by Brad Thor
Full Black
( Scot Harvath - 10 )
Brad Thor
Full Black
Brad Thor
CHAPTER 1
SWEDISH COUNTRYSIDE NEAR UPPSALA FRIDAY
His timing had been perfect. Swerving back into the lane at the last possible second, he watched in his rearview mirror as the white Skoda behind him careened off the road and slammed into a large tree.
Applying his brakes, he pulled off the road and stepped out of his vehicle. The air smelled of spruce and spilled gasoline. The woman from the passenger side joined him. They had to move fast.
Half their work had already been done for them. The terrorist in the Skoda’s passenger seat had not been wearing his seat belt. He was already dead.
The driver was trying to unbuckle himself when Scot Harvath arrived at his window. He was cursing at him in Arabic from inside. Harvath removed a spark plug, often referred to as a ghetto glassbreaker, from his pocket and used it to smash the window.
Grasping the terrorist’s head, Harvath gave a sharp twist and broke his neck. Gently, he guided the dead driver’s chin down to his chest.
The final passenger was a young Muslim man seated in the back of the car who was screaming. As Riley Turner opened his door she could see he had wet himself. Painting his chest with the integrated laser sight of her Taser, she pulled the trigger.
The compressed nitrogen propulsion system ejected two barbed probes and embedded them in the young man’s flesh. The insulated wires leading back to the weapon delivered a crackling pulse of electricity that incapacitated his neuromuscular capability.
Yanking open the opposite door, Harvath carefully avoided the probes as he pulled the man from the vehicle and laid him on the ground. Once the man’s hands were FlexCuff’d behind his back, Harvath removed a roll of duct tape and slapped a piece over his mouth. Producing a pair of pliers, he yanked out the probes. The man winced and emitted a cry of pain from behind his gag. As he did, Harvath looked up and saw a familiar pearl-gray Opel minivan approaching.
The van pulled parallel with the crash scene and slowed to a stop. The sliding door opened and a man in his midtwenties, holding a shopping bag, stepped out into a puddle of radiator fluid and broken glass.
The young operative’s name was Sean Chase, and while he wasn’t a perfect match, he was the best they had.
Chase was the product of an American father and an Egyptian mother. His features were such that Arabs saw him as Arab and Westerners often took him for one of their own. The question was, would the members of the Uppsala cell accept him?
He was intended to be Harvath’s ultimate listening device and was going to switch places with the young Muslim from the backseat of the Skoda, Mansoor Aleem.
Mansoor and the Uppsala cell were the only link the United States had to a string of terrorist attacks that had targeted Americans in Europe and the United States. And as bloody as those attacks had been, they were supposedly nothing, compared to what intelligence reported the plotters were about to unleash.
Subbing Chase for Mansoor was the most crucial and the most dangerous part of the assignment. According to their limited intelligence, only two Uppsala cell members had ever met Mansoor before and actually knew what he looked like. The men were friends of his uncle, a terrorist commander by the name of Aazim Aleem.
The men had been dispatched to Arlanda airport in Stockholm to collect Mansoor and return him to the cell’s safe house two hours north. Thanks to Harvath, they were now both dead.
The team had had the men under surveillance since they had arrived at the airport. The driver had made only one phone call after they had picked up Mansoor and left the airport. Harvath felt confident the call had been to the cell in Uppsala confirming the pickup.
Harvath now pulled the young Muslim to his feet and pushed him up against the van. Drawing his Glock pistol, he placed it under the man’s chin and pulled the tape from over his mouth. “You saw what I did to your friends?”
Mansoor Aleem was trembling. Slowly, he nodded.
While his uncle was a very, very bad guy, as were the two dead men slumped in the Skoda, Mansoor was on the cyber side of the jihad and hadn’t experienced violence or dead bodies firsthand. That didn’t mean he wasn’t just as guilty as jihadis who pulled triggers, planted bombs, or blew themselves up. He was guilty as hell. He was also a potential treasure trove of information, having run a lot of his uncle’s cyber operations. Harvath had no doubt the United States would be able to extract a ton from him. But first, he wanted to be as sure as he could be that he wasn’t sending Chase into a trap.
“We know all about the Uppsala cell,” said Harvath. “We want you to take us to them.”
Mansoor stammered, trying to find his words. “I, I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t?” Harvath demanded.
“I don’t know them.”
Harvath jabbed the muzzle of his weapon further up into the soft tissue under the man’s chin. Mansoor’s eyes began to water. “Don’t bullshit me, Mansoor. We know everything you’re up to.”
“But I don’t know anything,” he said emphatically. “Honestly. I was just supposed to get on the plane. That’s all. That’s why they picked me up at the airport. I don’t know where they were taking me.”
Harvath studied the man’s face. He was looking for microexpressions, tells people often radiate when lying or under stress from an act they are about to commit.
As far as Harvath could surmise, the man wasn’t lying. “I want a list of all the cell members. Right now.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Harvath pushed the gun up harder, causing Mansoor more pain.
