Foreign Influence

Marwan smiled, “Very good, Shahab.”

“I should have thought of that.”

“Yes, you should have. You have been focused on the success the brothers had in Bali and the 7/7 bombings in London. You must remember to always ask yourself, how can we do better. Mumbai was definitely better.”

Rashid nodded. “So three teams means three hotels?”

“Come, Shahab. You’re not thinking big enough. This is Chicago. The hotels sit side by side. The men will go from one hotel to another and then to another and another still. As our bombs rip through the city, the police will be overwhelmed.”

“And then what?”

Marwan removed a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and set it on the table. “You concentrate on succeeding in Chicago. The rest of the plan will take care of itself.”

CHAPTER 60

AMSTERDAM

Three hours ago, Harvath and de Roon had almost come to blows in the infirmary of the Sacleipea. With al-Yaqoubi barely clinging to consciousness, he had given them everything he could about the Amsterdam bombing cell, but Harvath had wanted more. He had wanted to know who the overall architect of the plot was. What were the cities targeted for attack in the United States? When and by whom? How could they be stopped?

Al-Yaqoubi had lost consciousness twice and both times Harvath had brought him back around again with the salts. The third time he lost consciousness, though, de Roon had stepped in. If Harvath hadn’t stopped, he would have killed the man. The accountant would have ceased being of use to anyone. De Roon needed him to be awake and alert enough to help ID the bombers if they were lucky enough to spot them.

Harvath had known his friend was right, but he also knew that he couldn’t stop until al-Yaqoubi gave them everything. In the end, Casey’s had been the voice of reason that had convinced Harvath to back down. The Amsterdam attack had to be neutralized first. The red-light district would be packed with Americans. That’s where Harvath’s focus needed to be. The accountant was cuffed to the bed of an infirmary of a confiscated ship in the Dutch port, its crew cooling its heels in a Dutch jail cell. Al-Yaqoubi wasn’t going anywhere. This was their chance to see if he was really telling the truth. If he was and they succeeded, then they could return to the ship and take the interrogation to the next level. She was right.

Harvath had apologized to de Roon, who called him a klootzak and suggested they formulate their plan and get their people into position. It had happened only three hours ago, but in the wake of the adrenaline dump it felt like three days.

But now, with fresh adrenaline pumping through his system, all Harvath could think about was taking out the bombers.

Back at the ship, al-Yaqoubi was awake and alert. He had ID’d “player one,” the man spotted by Harvath, as one of the cell members. One of de Roon’s teams was tracking him, but they were in a “shadow,” an area where none of the snipers could get a clean shot.

Harvath had faith that the problem would soon remedy itself. What bothered him, though, was that no one had ID’d the controller yet. He was the wild card; the one who could detonate the explosives remotely. He needed to be found and neutralized immediately.

As Harvath was trying to put himself inside the controller’s mind, his earpiece crackled with radio traffic. One of Martin’s men had been speaking in Dutch, and de Roon quickly reminded him to speak English. The operative apologized and repeated his transmission. The “soccer team” at one of the hash bars had just spotted “player two.”

With that sighting, the floodgates opened. Back-to-back, three more sightings were registered-Indonesian men overdressed for the weather. Each one was confirmed. That made five. If al-Yaqoubi was telling the truth, there was only one more left. Once the sixth bomber had entered De Wallen, the countdown would accelerate.

Hidden from view in the back of the room, Harvath removed the map de Roon had given him and plotted where the men had been spotted and the direction they were all moving. He still had the same question: Where’s the controller?

As the targets were confirmed via cell phone from the Sacleipea, the snipers locked in and held ready. They were all waiting for the final bomber to appear.

Harvath was tense. Sitting back with Rodriguez was driving him crazy. That sixth bomber was going to show up any minute, or worse, any second. They could no more wander around the red-light district aimlessly for hours without drawing attention to themselves than Harvath and de Roon’s teams could.

Suddenly, the sixth potential bomber was sighted. Two minutes later, he was positively identified by al-Yaqoubi. They were in the final stretch, except for the controller.

Moments later, the snipers reported that the targets were all changing direction. As Harvath studied his map, de Roon’s voice came over his radio. “They’re all converging toward the center. That’s where the attack is going to happen.”

“Hold on,” cautioned Harvath as something Rodriguez had said played through his mind. “We don’t know that. Everyone stay calm.”

He then told Martin to meet him on the corner. The Athena Team members wanted to get into the fight, but Harvath wasn’t exactly sure this was over and asked them to remain in place.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” asked de Roon when he met Harvath at the corner and they both headed for the center of the district.

“Why didn’t any of your people spot the controller outside De Wallen?”

“Maybe they didn’t see him,” replied the intelligence officer.

“Or maybe that’s not where he is,” said Harvath. “Maybe he’s actually inside the district.”

“Then why didn’t our teams spot him?”

“Because maybe they didn’t know what they’re looking for.”

De Roon stared at him, confused, but Harvath didn’t have time to explain. Within seconds, one of the bombers walked right past them. The chill of death surrounding him was almost palpable.

“Did you see his hand?” asked Harvath.

De Roon nodded and radioed the others that the bomber they had just passed was holding a dead man’s switch in his left hand.

“Okay,” said Martin when they arrived at the center of the district, the only point the bombers’ paths had intersected, “what are we looking for?”

Harvath’s eyes sca

The intelligence officer looked, but couldn’t understand what Harvath was talking about. “The ugly prostitute in the blue cover-up?”

Harvath kept moving. “What do you think her nationality is?”

“Who knows? They all dye their hair blond.”

“Look at her face.”

He did, but he still couldn’t figure it out. “With all that makeup, she could be Palestinian, or she could even be Norwegian.”

“Look at the eyes,” said Harvath.

“Filipina?”

“How about Indonesian?”

De Roon saw it. “You think that’s the controller?”

“She, he, whatever, is the only hooker in De Wallen wearing a robe and a scarf in the middle of summer.”

De Roon understood that Harvath meant it was probably a man trying to disguise himself as a woman and watched as the American pulled his pistol.

Harvath kept the weapon hidden behind his leg as he approached the window. The man inside had been gyrating to music that couldn’t be heard out on the street. He stopped as he noticed Harvath’s approach.

The subtle change in the man’s demeanor wasn’t lost on Harvath. He kept walking forward and said to de Roon, “Tell the snipers to get ready to fire.”

Either the man in the window was an incredible lip reader or he saw on Harvath’s face that his cover had been blown.