Brad Thor - Foreign Influence

“Wait a second,” interrupted Harvath. “Why shouldn’t we be worried about eight suicide bombers?”

“Because their vests don’t work. I made sure.”

Casey looked at him. “How?”

“The circuit’s not complete. The detonators can’t get any electricity.”

“Just like the vests in Nasiri’s apartment.”

“Where are the bombers now?” asked Harvath.

“That’s not important,” replied Chase. “Jarrah has three two-man teams of Mumbai-style shooters that are going to hit a bunch of hotels unless we stop them. We need to get going.”

“Until we get confirmation on who you are, you’re not going anywhere. Why was there a camera in Nasiri’s apartment?”

“So I could have an excuse to get away from Jarrah. I wanted him to think I was going to detonate the vests on the hostages myself. If I could get away from him, then I could try to stop the shooters.”

“Why not call the cops? Why go to all this trouble?”

“Because this isn’t the end of it. There’s somebody else above Jarrah, a man named Aleem.”

“Aazim Aleem?” Harvath replied.

“That’s him. The guy with the hooks. Jarrah told me that he has networks in at least two other cities. Supposedly, he’s already left for Los Angeles and I was supposed to coordinate an attack in New York. But-” Rashid’s voice trailed off.

“But what?”

“I think he was lying to me.”

“About what?” asked Harvath. “The location of the attacks or the fact that you were supposed to coordinate the one in New York?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I wanted Jarrah alive. He was the only one who knew how to get to Aleem.”

Harvath pressed him with more questions. “Why’d you torture those cops?”

“You’re wasting time,” said Chase.

“Answer me.”

“For fuck’s sake. I’m the only reason they’re still alive. Jarrah wanted to kill them.”

“But you shot one of them.”

“It was clean. Through and through. If I’d wanted to kill him, trust me, he’d be dead.”

Harvath was about to ask another question when Cooper hailed him over the radio and told him someone at Langley wanted to talk to him.

After Harvath had spoken to Kip Houghton, he hung up and called Reed Carlton, who contacted Bruce Selleck, director of the National Clandestine Service at CIA. Once they had both vouched for Chase and his deep-cover operation, Harvath had been instructed to remove his restraints and allow him to come along.

Chase was part of a small contingent of faux John Walker Lindhs whom the Agency had recruited from various walks of life, trained, and then set adrift in a handful of madrassas across the Islamic world hoping that they might get picked up by al-Qaeda. Several of them had, but no one had gotten as far as Sean Chase.

Trained to operate completely on his own, Chase went for long stretches without contact. The assignment and his cover always came first. His handler was used to the irregularity with which he reported in. But as well as the operation had worked, everyone was now extremely concerned that maybe they had let this go too far and that more innocent people were going to die.

Over two hours had passed and Harvath was developing a very bad feeling as Casey’s voice came over his earpiece. “Negative,” she replied to his request for a sitrep. “There’s no sign of any of them. We’re still all clear at the InterContinental.”

Across the street at the Marriott hotel, Harvath looked at Chase. “According to your timetable, they should have been here by now.”

“I don’t know where the hell they are.”

“You’re positive these were the hotels?”

“Yes,” replied the CIA operative, who was equally frustrated.

“I’m getting ready to pack it in,” said Harvath.

“I know. They should have been here by now. Give it a few more minutes. They’ll come.”

“I don’t think so.”

If the truth be told, Chase didn’t know what to think either. But why would Marwan have brought him here? What was the point?

The last words the man uttered to him were that he had lied. Was this what he had lied about? It didn’t make any sense. Marwan had six shooters. Minus the two Chase had shot in the basement of the store, there were four left, two of whom had been wounded by Levy’s shotgun blast. Where were they? If the hotels weren’t their target, what was?

All of a sudden, it hit him. “The train station! That’s the target.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know him. He wanted this to be a dramatic attack. That’s why all the bombers were supposed to detonate in the Loop, the city’s central business district. Look at this lobby. It’s half-empty. Where are you going to get the highest body count first thing in the morning? You go to where the commuters are.”

“I hope to God you’re right,” said Harvath as he radioed the other team members.

“So do I,” Chase replied under his breath.

Based on the CIA operative’s guarantee that the suicide bombers wouldn’t be able to detonate, they had decided to bring the Chicago Police Department into the plan. Plainclothes officers had been positioned where the bombers were supposed to appear and tactical teams were placed at the hotels.

With the morning rush in full swing, the streets were jammed with traffic. Even with lights and sirens, they’d never make it on time-unless they could avoid the traffic altogether.

Harvath radioed Casey and told her where to meet them. Next, he radioed the Chicago Police and then he and Chase exited the hotel and took off running faster than either of them had ever run before.

It was three long, hard blocks to the river. When they arrived, Casey and a Chicago Police boat were waiting for them. Harvath and Chase leapt in and the officer behind the wheel spun the craft into the river and put the throttle all the way down.

Casey yelled over the engine noise. “We’ve got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

Harvath’s lungs were on fire and he could barely breathe, much less speak. He held up two fingers.

“The bad news,” yelled Casey as she pointed at a map, “is that there are basically five downtown commuter Metra stations and because of traffic, the tac teams can only get to two of them. It’ll take them at least fifteen minutes to get to the others.”

Harvath then raised one finger.

“The good news is that the Millennium and Van Buren stations are near Cooper and Rhodes. They’re the ones with tac teams who can make it, so they’ll tackle those. Ogilvie and Union Station are pretty close to the river, but La Salle Street station is a few blocks inland.”

“I’ll take La Salle,” said Chase, who was still panting.

“What’s our first drop point?” asked Harvath as he tried to steady his breathing. Casey consulted the officer piloting the boat and then said, “Ogilvie. Drop off at Madison Street and it’s a block and a half west.”

Harvath raised himself to standing. “I’ll take that one.”

“Like hell you will,” replied Casey. “I’m more rested. I’ll take it. You take Union Station. It’s the next drop and it’s right at the river. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Harvath bowed his head and kept sucking in air.

“It’s going to be this bridge,” said the police officer as they approached. “Starboard side. Coming up fast.”

As the boat slammed up against the landing, Harvath looked at Casey and said, “Mine.” Before she could respond, he had jumped out of the boat and was running up the stairs.