Foreign Influence

“Sorry about that,” said the Old Man as Harvath met him in the driveway and the two shook hands. “Something has come up. Can we talk inside?”

“As long as you’re okay with casual Monday,” replied Harvath, referring to his shorts-and-no-shirt look.

The older man nodded and followed him inside. After pulling a shirt from the hall closet and putting it on, Harvath directed his new boss to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Please,” said Reed as he sat down at the kitchen table and placed his briefcase next to him. “I understand Iraq was a success.”

“Not for the little boy who died.”

“I was sorry to hear about that.”

Harvath didn’t reply. He kept his back to the man, pulled two large mugs out of the cupboard, and set them on the counter.

“I haven’t read your full debrief yet,” continued Carlton. “Did you go through with the whole thing?”

There was silence, and the Old Man waited. Finally, Harvath said, “All of it.”

While Carlton was a master at psychological operations, this assignment had been Harvath’s from start to finish. He had dubbed it Paradise Lost. The idea was to shake any other al-Qaeda cells who might be considering the kidnapping and torture of children. Upon each terrorist body at the safe house was left a black envelope. Inside the envelope was a detailed account, in Arabic, of horrible things supposedly done to the men before they had been killed. Placed into the mouth of each terrorist had been a pickled pig’s foot from a jar that Harvath had brought with him from the U.S.

The idea of the notes in the black envelopes was to send a message to all of the other terrorists preying on children in Iraq. They would not die martyrs’ deaths. They would not go to Paradise. They would be defiled before their god. They would be unclean and unworthy. And to make sure the point was driven home, the pickled pigs’ feet were placed into the mouth of each of the corpses.

It was a derivative of the Colombian necktie, and Harvath was confident word of it would spread quickly, its meaning clear.

Carlton changed the subject. “You heard about Rome?”

Harvath filled the coffee cups and brought them to the table where he sat down. “I did. Twenty American college students.”

“Plus their teacher, the bus driver, and eleven others who had the misfortune of being near that bus when it detonated at the Colosseum. Current count has over forty wounded.”

He shook his head. “Do we have any leads?”

Reaching into his briefcase Carlton withdrew a folder. “The Italians are investigating a rumor about four Muslim men trying to purchase military-grade explosives in Sicily. The same kind used in the attack in Rome.”

Sicily could mean only one thing. “They think the Mafia’s involved?”

“That’s what they thought at first. And considering the fact that the Cosa Nostra did over two billion dollars in illicit-weapons trafficking last year, it makes sense to start with them.”

“So there’s a co

Carlton shook his head. “From what they’ve uncovered, the Mafia was happy to sell the suspects guns, but they drew the line at explosives, fearing correctly that they might be used on Italian soil.”

“Then where did the terrorists get the explosives?”

“According to the Italians, the explosives came in through another cha

“Who is Moscerino?” asked Harvath.

“It’s not a who exactly, it’s a what,” replied Carlton, as he slid the file across the table. “Moscerino is Italian for ‘dwarf.’”

Harvath hesitated as he reached for the file. It was only a fraction of a second, but the old man noticed.

“Based on a tip they received, the Italians located a private airfield in the north of Sicily where the exchange supposedly took place. Sifting through air traffic control records, they traced the plane to a charter company in Naples. After being served with a court order, the company handed over its records and made the pilot available for questioning.”

“And let me guess. He admitted to flying a dwarf in and out of Sicily?”

“Along with two very large dogs.”

Harvath didn’t like it. “Did the pilot see anything?” he asked as he flipped through the folder. “Did he see any Muslim men or any alleged transaction take place?”

“No. Whatever happened, it took place inside a closed hangar. The passenger and his dogs deplaned with a large Storm case on wheels, entered the hangar, and then about ten minutes later returned without the case, reboarded the plane, and instructed the pilot to take him back to Naples.”

“What? No aluminum briefcase full of cash handcuffed to his wrist?”

Carlton looked at Harvath. “I’m not going to beat around the bush with you, Scot. We both know who this is.”

“I know who you think it is.”

“You’re telling me this isn’t the Troll?”

Harvath closed the file. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“And how can you be sure?”

“First of all, he sells information, not military-grade explosives. And secondly, he’d never conduct an operation like this himself. He’d use an intermediary; a cutout. Somebody is obviously trying to set him up.”

Carlton thought for a moment. “I know he helped you track down the man who shot Tracy.”

“Only after I’d erased all of his data and emptied out all of his bank accounts.”

“So there are no underlying loyalties I need to worry about between you?”

On the surface, it was a fair question. The Troll was all about money. He lacked integrity and often worked with terrorist organizations. He had taken advantage of an al-Qaeda attack on New York, which killed thousands of Americans, including one of Harvath’s best friends, to steal information from a top-secret, U.S. data-mining operation.

At the same time, though, Harvath felt sorry for him. Not only had he been born a midget, but his parents had abandoned him as a child; selling him to a brothel in Russia where he’d been starved, beaten, and forced to perform unutterable sex acts. It was difficult for Harvath to admit that he felt pity for the little man.

The pair had worked together, and Harvath had respected the Troll’s love for animals, particularly his dogs. He also respected his ability to glean information. Though he should have seen him as reprehensible, no different from the many men who operated on the wrong side of the law whom he’d been tasked with tracking down and killing over the years, he couldn’t. Despite his flaws, Harvath had come to like him.

“What I want to know,” said the Old Man, keying in again on Harvath’s hesitancy, “is if I assign you to find him, can you carry it out?”

Harvath studied the file folder, knowing what his answer should be, but instead of answering he asked a question of his own. “Is there an order for him to be terminated?”

“Would that make a difference?”

“Maybe.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t take this assignment.”

“So they do want him dead,” stated Harvath.

“Actually, they’d prefer captured, but they’ll accept dead. Considering your history together, I thought you’d want to be the one to make the choice.”

Which option did his boss think Harvath would exercise? He studied the man’s face, but couldn’t tell.

“Why isn’t the CIA spearheading this?” he finally asked.

“Ever since the Agency snatched that radical cleric in Milan, they’ve been persona non grata in Italy.”

Like everyone else in the intelligence world, Harvath knew the story. Though the Italians denied ever giving their blessing to the operation, the CIA claimed that all of the appropriate authorities had been filled in on the plan. According to the Agency, they had been granted permission to grab the al-Qaeda-aligned cleric in Milan. As part of their extraordinary rendition program, he was then flown to Egypt where, after being released two years later, he went public with stories of how he had been tortured by Egyptian interrogators.