if we don’t?”
“We will.”
“How? Nobody knows where the hell we are. We don’t even know where we are.”
“I guarantee you that our wives are raising holy hell right now,” replied Vaughan. “The fact that Paul and I are cops means that CPD will be working extra hard to find us.”
“I didn’t tell my wife where we were going or who we were surveilling,” said Levy.
There was silence. Finally, Davidson admitted, “I didn’t give my wife specifics either.”
Beneath the darkness of his hood, Vaughan could feel the other men’s eyes shift toward him. He knew what they wanted to hear. He knew what they needed to hear and so he said, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I told my wife everything.”
The other two didn’t respond. They knew he was lying.
CHAPTER 51
LONDON
Talk to me, Bob,” said Harvath as the Lynx flew over Westminster Bridge and decreased its speed as the pilot awaited further instructions.
“We had a flurry of activity and then everything stopped,” Ashford replied. “Somebody pinged the cell members’ phones from different numbers and when they didn’t respond, whoever it was began trying to activate the detonators on the explosives. We had the caller traced to a one-block area.”
“How many buildings are we talking about?”
“The caller wasn’t in a building. He was outside, moving.”
“Was he in a vehicle or on foot?”
“We don’t know,” said the MI5 man.
“How about CCTV cameras? Were there any in the area?”
“Yes. Rita has already pulled the footage and we’re rolling it back to the time the calls were placed. The first filter is people visibly using phones. The next is headsets or earbuds. If someone is seen using more than one phone or changing SIM cards then obviously we …” the MI5 man’s voice trailed off.
“Can you repeat?” said Harvath. “I didn’t get that last part.”
Marx’s voice came back over the radio. “I think we have our man. Arab male, early forties. Approximately two meters tall and eighty kilos.”
Harvath did the conversion in his head—six feet and around 175 pounds.
“He has short black hair and a goatee,” Marx continued. “He is wearing a brown sport coat, a blue jumper, khaki trousers, and dark shoes.”
“What happened to Bob?”
“He seems to be having trouble with his radio,” said Marx.
“You’re sure this is our guy?”
“Positive. We have footage of him operating three different devices.”
“Where is he and which direction is he headed?”
“We ID’d him off of footage from several minutes ago,” said the woman from Scotland Yard. “We need to reacquire him. We’re sorting the live feeds now. Stand by.”
Harvath turned to the pilot. “Where can you set us down?”
“There’s a helipad at the London Hospital in Whitechapel,” he replied, pointing down at his map.
“Too far,” replied Harvath, who then hailed Ashford again. “Bob, I need to know which direction the subject was heading.”
“North, but as best we can tell, he doubled back,” replied Ashford, his radio working again. “We’re still trying to find him.”
“He’s running SDRs.”
“Let him. We don’t have anyone on him yet, so there’s nothing for him to pick up.”
“What if he gets on the Tube?” asked Harvath.
“We’ve got cameras in all the stations. Hold on a second.”
“Do you have him?”
“I think so. Stand by. Is it confirmed?” Harvath heard him say over his open mic. Moments later he came back and replied, “Yes, we’ve reacquired him. The sport coat is gone. He’s got the blue jumper on now along with a pair of wire-rim glasses. The khakis and shoes are the same.”
“He’s definitely running SDRs,” said Harvath.
“Agreed. Right now he is on Waterloo Place, near the Sofitel headed toward Trafalgar. We’re going to mobilize all the teams we have and flood the area. We’re getting his picture out to police as well.”
“Don’t do that,” Harvath cautioned.
“Why the devil shouldn’t we?”
“If he’s the controller of the East London cell, he’s going to need to get in touch with his superior to sort out what just happened. They have no idea how deeply they’ve been penetrated and if other cells are at risk.”
“What if we lose him?” asked Marx now.
“The only way that will happen is if we spook him. So we won’t spook him. The last thing we want to do is put the kind of surveillance on him that he’d be expecting.”
“You want to use your team again.”
Harvath looked at Casey and the rest of the Athena Team, who all flashed him thumbs-up. “Your people can establish a loose cordon,” Harvath said. “Keep it at least three or four blocks out. We’ll let my team work inside the bubble.”
“You realize that just because they’re women, that doesn’t mean he won’t take notice of them. If he sees any of them a second time, we’re going to have a problem.”
“So let’s make sure we don’t have any problems. Put your teams into the area, but hold them as far back as possible. We’ll stay on the radios and you can give us CCTV updates as to what our man is doing. Meanwhile, try to find out who the hell he is and get me everything you can on him.”
