Foreign Influence (29 page)

“They were steeped in American culture and the American way of thinking. Their job was to study America, find its weaknesses, and develop the most devastating attack they could conceive of. They were encouraged to think outside of the normal military mind-set.”

“And suicide bombers were the best they could come up with?” asked Harvath.

“Look at the impact of 9/11,” replied Sterk. “Look at what it did to America’s psyche and its economy. How many billions were lost? How many billions more were spent preventing another similar attack? Massive governmental agencies like your Department of Homeland Security and the TSA were created as a response. Now multiply that impact across the United States in all new waves of attacks. Pick whatever targets you want: movie theaters, shopping malls, churches, hotels, schools. Your country would grind to a halt, its people paralyzed with fear.”

“But the attacks aren’t happening in America, they are happening in Europe.”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean,
not yet
?” replied Harvath.

“Through site 243 the Chinese had created an entire terrorist network. My clients have not only hijacked it, they have activated it.”

“And they are planning on targeting American cities?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know so much?”

“It’s my job. I deal in information. Information is power.”

“And she probably spies on and steals from her own clients,” added Nicholas.

“The bigger the picture I have,” she replied, “the better I am able to connect the dots. When I know what pieces I’m missing, I go after them and secure them. My customers don’t come to me to purchase incomplete intelligence.”

“So in other words, you snuck a peek at what your clients were paying you for.”

“I didn’t get to see all of it.”

“But you got to see some of it.”

Sterk nodded.

Harvath was trying to make sense of it all. “Why would they bother targeting Americans in Europe? Why not move right to attacks on American soil?”

“I don’t profess to understand the mind of the Chinese,” Sterk said with a shrug.

“Try.”

She thought about it for a moment. “The easiest answer is that Muslim attacks in Western Europe erode support for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The less support America has from its allies, the deeper it will get drawn into those conflicts. Its military is stretched too thin. Stretch it even further, maybe open up another war somewhere, and all that stretching could lead to a snap.”

It was a good point and one that Harvath and others had grown increasingly concerned about. With the Madrid train bombings, Islamic terrorists had proven that they could influence Western elections and help catapult politicians to power who would withdraw support for American military actions. Why wouldn’t the Chinese have picked up and expanded upon this as well? It was an exceptional tactic.

Aside from a few people who could see what was going on, the Europeans were a lost cause. Rather than fight the Islamists in their midst,
they chose to commit cultural suicide. They starved their law-abiding citizens with high taxes in order to gorge an invading army on massive social programs. Europe’s steadfast devotion to the failed religion of multiculturalism and political correctness not only emboldened its enemies, but encouraged more attacks and was hastening its downfall.

The other thing that troubled Harvath was the knowledge that with each attack in Europe, the United States would be focusing more and more of its limited resources abroad. That invariably meant less attention to what was going on at home. Sooner or later, America wouldn’t have enough eyes on the ball in its own backyard, and that’s when its enemies would strike.

“What U.S. cities have been targeted?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit,” spat the Troll.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Sterk insisted. “They’re playing the American attacks close to the vest.”

“How about
when
?” asked Harvath.

“After the bombings in Europe have all been carried out.”

“How many are left?”

Sterk was silent.

Harvath grabbed her throat and clamped down. “How many?”

“Two,” she finally coughed. “Please. I can’t breathe.”

“Where?”

“Please, I can’t—”

Harvath squeezed harder. “Where?”

“London and Amsterdam.”

“Where in London and Amsterdam?”

“Piccadilly and the Dam Square.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. Now, please. My throat—”

Harvath dug his fingers in. “How do we stop them?”

“You can’t. They’re fully operational. The cells have gone dark.”

“The Brits need to shut down Piccadilly and the Dutch need to shut down Dam Square,” said the Troll.

Sterk could no longer speak. She shook her head.

Harvath relaxed his grasp.

“It won’t work,” the woman said as she gasped for air.

“Why not?”

“Both cells have alternate targets. No one but them knows what they are. If you shut down Piccadilly and the Dam Square, they’ll just move to the second location on their list.”

There was more that Harvath wanted to know, but Carlton needed this information right away. He stepped to the other side of the warehouse and pulled out his phone.

CHAPTER 40
 

C
HICAGO

Vaughan and Davidson both had their hands tied behind their backs and their ankles bound to the legs of the chairs they were sitting on.

They were in a dank room somewhere in the basement. Their pockets had been turned inside out and all of their belongings were now laid out on a table.

One of the men from the alley did all of the talking. “You are police?” he said.

“You’re damn right we are,” stated Davidson, “and you’re in a lot of fucking trouble, my friend.”

The man walked over to Davidson and punched him so hard in the face, his chair rocked onto its rear legs and almost fell over.

He then looked at Vaughan. “Tell me what you are doing here.”

