Brad Thor - Foreign Influence

“You mean now that your thugs have tortured those two cops?”

“It’s not the time for recriminations,” replied Jarrah.

“I told you that those guns were supposed to stay in the mosque until we were ready to use them.”

“Shahab, what is done is done. We need to plan.”

“You want to make a plan?” said Rashid. “Here’s my plan. We pack everything up, send everyone home, and put this entire operation in a box and bury it for at least two years; maybe longer.”

The man shook his head. “We can’t do that.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“There are always choices.”

“Marwan, your thugs tortured two cops. Do you understand that? Maybe we could have made up a mistaken-identity story about how we thought they were breaking into the mosque when we found them, but not now.”

“Then we need to kill them.”

Rashid shook his head. “We could, but that might not be the right move; not yet.”

Jarrah looked at him. “Then what would you like to do?”

The younger man thought about it for a moment and then said, “Obviously, the mosque is no longer safe. We’ll need to move everything and we need to do it right away.”

“Move it where?”

“You know where.”

Jarrah now shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. It is too dangerous.”

“You wanted choices. You can stay here, compromised, or you can move the operation. Just know that if you decide to stay, you’ll be staying without me.”

“You would leave?”

“If you force me to, yes.”

“For the sake of argument,” Jarrah replied, “let’s say we move. What will we do with the policemen?”

“We’ll move them too.”

“Why do you want to take that risk? It seems easier to just be done with them.”

“I know it seems that way,” said Rashid, “but they could end up being worth more to us alive than dead.”

“No. They’re a complication. We need to be rid of them.”

“Marwan, you agreed to let me run this cell and this part of the operation. I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Do you not trust my judgment?”

“Of course I trust your judgment. You are like a son to me.”

“How many times have I risked my life for you?”

“More than once, Shahab. More than once.”

“So?”

After a short period of reflection, the man finally relented. “Okay, we’ll move. I’m not happy about it, but I agree with you. We cannot stay here.”

Rashid remained quiet.

“And we will bring the police officers,” he added.

“It’s the right choice.”

Jarrah shrugged.

Rashid removed his cell phone as he opened the office door. “We’ll need to start as soon as possible and do it in two trucks.”

They continued discussing their plans as they walked downstairs to the basement. The men who had captured the police officers were standing in the narrow hallway talking. One of them was smoking.

Seeing the men standing there, Rashid’s anger resurfaced. In rapid-fire Arabic, he berated them for their mistakes. There was no excuse for it.

He was lecturing them on how stupid they had been to carry their weapons outside the mosque when the door to the alley burst open.

The men were caught completely off guard. A bright flashlight clamped to the barrel of the intruder’s weapon blinded the men as they pulled out their guns and attempted to shoot.

“Drop your weapons!” the intruder yelled.

None of the men complied.

As the first pistol was pointed in his direction, Levy pulled the trigger of his Remington 870 shotgun and hit the two men closest to him.

Racking the slide, he prepared to fire again, but before he could pull the trigger, two shots rang out and he was knocked backward into the alley.

Smoke was still rising from the barrel of his pistol as Abdul Rashid pushed past the men and rushed to the door.

He kicked the intruder’s shotgun away. Pointing his weapon at the man’s head, he said, “Don’t even think of moving.”

With pain spreading through his body and blood soaking through his clothes, Josh Levy did exactly as he was told.

LONDON

Harvath flew out on the private jet Carlton had arranged for him, leaving things back in Geneva in the best state he could.

Nicholas remained in the warehouse while Peio helped Harvath transport Adda Sterk to the Carlton Group safe house. Riley was already there tending to Michael Lee, and she secured the woman in one of the bedrooms. The priest agreed to stay until the interrogation team Carlton had en route arrived. He had no desire to watch them wring whatever else could be wrung from the woman.

Harvath still wanted to have a discussion with the priest about what had happened at the chalet, but the opportunity never really presented itself. It was none of his business, and he figured he should probably drop it and leave the man to his own conscience.

He had fed everything he was able to download from Sterk, including her medical condition, back to Carlton in Virginia. Outside of the dates and locations, she seemed to know very little about the attacks themselves.

She believed the cells were composed of Muslim males, but was uncertain of their ethnicity. They would be using homemade bombs packed with marbles, ball bearings, nails, or screws to act as shrapnel to maximize their killing power.

Sterk also couldn’t tell him if the men would be wearing suicide vests, if the bombs would be carried in backpacks, or if they would be packed in a car. She didn’t know how many bombs there would be or how they were designed to go off. She couldn’t say if the men would be hiding their explosives and leaving as had been done in Rome, or blowing themselves up as had been done in Paris. She also had no idea if there was one bomb intended for Piccadilly and one for Amsterdam’s Dam Square, multiple bombs at both, or one bomb at the former and multiple bombs at the latter.

As much as he wanted to, Harvath couldn’t be two places at once. With such sketchy information, the choice of which city to try to head off an attack in was a toss-up. It all came down to the numbers. He would go where the most American lives were at risk and it was the Old Man who made the call-London.

Carlton had excellent contacts in Great Britain; experienced people he could trust. He also had something else-a Delta unit training with the British SAS at a classified site in Wales. With one call from the Old Man to the DOD, the unit was packing its bags and heading for London.

When Harvath arrived, he was met by one of the deans of MI5, Robert Ashford. He was a barrel-chested man of medium height with steel-gray hair and a broad, flat nose. He looked very capable of handling trouble and also looked like he had probably dealt plenty of it out over the course of his career.

Ashford introduced himself and handed over his card. “Bob Ashford. Welcome to England.” Looking at Harvath’s bag, he added, “I understand there’s nothing special you need to declare, correct?”

As the capability kit at the safe house in Geneva wouldn’t cover Riley and the interrogation team, the Old Man had instructed Harvath to leave his gear behind. “Correct,” Harvath said, tapping his bag. “I only brought my toothbrush and a change of underwear. I was told you know all the best places to shop.”

Ashford smiled, removed his credentials, and navigated Harvath through the passport control and customs checkpoints. Parked in a fire lane just outside was a black BMW. The MI5 man directed Harvath to the passenger seat and then walked around and got behind the wheel.