“We will,” said Marx. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” replied Harvath glancing back down at the map. “I’m going to need you to make an important phone call for me.”
CHAPTER 52
The Lynx helicopter flared as it came in and landed on the Horse Guards Parade exercise ground in Whitehall. Crowds of tourists, gathered for the famous changing of the guard, were kept a safe distance away by formally garbed Household Cavalry troopers.
Both Harvath and the Athena Team members were familiar with the Household Cavalry, as it was a highly respected operational regiment whose personnel, which included Prince Harry, had served courageously in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
A special contingent of troopers spirited the helicopter’s passengers to the archway that led to the street. There were shouts of “Coming through. They have an ivory!” as the team passed beneath the ceremonial arch reserved solely for the queen and those who had been given the queen’s permission to pass in the form of a formal ivory invitation. Harvath had no idea if Marx had contacted the queen, but the speed and professionalism with which they were ushered through was remarkable.
Out on the street, they divided up into teams and Harvath watched as the women transformed right before his eyes. They made subtle adjustments to their clothes and hairstyles that could later be changed at a moment’s notice and would result in their appearance’s being significantly altered. Like their male colleagues, this Delta Force detachment was exceedingly well trained.
Once again, Harvath was teamed with Gretchen Casey. Cooper went with Ericsson and Rodriguez went with Rhodes. Halfway up the street, he watched Cooper and Ericsson duck inside a T-shirt shop. He could see the scene playing out in his mind without even being there. In a hurry, their tour bus leaving momentarily, two tourists wanted to stock up on a bunch of souvenirs.
If they were smart, which Harvath already knew they were, they’d be buying a bunch of clothing to help further alter their appearance. The bonus was that the bags they’d be carrying would make them look even more like tourists.
As they approached the statue of Sir Henry Havelock with Lord Nelson’s column and Trafalgar looming behind, Harvath was amazed at the number of people that were out. Black cabs, double-decker and tour buses di
sgorged people on every corner, and somewhere in that mass of humanity was the man they were looking for.
Because of the number of operatives now involved, Ashford wanted firm call signs and Harvath’s team had been designated Corona. He was Corona One; Casey, Corona Two; Cooper, Corona Three; Ericsson, Four; Rodriguez Five; and Rhodes Six. Ashford took the call sign Viceroy.
Harvath and Casey had picked up a tourist map, while the other women used maps that they had found on the Web via their iPhones.
They gave Trafalgar a wide berth and stayed well across the street. Via the bone mic he was wearing, Harvath pretended to consult his map with Casey and said, “Okay, Viceroy. Where’s the subject?”
“He’s heading into the National Gallery.”
Before Harvath could respond, Cooper said, “This is Corona Three. We’ve got him.”
The dance went on for over an hour. The man they were following used channels, stair-stepping, intrusion points, and timing stops. He also changed his appearance several more times, but it made no difference. He never spotted Harvath’s team and was therefore unable to shake them.
He walked into an Internet café on Charing Cross Road with Megan Rhodes right on his heels. It was a small, storefront operation that sold newspapers, cigarettes, and Western Union services in addition to Internet access. The space looked like it had once belonged to a grocer and they also offered Skype, IT maintenance, Web design, computer networking, and Web and data security. It was an odd hodgepodge to say the least.
Chewing gum and clicking away at her iPhone, Rhodes was directed by an overly pierced clerk to the only remaining terminal, the one right next to the man she was following.
Having pulled out her earpiece before walking into the café, Rhodes was now communicating via text messages with Gretchen Casey, who, along with Harvath, was two blocks away and closing.
Nikki Rodriguez took up a position outside, while Cooper and Ericsson split up to cover any rear exits. Ashford’s men maintained their perimeter, ready to move in as soon as Harvath gave the command.
“Shut up,” Rhodes snorted as she popped her gum, rolled her eyes, and thumbed out another text message.
The controller cursed the “ugly American” under his breath and tried to tune her out as he opened up his Web browser.
Rhodes set her phone down next to her computer and opened her Web browser as well and began slowly surfing through a series of tourism links for the Cotswolds.
The man next to her logged on to his Skype account, picked up the headset next to his computer, and initiated a VOIP call.
“The oranges were no good,” he said in Arabic. “I have no idea why,” he added after a pause to listen to something said by whoever was on the other end. “It might have been just this batch or it could have been throughout the entire crop.”
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 Ash-ford, 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.”