“I only knew the two men in the car,” he said as his eyes drifted toward the wreck.
“You’re lying to me,” said Harvath.
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Describe the other cell members to me. Their ages, backgrounds, I want all of it.”
“I don’t know!” Mansoor insisted. “You keep asking me questions I can’t answer! The only two people I know in this entire country are dead! You killed them!”
With so little time, that was as good as Harvath was going to get. Patting Mansoor down, he located his wallet and tossed it to Chase. He then went through his pockets and removed everything else.
Chase already had a U.K. passport with his picture issued in Mansoor’s name. He also had a driving permit, ATM card, two credit cards, and a host of other pocket litter that would make him even more believable.
Chase fished through the handful of items Harvath had taken from his prisoner and pocketed a boarding pass, a London Tube card, and Mansoor’s house keys.
Opening the Skoda’s trunk, the young operator sifted through Mansoor’s suitcase and quickly studied the contents as he replaced the clothing with his own. Knowing everything the cyberjihadist had packed would give him more insight into the identity he was about to assume.
When he was done, he zipped up the case, removed it from the trunk, and closed the lid. Looking at Riley Turner, he said, “Let’s get this over with.”
Turner approached and unrolled a small surgical kit. She was in her midthirties, tall, fit, and very attractive. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had blue eyes and a wide, full mouth. Removing a syringe, she began to prep an anesthetic.
Chase shook his head. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ll pass on the Botox.”
“It’s your call,” she replied, gesturing for him to sit down on the backseat. “This is going to hurt, though.”
The young intelligence operative winked at her. “I can take it.”
She swept back his dark hair and abraded his forehead with a piece of sandpa
per. To his credit, he sat there stoically, but that was the easy part. Next, Turner removed her scalpel. Placing it at his hairline, she dug in and cut a short, craggy line.
Chase sucked air through his clenched teeth as the blood began to flow down his forehead and into his eyes.
Turner handed him a handkerchief.
“God, that hurts,” he said.
“I warned you.”
Having secured Mansoor in the van, Harvath now rejoined them. Bending down, he gathered up a handful of broken glass and handed it to Turner, who sprinkled pieces into Chase’s hair, as well as the folds of his clothing.
Harvath searched the dead men and recovered their cell phones. After cloning their SIM cards, he reassembled the driver’s phone and tossed it to Chase, saying, “Showtime.”
CHAPTER 2
Mustafa Karami had not been expecting another call, especially one from Waqar. Waqar was supposed to be driving. Nafees was to send a text message when they got close to Uppsala. Something must have gone wrong. Karami answered his phone with trepidation.
“Please, you must help me,” said a distraught voice.
“Who is this?”
“Mansoor.”
“Why are you calling from this number?”
“There’s been an accident. I don’t know what to do.”
Karami was a thin, middle-aged man with a wispy gray beard. He had been extremely sick as a child growing up in Yemen and had almost died. The sickness had affected his physical development. He appeared frail and much older than he actually was.
Despite his physical limitations his mind was incredibly sharp. He was well suited to the role he had been assigned. Nothing escaped his flinty gaze or his keen intellect.
Having been brutally tortured as a young man by the Yemeni government, he had learned the hard way to place operational security above all else. He didn’t like speaking on cell phones. “Where are your traveling companions?”
“I think they’re both dead.”
“Dead?” Karami demanded.
“A car swerved and we hit a tree.”
“What kind of car?”
“I don’t know. Who cares what kind of car? Waqar and Nafees are dead.”
The young man was borderline hysterical. Karami tried to calm him down. “Are you injured?” he asked calmly.
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I hit my head. There’s some blood.”
Karami needed to bring him in. “Is the vehicle operable?”
“No,” replied the young man.
“Were there any witnesses? Have the police been called?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know that either. What am I supposed to do? Are you going to come get me or not?”
Karami forgave the boy his insolence. He was scared and very likely in shock. “Tell me what you see around you, so I can discern where you are.”
Chase rattled off a few of the landmarks nearby.
“Okay,” Karami replied as he removed a map from his desk. “That’s good. I believe I know where you are. I will send two of the brothers to pick you up. There’s a village less than three kilometers up the road. As you enter it, you’ll see a grocery market on your left. Beyond that is a soccer pitch. Wait there and the brothers will come for you.”
“Praise be to Allah,” said Chase.
Karami gave him a list of things he wanted him to do and then ended the call.
Turning to two of his men, Karami relayed what had happened and dispatched them to pick up the young computer wizard.
When the men had gone, Karami turned to his most devoted acolyte, Sabah. Sabah was a large, battle-hardened Palestinian. In his previous life, before becoming a mujahideen, he had been a corrupt police officer in the West Bank town of Ramallah.
“I want you to find this accident, Sabah, and I want you to make sure that it was in fact an accident. Do you understand?”
Sabah nodded.
“Good,” Karami said in response. “Whatever you learn, you tell no one but me. Understood?”
