Brad Thor - Full Black

It was also probably just as well. The Old Man was going to want Harvath to render a full debrief. There was also the issue of monitoring the Swedish investigation. Knowing the Old Man, he’d already reached out to the authorities in Sweden with a piece of intelligence that pointed the finger of responsibility for what had happened at a completely different foreign intelligence service. Whatever service he chose to implicate, he would do so in such a way as to not be airtight, but to be enough to convince the Swedes there was little doubt. It also probably served one of the many other ops the Old Man was running at the moment. He often likened running an intelligence service to dropping pebbles in a still pool. You had to know not only how far out every ripple would radiate, but which ones would intersect and with how much force. The man was truly a savant.

Was it the best way to treat an aligned nation like Sweden? No, but it was unfortunately the way the game had to be played. In the world of three-dimensional chess, checkers players found themselves swept from the board pretty fast. You were either steps ahead of everyone, even your allies, or they were steps ahead of you. The Carlton Group had been created to help catapult America back into the lead.

Considering the Old Man’s attention to detail, Harvath wasn’t surprised when moments after stepping off the jet his cell phone rang.

“Yes, sir,” he said, moving aside for the ambulance team that was transporting Mansoor and his stretcher down the stairs.

The Old Man’s voice was as clear as if he were standing right next to Harvath. “What’s the situation there?” he asked.

“They’re transferring Massachusetts to the ambulance now,” Harvath replied, referring to Mansoor Aleem by his operational code name.

“Any change in his condition?”

“Negative.”

“Are you sure he’s not faking it? That’s textbook for these guys, you know.”

Harvath was well aware that they were taught to feign illness, severe if possible, to avoid interrogation for as long as possible. They were also taught to inflict physical harm on themselves and to blame it on their captors in hopes of having their interrogations suspended altogether.

Three SEALs Harvath knew had been accused of abusing a prisoner in Iraq after the guy had thrown himself out of the back of their truck and smashed his own head against his cell wall. The SEALs were eventually exonerated, but not until after being put through a ridiculous trial and having grandstanding members of Congress suggest that all terrorist captures be videotaped via helmet cams and that they remain under video surveillance 24/7.

Harvath had a better idea. Seeing as how most of them were of little to no intelligence value, he figured he could save the U.S. government a lot of money. The United States should simply adopt a policy of no longer capturing terrorists. If we find you, you’re dead. No Gitmo. No nothing. Just dead. It would be interesting to see what ran out first-virgins in Paradise or Muslims down on earth willing to martyr themselves.

“His heart stopped, so I don’t think he’s faking it,” replied Harvath.

“Whatever it is, there’s plenty of people there who can handle it,” said the Old Man. “I need you back here double-time.”

“What’s going on?”

“Your little friend, Moonracer, has been breaking a lot of eggs.”

Harvath knew immediately who he was talking about. His little friend was a dwarf named Nicholas, who until recently had been better known to Western intelligence agencies as the Troll. He dealt in the purchase and sale of highly sensitive and often classified information used to blackmail governments and powerful individuals.

Nicholas had a way with data-both analyzing and accessing it. He had crafted countless algorithms, and one of his trading programs had been purchased by a major international financial institution. None of his legitimate clients knew his true identity. If they had, none of them would have done business with him, rightly assuming that his products contained countless trap doors.

Harvath had crossed paths with Nicholas on multiple occasions, and their relationship had moved from one of hostility to detente to friendship. Despite his stature and various peccadilloes, he was a man of amazing abilities-abilities that Harvath recognized could be of incredible value to the United States.

Nicholas had discovered Aazim’s nephew, Mansoor, and the young man’s connection to the terrorist network. Harvath wanted Nicholas to be brought inside the Carlton Group, and the Old Man had been dead set against it. He had even threatened to terminate Harvath’s contract over the issue if Harvath didn’t drop it. Harvath didn’t drop it. Nicholas was an asset and either he could be their asset, or he could be someone else’s-or worse, continue to work on his own account.

For his role in stealing classified American intelligence, Nicholas had been made an enemy of the state. The Old Man had constructed multiple conditions before he would accept Nicholas’s involvement with the Group, of which the highest and hardest was getting Nicholas pardoned.

Presented with information on Nicholas’s valuable skills and repeated cooperation with previous clandestine assignments, a closed-door meeting of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence decided to make a recommendation in favor of his pardon to the president. The president accepted their recommendation, but the pardon came with multiple strings attached, including the surrender of certain patents and trademarks Nicholas held, the money from which would be accepted in lieu of prison time.

While Nicholas complained that “Uncle Sugar,” as he liked to call the U.S. government, was bleeding him dry, he was happy to join the Carlton Group. Because of his size, he had spent most of his life alone. He felt ennobled to be part of something bigger than himself. Moonracer was the Group call sign he’d been issued.

When the Old Man said that Nicholas was “breaking a lot of eggs,” Harvath remembered Nicholas’s warning when he had joined the Group. His type of work wasn’t pretty. Much of it was also illegal. Breaking a lot of eggs meant he was going to have to do a lot of things Reed Carlton wouldn’t like. He promised to insulate him from as much of it as possible. That said, he was going to continue breaking eggs.

“Well, sir,” replied Harvath, “some organizations need leg breakers and some need egg breakers. At least we’ve got the best.”

“We can debate that later. I want you back here because he’s apparently broken enough eggs to put together an omelet.”

Harvath gripped his phone a bit tighter and lowered his voice. “Did we get a lead on something?”

“You’ll see when you get here. Now get that jet refueled and get moving.”

Harvath had no idea what Nicholas had uncovered, but he quietly prayed that it was something they could use to stop Karami and the other cells before they could strike again.

Larry Salomon had finally hit the wall and asked if there was someplace he could lie down. Hank McBride showed him to the guest room. Luke Ralston, though, was too amped up to sleep. There were too many unanswered questions moving around in his head. He stayed in the kitchen, poured himself another cup of coffee, and turned the volume on the TV back up.

Helicopter footage was being broadcast on all the local channels split-screened with live shots of reporters speaking outside the gates to Larry Salomon’s home. Comparisons to the Tate-LaBianca murders, Phil Spector, and even Nicole Simpson were being made, though none of those murders were directly comparable to what had happened.