by Brad Thor
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, right?”
“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.”
“Gain the advantage of the queue?” commented Cooper. “How about some professional courtesy and we skip the queue altogether?”
“Is there a problem?” the woman asked.
Casey held up her hand to silence her team.
“We require all police officers to file certain paperwork upon arrival to the Netherlands.”
“Well, we’re not police,” said Harvath.
“That’s not what I was told.”
“Our trip has been cleared by the—” he continued, but he was cut off.
“If you are not police officers, then we have a problem.”
“We are working for the American government.”
“Do you have any government identification?”
“No,” replied Harvath, trying to melt the ice around her a bit with his tone. “Our group is not issued ID cards.”
“If you are not police and you do not have proper identification from your government, we will need to get this straightened out. Have a seat, please,” she said, pointing to a row of orange plastic chairs bolted to the gray tile floor.
Harvath tried to explain but she turned her back on him, raised her radio to her mouth, and began speaking to someone in Dutch.
Casey stepped over to Harvath and said, “The religion of peace is going to blow up their city in a matter of hours and she’s jerking us around on entry requirements? I thought you had this handled.”
Harvath was just as angry as she was. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, removing his cell phone.
He scrolled to a number in his address book and sent a quick text. An immigration officer is holding us up. Where r u?
A couple of seconds later, his phone vibrated with a response. Look up.
Coming down the hallway were three men, all well over six feet tall. The men on the left and right were blond-haired and blue-eyed while the man in the middle, who was sliding his cell phone back into his pocket, had a shaved head and narrow, dark eyes like a hawk.
They looked like three Rugby captains walking out onto the field—if Rugby captains wore Italian suits, polished shoes, and Secret Service earpieces.
The man on the left ID’d van den Heuvel as the reason for the holdup and went straight for her. Though neither Harvath nor the Athena Team spoke Dutch, they got the gist of the serious dressing down he gave her.
With van den Heuvel incapacitated, the bald man came over and shook Harvath’s hand. “I’m sorry we’re late. There have been a few developments since we last talked. We have cars waiting outside.”
As they were whisked through immigration and customs, Harvath introduced Martin de Roon of the AIVD to Casey and the rest of the team.
AIVD was the acronym for the Netherlands’ General Intelligence and Security Service, the Algemene Inlichtingen- en Veiligheidsdienst, which was charged with combating both domestic and international threats to national security. After the murder of Theo van Gogh and the discovery of the Muslim Hofstad Network, AIVD had become particularly focused on the Islamic fundamentalist threat to Dutch society.
The two blond men fell to either side of the group, their heads on swivels, as Harvath and de Roon took the lead. Martin swept an ID through a card reader, pushed open a fire door, and led them all up a short flight of stairs. Opening another door, they found themselves outside. Parked in front of them were three armored BRABUS SV12 R Mercedes-Benz S600s. Recognized as the fastest sedans in the world, they were all black with deeply tinted windows.
“Did our mutual friend send these for me?” asked Harvath.
De Roon smiled and shook his head. “Members of Parliament do not drive armored Mercedes. Not even Mr. Wilders. These belong to the queen.”
Harvath and Casey climbed into the back of the first Mercedes. Cooper and Ericsson got into the second, and Rhodes and Rodriguez the third.
De Roon was sitting in the front passenger seat. The car was so quiet, it was like being in a bank vault.
Once the convoy was ready to roll, de Roon raised his sleeve mic to his mouth and gave the command to his drivers to move out.
As the convoy sped out of the airport, Harvath asked, “What have you learned about the target?”
The Dutch intelligence officer prepared his driver and then told the rest of the team over the radio to move two lanes. He then turned around in his seat to address Harvath. “The target is an accountant named Khalil al-Yaqoubi, with no record of any sort. The only thing we could find out about him is that he does the books for one of the most radical mosques in Holland. He answered the Skype call from London in his office.”
“Is he still there?”
De Roon nodded. “He is. We have a surveillance team on him. We also have active surveillance on his apartment, as well as the mosque.”
“How close together are the locations?”
“It’s all the same neighborhood, but it’s an S-U-A.”
“S-U-A?” said Casey.
“It’s Dhimmi-speak, for Sensitive Urban Area,” replied Harvath.
De Roon looked at her. “It’s actually EU-speak, but Scot’s essentially right. The subject operates in an all-Muslim neighborhood.”
“So what? It’s still part of the city of Amst
erdam, isn’t it?”
“Technically, yes. But the police won’t go there.”
“Well, as we stated upon arrival, we’re not the police and just so you know, there’s no place my team is afraid to go into.”
Harvath met de Roon’s eyes, “They’re the ones who took down the mosque in London.”
“Then maybe she should be in charge.”
Casey held up her hand. “This is Scot’s operation.”
“Do you know what a klootzak is?” he asked her.
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s what we call men like him here in Holland.”
Harvath gave de Roon the finger.
“See?” said the Dutchman. “That’s the behavior of a klootzak. They always want the most dangerous assignments and if you’re not ready to move when they are, they leave without you.”
“I think you’re referring to what we call a cowboy.”
“I suppose you could call him a cowboy, but klootzak is more offensive, and more accurate. Therefore, he is a klootzak.”
Casey looked at de Roon. “Do you two have some sort of history I need to know about?”
“It all started when Marty placed an ad in the Village Voice—” began Harvath.
“I’m not talking to you,” she said, cutting him off.
“I don’t like to think about it,” de Roon replied.
Harvath smiled. “It hurts that your boss liked me more than you.”
“He was not my boss. He was my protectee.”
“Who are we talking about?” asked Casey.
“Geert Wilders,” answered de Roon. “He’s a member of the Dutch Parliament. Scot helped us with some trouble he was having.”
Casey looked at Harvath. “What kind of trouble?”
“Do you know who Mr. Wilders is?” he asked.
“His name is familiar.”
“He produced the movie Fitna?”
Casey’s eyebrows went up. “The one the Muslims went nuts over?”