Once again, Sabah nodded.
“We cannot afford accidents. Not with everything that has happened. We can only trust each other. No one else.” With a wave of his hand, Karami ordered him out. “Go.”
He was paranoid, but he had cause. So many of their plans had been undone that Mustafa Karami was suspicious of everything and everyone.
He hoped that Sabah would be able to get to the bottom of it. It was a small country road, after all, and not very often traveled. Karami had selected the route himself. If the accident scene was undisturbed, Sabah would be able to ascertain what had happened. If the police or bystanders were already there, there would be nothing he could do.
If that was the case, Karami would have to conduct his own investigation. It would begin with Mansoor Aleem himself. Until he was satisfied, he could not risk trusting even the nephew of a great man like Aazim Aleem. Anyone could be corrupted. Anyone could be gotten to.
Fulfilling their final obligation was all that mattered now. Karami had sworn an oath. He would stick to that oath and he would not allow anything or anyone to get in his way.
He was reflecting on whether it was a good idea to bring Mansoor to the actual safe house or find somewhere else for him to remain temporarily when the Skype icon on his laptop bounced.
He had been sent a message from the man whom he served-the Sheikh from Qatar.
Everything is in place? asked the Sheikh.
Everything is in place, typed Karami.
Stay ready, replied the Sheikh. God willing, you will be called to move soon. And with that, the Sheikh was gone. Karami refocused his mind on Mansoor. For the time being, he would have to be kept elsewhere, away from the safe house and the rest of the cell. There was too much at stake.
• • •
The man who called himself “Sheikh from Qatar” closed his laptop with his liver-spotted hands and looked out the window of his cavernous apartment. He had quite literally a thirty-million-dollar view of the Manhattan skyline. It was stunning. Even at this predawn hour.
He had always made it a policy to be up before the markets. Despite his advancing age, he found he needed less sleep, not more.
As he privately swilled astronomically expensive vitamin cocktails and fed on exotic hormone and stem cell injections, he publicly told people he’d had abundant reserves of energy ever since he was a boy and credited genetics and his impeccable constitution as the source of his vigor.
Such was the Janus-faced character of James Standing. Even his name was a lie.
Born Lev Bronstein to Romanian Jewish parents, he was sent from Europe to live with relatives in Argentina at the outset of World War II. His parents remained behind, tending their business and hoping things would get better. They never made it out of the death camps.
At thirteen, he ran away from his Argentinean relatives, renounced his Judaism, and changed his name to Jose Belmonte-an amalgamation of the names of two world-famous Spanish bullfighters at the time-Jose Gomez Ortega and Juan Belmonte Garcia.
The newly minted Belmonte found his way to Buenos Aires, where he took a job as a bellboy in a high-end hotel. Thanks to his drive and proficiency for languages, he started filling in on the switchboard at night, eventually moving into the position full-time. It was at this point that he began to build his fortune.
Belmonte, nee Bronstein, listened in on all of the hotel’s telephone conversations, especially those of its wealthy guests. At fifteen, he entered the stock market. By eighteen, he was perfecting his English, and at twenty, he had changed his name yet again and moved to America.
Standing had been the name of a handsome American guest with a gorgeous, buxom, blond American wife who visited the hotel in Buenos Aires every winter. To Belmonte, they looked like movie stars and represented everything he felt the world owed him. Using the first name of one of his favorite American writers, James Fenimore Cooper, he adopted the Standing name as
his surname and James Standing was born.
He emigrated to America, where he parlayed his substantial savings and penchant for trading on insider information into one of the greatest financial empires the world had ever seen.
Now, from his gilded perch overlooking the capital of world finance, he read all of the papers every morning before most of the city was even awake.
Regardless of his morning ritual, he would have been up early today anyway. In fact, he hadn’t been able to sleep very well. He was waiting for an important phone call.
Someone, to put it in vulgar street terminology, had fucked with the wrong guy. That “wrong guy” being James Standing. And the someone who had fucked with the wrong guy was about to be taught a very painful and very permanent lesson.
In fact, it would be the ultimate lesson and would stand as a subtle reminder to the rest of his enemies that there were certain people who were not to be crossed. Not that Standing would take credit for what was going to happen. That would be incredibly foolish. Better to simply let people assume. The mystery of whether he’d been involved or not would only add to the aura of his considerable power.
Though he’d gotten to where he was by breaking all of the rules, he still needed to appear to be playing by them-at least for a little while longer.
Soon, though, like an old hotel on the Las Vegas strip, America was going to be brought down in a controlled demolition. And when that happened, the rules would no longer apply to James Standing.
CHAPTER 3
COLDWATER CANYON LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
T he red Porsche 911 GT3 pulled to the top of the cobblestone driveway and stopped. “Are you going to be okay?”
The man in the passenger seat said nothing. In the middle of the motor court, a verdigris Poseidon watched over a group of nymphs carrying golden seashells. As water tumbled from one shell to another, the sound cascaded through the car’s open windows.
