Brad Thor - Foreign Influence

Al-Yaqoubi howled and had trouble catching his breath. “He, he, he preaches on the Internet and on CDs and cassette tapes. They call him the Mufti…” his voice trailed off.

“The what?” Harvath demanded.

“The Mufti of Jihad.”

That was a name Harvath had heard of. The man was a rock star to jihadists around the world. He kept a very low profile and as far as Harvath knew, no one had ever been able to identify him.

Harvath disengaged the forceps and slid them out of the man’s foot. “The Mufti of Jihad is a ghost,” he said. “No one knows who he is. Why would he make his identity known to you?”

It took a moment for al-Yaqoubi to respond. “Because he and I were in the camps together. He was my instructor. He recruited me.”

“Describe him to me.”

The accountant strained at the wrists and remembered that he was tied down. He was breathing heavily. “Hands. He has no hands. Only hooks.”

“Why?”

“Jihad, Afghanistan.”

The man was slipping away again.

“Focus, Khalil,” Harvath ordered. “Where is he from?”

“Don’t know.”

“Saudi Arabia? Egypt? What languages does he speak?”

“Arabic and…” he said, his voice trailing off.

“And what?”

When he didn’t answer, Harvath slapped him. “What other language does he speak?”

“English. Very good English. Like an Englishman.”

“Does he live in England? Is that where he’s based? Who else is involved?” Harvath demanded. “Tell me about America. Who is in charge of the attacks in America?”

The accountant didn’t answer, and Harvath knew he was on the verge of blacking out again. He grabbed a package of smelling salts and looked at de Roon.

The intelligence officer nodded. He had no intention of getting in Harvath’s way this time.

Harvath opened the salts and waved them under the terrorist’s nose.

Al-Yaqoubi began coughing and his eyes started to normalize as he shook his head back and forth. Harvath tossed the salts aside and asked his question again. “Who is in charge of the American attacks?”

“There is an Iraqi,” sputtered al-Yaqoubi. “He is in charge of American operations.”

“What’s his name? How do I find him?”

“I don’t know his name. Aleem was the only one I knew by name. The rest of us used code names.”

Harvath doubted Aleem was his real name. He would have used a pseudonym as well.

“The man in America,” said Harvath as he raised the forceps again and hovered over the accountant’s foot, “what’s his code name?”

“Yusuf. We called him Yusuf.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“He is a businessman of some sort.”

“What kind of business?”

“I don’t know.”

Harvath debated shoving the forceps back inside the man’s foot, but held back. “You said he was an Iraqi. How long has he been in the United States?”

“I don’t know.”

“I am losing my patience, Khalil. You don’t seem to know much at all. Where in Iraq is the man from?”

“Fallujah. He comes from a large family there.”

“How do you know?”

“Iraqis like to brag about their families. He had a cousin who was the local commander of the National Guard. He talked about him a lot. He said that was how he was introduced to al-Qaeda.”

Harvath lowered the forceps. “What was his cousin’s name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Try harder!” Harvath shouted. “Your family’s life depends on it.”

Al-Yaqoubi’s pulse was pounding as he searched his brain for the name. “Hadi? Halef? I can’t remember.”

Harvath looked at de Roon. “Call Rabat. Tell the DST that Khalil has been uncooperative and that they should begin.”

“Hakim!” the accountant yelled, the name rushing back to him. “His cousin’s name was Omar-Hakim.”

Omar-Hakim was the Iraqi National Guard commander Harvath had forced into helping him take down the al-Qaeda safe house outside Fallujah; the same safe house where the child hostages had been kept. Stunned, Harvath dropped the surgical instrument he was holding and ran from the infirmary.

Bursting through one of the exterior bulkheads, he began dialing the number for his contact in Fallujah before he even had a full-strength signal.

The call failed. Harvath cursed and dialed again. A few moments later, Mike Dent answered his phone.

“Mike, it’s Scot,” said Harvath. “Is Omar-Hakim still alive?”

“No,” replied the man from Fallujah. “He was tortured to death a couple of days after you dropped him off. Are you having an attack of conscience or something?”

The Iraqi had gotten what he deserved. In fact, he probably deserved much worse, but that didn’t matter now. “Do you know any of his family members in Fallujah?”

“I don’t know any of them, but everyone knows of them. Why?”

“He has a cousin. A businessman in America. I need you to find out everything you can about him.”

“How soon do you need it?” asked Dent.

“I need it immediately and I don’t care what you have to do to get it. Do you understand?”

“Can I use local talent?”

“Use whoever you have to and agree to pay them whatever they want,” said Harvath, “but you get me that information and you get it for me ASAP.”

CHICAGO

I have already made provisions for weapons and ammunition,” said Marwan. “Your trip is not necessary. Focus on the remaining elements which need to be accomplished.”

Rashid tried to explain. “When we left the hotel, did you notice the two cops standing there?”

“Yes, I saw them, but I don’t-”

“How about their vests?”

“Level-two soft body armor,” said the man. “Level three if they have upgraded from what they were given at the police academy.”

“That’s the armor. What about the carriers they use?”

“Carriers don’t provide ballistic protection, Shahab.”

“No, they don’t,” replied Rashid, “but a lot of cops now have trauma plates in addition to their armor.”

Marwan Jarrah waved his hand dismissively as he liked to do when he felt a point was beneath his discussion. “That’s why our men have rifles. It will be like shooting through tissue paper. It won’t be a problem.”

“But suppose it is? Suppose some young cop doesn’t mind the weight of hard plates.”

The older man laughed. “Everyone minds the weight. You know this. You were a soldier. No one wears hard armor unless they expect an attack. This is going to be a surprise; something they will not see coming.”

“Maybe, Marwan. Maybe. In fact, let’s say you’re right. Let’s say nobody expects this attack. But just for fun, let’s also say that the two cops we saw at the Marriott aren’t standing outside when our men arrive, but they show up one minute after.”

Jarrah exhaled. “And?”

“How’d they get there?”

“This is foolish. Let’s talk about something else.”

“It’s not foolish,” insisted Rashid. “Those cops came in a patrol car. Patrol officers are now being issued patrol rifles. So, firepower-wise they are equal to your men. And if they’re smart, which many of them are, especially the younger, more aggressive cops, they are also going to have hard armor. It’ll take them two seconds to get it out of the trunk and throw it on.

“Our men could have plowed through half the lobby, but they won’t get to the other half, much less their next hotel. And what if it’s not patrol officers, but one of the city’s roving tactical teams that arrives?”