Brad Thor - Full Black

“Not good,” he stated as he got onto the toll road.

“That’s what I was told. I hope that there’s some way we can help. The loss of life your country has suffered is nothing short of tragic.”

Harvath nodded and changed the subject. “We’ve got a room reserved for you at a hotel in Reston, but the boss was hoping you wouldn’t mind coming straight into the office. We want to get you up to speed and then someone can drive you back to the hotel. Would that be okay?”

“Of course,” he replied. Then, changing the subject back, he asked, “Any change in the status of Aazim Aleem’s nephew? What was his name again?”

“Mansoor Aleem? No change, but we’re all hopeful.”

“You picked him up where? Somewhere in Scandinavia, I’m assuming.”

“Sweden, actually,” replied Harvath.

“So you all were behind that bit of unpleasantness in Uppsala then. You know the Swedes think it was the French.”

“That’s what the boss wanted them to think.”

“He’s a very clever man, that Peaches,” said Ashford.

“He is indeed,” said Harvath.

“What was Mansoor Aleem getting up to in Uppsala, of all places?”

“From what we have been able to put together, after Aazim was killed in Yemen, a new commander in the network was promoted. His name is Mustafa Karami and he was based in Uppsala. Karami brought Mansoor to Sweden because he wanted to know more about someone they referred to as the Sheikh from Qatar. Ring any bells?”

Harvath tried to study the Brit’s face, but it was too dark in the SUV.

“I can’t say I’m familiar with any Sheikh from Qatar, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have something in our files. When I get near a computer, I can send a note back to my office and have them begin checking.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Ashford, who then asked, “So Mansoor Aleem is the young Arab that witnesses saw being taken out of that apartment building in Uppsala and driven away?”

“No. That was one of our guys we had managed to infiltrate their cell with.”

Harvath didn’t need to see the Brit’s face. The surprise was evident in his voice when the MI5 man said, “Really?”

“Yes,” relied Harvath. “He had infiltrated their Chicago cell, too. That made a big difference in lessening the effect of the attacks they attempted to pull off there. We’ve been able to learn a lot about the structure of the network.”

“Anything that we might find helpful back in the U.K.?”

“Tons.”

Ashford listened as Harvath laid out everything they knew about the Chinese, Site 243, and the unrestricted-warfare plan.

Harvath was still talking when they pulled into the underground parking structure beneath the Carlton Group’s offices. In the first flash of overhead fluorescent lighting, he was able to catch the look on the Brit’s face. It didn’t last long, but it lasted long enough. The man was dumbfounded. And it wasn’t by the audacious scope of the unrestricted warfare plan, it was by how much Reed Carlton and his group had been able to put together.

Harvath parked his Tahoe and he and Ashford climbed out. “Have you been to the office before?” he asked.

“No. I haven’t,” replied Asford. “This is my first time. He told me he had a devil of a time finding the right space. He said he made a lot of modifications and that I’d be quite surprised with what he had done to it.”

Harvath waved a key fob in front of a reader and opened the glass doors for the main elevator bank. He allowed the MI5 man to step in first and then followed. Reaching over, he pushed the button for the twenty-fourth floor.

“So, a key fob? That’s the extent of your security?” Ashford said with a chuckle. “What am I missing?”

Harvath forced a smile. “You know what they say. When it comes to security, it’s not necessarily what you see, but what you don’t see that counts.”

“Quite right,” the Brit agreed.

On the twenty-fourth floor, Harvath let his guest step into the hallway first and then exited the elevator car behind him. He led him to a large door with gray lettering that read Parsons, Charrington amp; O’Brien.

“Law firm?” the MI5 man asked.

“Accounting firm,” said Harvath as he withdrew a set of keys.

“I suppose it has a bit more panache than Universal Exports, now, doesn’t it?”

Opening the door, Harvath forced another smile and showed his guest in. When the door had closed behind them, he took a step away from Ashford and, gesturing at the small reception area, asked, “So, are you surprised?”

The MI5 man looked around at the empty waiting room, wondering if this was some sort of a joke.

“How about now?” asked Harvath as his fist came sailing forward and nailed the older man right in the stomach.

Harvath would have liked nothing more than to have beaten Ashford to death, but the Old Man had been very specific not only about where he could hit him, but how hard. In case they needed to use him operationally, there were to be no blows to his head, neck, or face.

The punch had completely knocked the wind out of the MI5 operative, and after removing everything from his pockets, Harvath dragged him down a narrow interior hallway to the room that had been set up for the interrogation. It was important that they work fast.

They needed to keep him mentally off-balance. The harder they came at him the harder it would be for him to concoct a story. Kicking open the door, Harvath dragged Ashford inside.

Reed Carlton knew one very important thing about the MI5 operative. It was the only pressure point he needed to conduct a successful interrogation.

Harvath dropped Ashford into a prisoner restraint chair that looked as if it had been designed for Hannibal Lecter.

“What the hell are you doing?” the man wheezed, as the air began to rush back into his lungs.

He struggled, but Harvath struck him again, this time in the solar plexus, almost knocking back out what little air he had recovered.

When he ceased struggling, Harvath worked quickly to strap him in. When he was finished, the MI5 operative’s torso, limbs, and head were completely immobilized.

On a table in the corner was a large black bag. Harvath removed a small handful of what looked like pieces of candy, dropped them in his pocket, and walked back over to Ashford.

“Why are you doing this?” the man demanded once more.

Harvath removed one of the ammonia inhalant ampules from his pocket, and placing it under Ashford’s nose, cracked it open.

The Brit’s eyes shot open wide and he tried to twist his head to get away from the smell, but he couldn’t. Harvath waited a moment and then did it again.

“Stop it!” Ashford shouted, but Harvath kept going until he had used up all the ampules he had in his pocket.

“I want Reed here, right now,” Ashford demanded.

Harvath ignored him as he retrieved three large strobe lights and, placing them on stands, positioned them about a foot away from the MI5 operative’s face.

“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with?” Ashford was now screaming. “Do you know the kind of trouble you’re in? Do you?”

Harvath smiled. The Brit was getting nice and worked up. Walking back over to the black duffel, he removed a pair of stereo headphones with an extralong cord. Placing the headphones over Ashford’s ears, Harvath then ran the cord back to a large boom box sitting under the table and plugged it in.

It had been Carlton’s idea to exacerbate Ashford’s propensity for migraines. That’s why the plane had taken off from London without beverages. Dehydration was a frequent migraine trigger. Harvath, though, had wanted the man to suffer.