Foreign Influence

“Those things will kill you,” replied Harvath with a grin as he took a sip of his Coke.

Peio smiled back. “My wife used to bother me all the time about my smoking. I quit once, for her.”

“Didn’t take?”

“I became so difficult to be around she begged me to take it back up again.”

Harvath laughed.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

The priest was silent for a moment. “Assuming I am correct in what you do for a living, it must be difficult finding the right woman; someone who understands the demands of your job.”

“To be honest, Father, I found the right woman. She knows me better than anyone else in the world. She has no problem with what I do for a living. She not only supports me, she encourages me. She’s an exceptional person in that regard.”

“Why do I detect a but?”

Peio didn’t miss much. Harvath imagined he’d probably been a pretty good intelligence operative. “My personal life isn’t that interesting, Father.”

“Everyone’s personal life is interesting, Scot. Yours I find particularly interesting. Tell me why you are hesitant. Were your parents divorced?”

Harvath laughed again. “No. In fact, just the opposite. They were made for each other. After my father died, my mother never remarried.”

“I’m sorry,” said the priest. “Is that your concern about marriage? Are you afraid something may happen to you and that you would leave this… I’m sorry, what is this woman’s name?”

“Tracy.”

“Are you afraid that if something happened to you that you would leave Tracy alone?”

“I certainly wouldn’t want to die, but if that happened, Tracy is an incredibly resilient woman.”

Peio looked at him. “So this is about having children.”

Harvath couldn’t believe it. The man had put his finger right on it. At least he had until he added, “You’re afraid that the same thing that happened to you could happen to your children. If you died, you’d be doing exactly the same thing to them that your father did to you.”

“Something like that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed about. Obviously, your father’s passing had a very profound impact on you. How old were you when he died?”

“I was already out of high school,” said Harvath, “and if you don’t mind, Father, I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”

“I understand,” said Peio as he took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled out the window.

Harvath doubted it, but he let it go and the two men sat in silence for several minutes.

“May I ask you how your father died?” said the priest.

“He was a SEAL. He died in a training accident.”

“Nicholas told me you had been a SEAL. Is that why?”

“I suppose that was part of it,” replied Harvath.

“I think your father would be proud of you.”

This was one of the biggest reasons Harvath hated conducting these types of ops with someone he didn’t know. What they were doing was akin to surveillance. It was grindingly boring to sit around and wait to be set loose on a target. The boredom got to some people faster than others and when it did, they always wanted to “chat.” And it was often about stuff that was entirely too personal.

“With all due respect, Padre,” he said, “you don’t really know that much about me.”

“Don’t I? I know you care for Nicholas. I know you care for Argos and Draco. I know you care for your country and I know you care for this woman, Tracy. You are a good man. Nicholas told me so and I can see it for myself. And no matter what has happened to you up to this point in your life, I want you to know that God wants you to be happy.”

“Even if I want to kill all the Muslim fundamentalists in the world?”

It took Peio a moment to ascertain whether Harvath was pulling his leg. “Let’s leave the fundamentalists out of this.”

He was about to make a snappy remark that probably would have drawn the ire of the priest when his cell phone rang. It was Nicholas.

“I’ve got him.”

CHAPTER 29

CHICAGO

My wife called,” said Paul Davidson as John Vaughan slid back into the Bronco and handed a Styrofoam cup of coffee over to him.

“Yeah?” replied the Organized Crime officer, pulling the passenger door shut. “What’d she say?”

“She says she’s naming you in the divorce decree as well.”

“Me? I only kept you out one night.”

“Yeah, but today is punta Sunday.”

“What the hell is punta Sunday?” asked Vaughan, vaguely recognizing the Spanish-sounding word.

“Today’s the day, we, you know,” said Davidson awkwardly.

“Are you serious? You only have sex with your wife on Sundays?”

“And my birthday.”

Vaughan started laughing.

“Go ahead and laugh,” said Davidson, “but this is going to affect you too.”

“Me?” he repeated. “How the hell could this possibly affect me?”

“You’ll see. Trust me.”

Vaughan rolled his eyes and peeled the lid off his coffee. Examining the logs from the dispatch computer in Nasiri’s cab, he had discovered a pattern. The Pakistani driver picked up fares in a certain part of the city at regular times of the day. As that area was nowhere near his apartment, there had to be another reason Nasiri favored it.

On a hunch, Vaughan cross-referenced the pickups with Muslim prayer times and his hunch paid off. Nasiri was picking up fares after he had gone to pray. The only problem was that there were no official mosques within the entire eight-block radius they were looking at. The keyword, though, was official.

With one phone call, Davidson was able to learn that there were unofficial, makeshift mosques and prayer rooms all across the city. Normally they were hiding right in plain sight. People just didn’t know what to look for, such as an abundance of taxicabs in front, papered-over windows, Arabic writing, or the word Masjid written somewhere on the facade.

Once Vaughan and Davidson found out, it took them several hours, but they finally located what they believed to be Mohammed Nasiri’s mosque.

Unlike American places of worship, Vaughan knew that it wasn’t unusual for mosques, especially those frequented by fundamentalists, to be used to plot attacks, store weapons, and give sanctuary to terrorists.

“Anything else happen while I was gone?” he asked.

Davidson pretended to consult his notebook. “Muammar Gaddafi dropped bin Laden and Zawahiri off for Sunday school, Jimmy Hoffa pulled up with a stack of union ballots in Arabic, and Amelia Earhart has been circling overhead with this really cool ba

Vaughan shook his head. “Hey, don’t take it out on me. My wife’s not happy either and I’m sure it goes double for my kids. I normally cook pancakes on Sunday.”

“How old are they?”

“My wife would tell you her age is none of your business, but the kids are five and seven. How about you? Do you have children?”

“No. Just two extremely high-strung miniature Dobermans who piss the carpet if I shut the refrigerator too loud.”

“I hate tiny dogs.”

“Do you mind?” asked Davidson, his head pulled back. “You’re talking about my kids here.”

“Sorry.”

“Forget about it. I don’t like tiny dogs either. Can you picture what I look like walking those little apartment rats when the wife is under the weather?”

Vaughan chuckled.

“How about you?” continued Davidson. “Do you have any animals?”

“We’ve got a lab mix.”

“Mixed with what?”

“Pit bull.”

“Now that’s a man’s dog.”

“That’s what Mrs. Vaughan tells me,” he said as he opened up a bag and offered Davidson a doughnut. “Sorry. They didn’t have any turkey or tofu sausage.”

“I’ll let my wife know to add you to the wrongful death suit as well,” he said, reaching into the bag. “Which one has the Crestor sprinkles?”