Brad Thor - Foreign Influence

“How long until we’re there?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” replied de Roon.

Harvath looked at his watch. “We don’t have that kind of time. We’re going to have to interrogate him here.”

He wrapped al-Yaqoubi’s ankles with duct tape and then took the Taser from Casey.

Catching de Roon’s eyes in the rearview mirror he said, “No matter what happens do what I say and don’t stop driving.”

You tell me how I stop this attack,” said Harvath, who knew the fear that Moroccans had of their country’s secret police, “or I will tell the DST to begin torturing your family in Rabat.”

There was a flash of anger across al-Yaqoubi’s face. He looked like he was about to spit at him, so Harvath pulled his fist back and broke the man’s nose.

There was a crack of cartilage followed by a gush of blood that poured down the front of his shirt.

“We’ll start with your children,” said Harvath.

“I don’t believe you,” spat al-Yaqoubi. “Your country and your president forbid you from torture.”

Harvath smiled. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I know.”

“Let me disabuse you of that notion right now,” said Harvath, as he told de Roon, “Speed up and do not slow down.”

He then slammed his fist into the accountant’s stomach and shoved the man, doubled over, onto the floor of the backseat.

Reaching for the heavy, armored door, he opened it and forced al-Yaquobi’s legs outside.

“Faster,” he ordered de Roon.

The intelligence operative complied as Harvath bent down and yelled into the accountant’s ear so he could hear over the rush of the wind whipping past them. “When I let go of this door, it’ll pin your legs against the sill. When that happens, your knees will be forced to bend and your feet will begin dragging along the pavement.

“At this speed, your shoes will be burned through in a matter of seconds. Your socks will go even faster. Then the flesh from your feet will be ground away. The road underneath this car will eat through sinew and grind down your bones. The pain will be like nothing you have ever known.

“When I pull you back in, both of your feet will have been eaten away. You will beg me to kill you.”

“You cannot torture me. The Geneva and Hague conventions forbid it.”

“Those treaties prevent me from torturing lawful combatants. You’re a terrorist. This is your last chance, Khalil.”

This time, the man was able to spit before Harvath could stop him. He caught it in the face and it was full of blood. He let the door go.

They all knew when al-Yaqoubi’s shoes and socks had been burned away because the man began screaming.

Harvath pushed the door open just enough to pull him back inside. His feet looked like hamburger. “How do we stop the attack? Tell me.”

Al-Yaqoubi’s head lolled to one side and his eyes rolled up in their sockets.

“Oh no you don’t, motherfucker,” said Harvath as he juiced him with the Taser again.

The accountant’s body went rigid, and he screamed even louder this time.

Once Harvath could get him to focus, he said to Casey, “Tell the team in Rabat to start with his youngest child. Make sure the family, and in particular the children, know that this is happening because their father doesn’t care about them.”

Casey relayed the orders over her cell phone and then placed it on speaker phone and pointed it toward the backseat so al-Yaqoubi could hear the DST operator addressing his family in Rabat. The children immediately began sobbing and their mothers screamed at the news that they were to be held responsible for al-Yaqoubi’s crimes.

Harvath watched as the man began to sob. He was breaking. Harvath leaned in to rub salt in the gaping wound that had been torn inside him. “After the DST is done with them, your family’s nightmare will only get worse.”

The accountant looked at him as if to say How could it get worse?

“We will make it known to al-Qaeda that you are a traitor and that you gave up the London cell. We’ll then let them know where to find your family.”

Harvath let that sink in before adding, “The DST is very creative, but al-Qaeda is going to come up with things for your family that no one has ever heard of before. They will make an example out of them that no one will forget.”

The tears were openly running down al-Yaqoubi’s bloody face.

“You can stop all of this right now,” said Harvath. “Your family will be spared.”

The man didn’t reply.

Harvath looked back at Casey, who had withdrawn her BlackBerry. “Khalil would like the DST to start torturing his family. But make sure to let them know that they are to leave them as close to alive as possible so that al-Qaeda gets their turn.”

As Casey took her phone off speaker and lifted it to her ear, al-Yaqoubi yelled from the backseat.

“No!”

“No, what?” replied Harvath.

“I will tell you what you want to know.”

“How do we stop the attack?”

Al-Yaqoubi started shaking. He was slipping into shock. Harvath slapped him to get his attention. “Where is the attack going to take place?”

“The Red Light District.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” pleaded al-Yaqoubi.

“We know the target is Dam Square,” said Harvath.

“That was before London was interrupted.”

“What time?”

“Sometime before midnight. I don’t know exactly when.”

“How do we stop it?”

The accountant’s shivering increased.

“How do we stop it?” Harvath repeated.

“You can’t.”

“Bullshit. How are they planning to attack?”

Al-Yaqoubi’s eyes were unfocused and when he failed to respond, Harvath slapped him again and repeated his question.

“Explosive vests,” the accountant stammered.

“Not bicycles?”

“After London, everything was changed.”

“Do the men have cell phones? Can they be recalled?”

“The only phones are on the explosives they are carrying. They are in their final stage and are not supposed to have contact with each other or anyone else.”

Chicken switches, thought Harvath. Just like London. He believed al-Yaqoubi was telling him the truth. It also made sense. You wouldn’t want your martyrs reaching out to a girlfriend or family member at the last minute only to have that bring about a change of heart.

“Someone will be watching them to make sure they carry out the operation, correct?”

The accountant nodded, his pupils beginning to dilate.

“Where will he be positioned?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the bombers? Where will they be?”

“De Wallen,” he mumbled.

Harvath looked up at de Roon.

“I know it,” said the intelligence operative, “but it’s only a general district. He needs to be more specific.”

Harvath shifted his attention back to al-Yaqoubi, who was decompensating. His pulse was rapid and thready, his skin cool and clammy to the touch. They were going to lose him.

Harvath tried slapping him again, but it had no effect. He yelled into the man’s ear and knuckled his sternum without any success. “He’s crashing. He needs medical attention.”

“If we take him to a hospital, your interrogation is over,” said de Roon.

“If we don’t, he’s going to die.”

“You’re a SEAL. You have experience with battlefield medicine. Can’t you stabilize him?”

“With what?” asked Harvath, looking around. “Duct tape?”

De Roon slammed on his brakes and pulled to the shoulder. As he leapt from the car, he yelled for Casey to climb into the backseat to assist.