The pain of having his wrist broken was nothing compared to his conviction that these men were up to something very bad and had nothing to lose. He felt certain they wouldn’t think twice about killing them. “You have taken two Chicago police officers hostage,” he said. “This entire building is going to be crawling with police very soon.”

The man drew back his fist and hit Vaughan even harder than he had
hit Davidson. The Marine was knocked so far backward that his chair fell over and even having his arms tied behind his back couldn’t stop his head from cracking against the cement floor.

Immediately, two of the other men stepped forward, picked his chair back up, and returned to where they had been standing.

The man bent down and looked into Vaughan’s eyes. He was so close the Marine could smell his foul breath. “Back in my country, I spent ten years as an interrogator in one of the worst prisons you could ever imagine. My colleagues and I laughed at your Abu Ghraib scandal. I know what real torture is and I will show you unless you answer my questions.”

“We’re the Chicago police, asshole. We’re not answering shit,” stated Davidson.

The man turned his attention to the Public Vehicles officer and smiled. He then gave a command to one of the other men, who opened the door and exited the room. Vaughan’s Arabic was not the best. It sounded like he had sent the man for water.

The interrogator then focused on Vaughan. “I will ask you again. What are you doing here?”

Davidson, his face swelling, said, “We were looking for your sister.”

The man was about to strike the cop again, but caught himself when Vaughan admonished Davidson. “Cut it out. That’s not going to help.”

“It won’t. You are right,” said the interrogator. “What will help you is if you tell me why you are here.”

“We have your mosque under surveillance,” replied the Marine. His jaw, his head, and his wrist were all throbbing.

“Who is
we
?”

“The Chicago Police Department.”

The man lined up his captives’ credentials and studied them. “And while you are on police business, you carry other business cards and badges as well?”

Davidson didn’t know when to shut up. “Tell him to fuck off.”

“Listen,” Vaughan continued, blood running from his mouth. “You may think you know how this works, but you don’t. The police will not negotiate for our release.”

“I don’t expect them to.”

“What do you want then? I already told you that your mosque is under surveillance.”

“But you haven’t told me who is monitoring it.”

“I have. The Chicago Police Department.”

The interrogator smiled. “You’re lying.”

Vaughan knew that if he told the man the truth, if he told him nobody else except for Josh Levy even knew they were here, they were as good as dead. Their only hope was that Levy would realize something had gone wrong and that he would bring reinforcements.

Vaughan was trying to come up with a response when the door opened and the man who had left a few moments ago returned. He was carrying a case of large water bottles with two towels laid across the top.

“I’ll pass on the sponge bath,” shot Davidson, “but there’s a couple of you who should definitely consider it. Maybe some back waxes too.”

The interrogator picked his foot up and kicked Davidson over backward. The sound of his head cracking against the floor could be heard across the room.

Calling two of the men over, the interrogator had them tilt Vaughan back. Another man grabbed a towel, and though the police officer resisted, managed to wrap it around his face and pull it tight at the back of his head.

The interrogator opened half of the bottles and sent the man to go get more. Picking up two of them, he walked over and stood looking down at the Marine. “We have much more water and I have all night. Let’s see if we can decide once and for all whether or not this is torture.”

CHAPTER 41
 

Rashid had seen enough. He opened the door and stepped back out into the hallway.

Marwan Jarrah was waiting for him and could read the younger man’s face. He signaled for him to hold his tongue until they got upstairs.

The two men proceeded in silence to the mosque’s office, the faithful having long dispersed since the end of evening prayers. Once they were inside and the door was closed, Rashid wasted no time getting to the point. “We’re in big trouble.”

“Everything will be fine, Shahab,” replied Jarrah.

“No, it won’t. Do you have any idea how serious this is? You have two Chicago policemen as prisoners in your mosque.”

“A police officer does not carry a private investigator’s badge when he is on duty as a policeman. Nor does another carry business cards identifying him as an attorney and a little notebook with the information about his case.”

“It doesn’t matter what they were carrying, Marwan, they’re still
cops.
”

“I understand the situation,” said Jarrah. “I also understand that they were carrying a picture of Mohammed Nasiri and that it wasn’t my idea to bring Nasiri here. It was yours.”

“We had no choice.”

“We should have killed him.”

“Please, Marwan. We’ve been through this. We need Nasiri.”

“So what do we do now?”

“You mean now that your thugs have tortured those two cops?”

“It’s not the time for recriminations,” replied Jarrah.

“I told you that those guns were supposed to stay in the mosque until we were ready to use them.”

“Shahab, what is done is done. We need to plan.”

“You want to make a plan?” said Rashid. “Here’s
my
plan. We pack everything up, send everyone home, and put this entire operation in a box and bury it for at least two years; maybe longer.”

The man shook his head. “We can’t do that.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“There are always choices.”

“Marwan, your thugs
tortured
two cops. Do you understand that? Maybe we could have made up a mistaken-identity story about how we thought they were breaking into the mosque when we found them, but not now.”