Foreign Influence (36 page)

“I have tightness and trouble breathing.”

“That probably has more to do with anxiety than anything else.”

“He’s right, Josh,” said Davidson. “Try not to think about how long it has been since you last clipped your nails.”

“Up yours.”

As Levy and Davidson started laughing, Vaughan felt relieved. They needed to keep their spirits up.

Ever the wiseacre, Davidson said, “Hey, do you guys know what the only thing in the world shorter than a Muslim terrorist’s dick is? His
to do
list.”

There was another roll of quiet laughter, but the elevated mood didn’t last.

“What do you think they’re going to do with us?” Levy asked.

“We gave them everything,” replied Vaughan, “so I don’t know that there’s any other information they could squeeze out of us.”

“Which reminds me,” said Davidson. “I thought you big, tough Marines were supposed to be able to hold out indefinitely under interrogation.”

“No one can hold out indefinitely, Paul. That’s just in the movies.”

“But we told them everything,” said Levy. “What possible value could we still have for them? They know we came looking for Nasiri and that this wasn’t official police business.”

Vaughan had been thinking about that too. “We should take it as a good sign that we’re still here. As long as we’re alive, there’s a chance we’re going to get out of this. We’re all married, so let’s focus on our wives and children.”

“Way to ruin it for me,” said Davidson.

“Come on. Your wife can’t be that bad.”

“When we get out of here, you can stay at my house for a week with her and her two dogs, okay?”

Vaughan smiled beneath his hood. “Think about fishing then.”

“I have been. And I’ve been thinking about how I’m never going to take my cell phone on vacation again.”

“If it makes you feel better to blame me for all of this, go ahead.”

“When the turban fits.”

“By the way, who were you really fishing with when I called? I know you didn’t threaten to kill your priest.”

“You should hear the kind of stuff he threatens me with.”

Vaughan still didn’t believe him, but he laughed anyway.

“I’ve been thinking about my wife,” Levy interjected, his tone morose. “We had an argument yesterday. A bad one.”

“You’ve got to stay strong, Josh,” said Vaughan. “We’re going to make it.”

“What if we don’t?”

“We will.”

“How? Nobody knows where the hell we are. We don’t even know where we are.”

“I guarantee you that our wives are raising holy hell right now,” replied Vaughan. “The fact that Paul and I are cops means that CPD will be working extra hard to find us.”

“I didn’t tell my wife where we were going or who we were surveilling,” said Levy.

There was silence. Finally, Davidson admitted, “I didn’t give my wife specifics either.”

Beneath the darkness of his hood, Vaughan could feel the other men’s eyes shift toward him. He knew what they wanted to hear. He knew what they needed to hear and so he said, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I told my wife everything.”

The other two didn’t respond. They knew he was lying.

CHAPTER 51
 

L
ONDON

Talk to me, Bob,” said Harvath as the Lynx flew over Westminster Bridge and decreased its speed as the pilot awaited further instructions.

“We had a flurry of activity and then everything stopped,” Ashford replied. “Somebody pinged the cell members’ phones from different numbers and when they didn’t respond, whoever it was began trying to activate the detonators on the explosives. We had the caller traced to a one-block area.”

“How many buildings are we talking about?”

“The caller wasn’t in a building. He was outside, moving.”

“Was he in a vehicle or on foot?”

“We don’t know,” said the MI5 man.

“How about CCTV cameras? Were there any in the area?”

“Yes. Rita has already pulled the footage and we’re rolling it back to the time the calls were placed. The first filter is people visibly using phones. The next is headsets or earbuds. If someone is seen using more than one phone or changing SIM cards then obviously we …” the MI5 man’s voice trailed off.

“Can you repeat?” said Harvath. “I didn’t get that last part.”

Marx’s voice came back over the radio. “I think we have our man. Arab male, early forties. Approximately two meters tall and eighty kilos.”

Harvath did the conversion in his head—six feet and around 175 pounds.

“He has short black hair and a goatee,” Marx continued. “He is wearing a brown sport coat, a blue jumper, khaki trousers, and dark shoes.”

“What happened to Bob?”

“He seems to be having trouble with his radio,” said Marx.

“You’re sure this is our guy?”

“Positive. We have footage of him operating three different devices.”

“Where is he and which direction is he headed?”

“We ID’d him off of footage from several minutes ago,” said the woman from Scotland Yard. “We need to reacquire him. We’re sorting the live feeds now. Stand by.”

Harvath turned to the pilot. “Where can you set us down?”

“There’s a helipad at the London Hospital in Whitechapel,” he replied, pointing down at his map.

“Too far,” replied Harvath, who then hailed Ashford again. “Bob, I need to know which direction the subject was heading.”

“North, but as best we can tell, he doubled back,” replied Ashford, his radio working again. “We’re still trying to find him.”

“He’s running SDRs.”

“Let him. We don’t have anyone on him yet, so there’s nothing for him to pick up.”

“What if he gets on the Tube?” asked Harvath.

“We’ve got cameras in all the stations. Hold on a second.”

“Do you have him?”

“I think so. Stand by. Is it confirmed?” Harvath heard him say over his open mic. Moments later he came back and replied, “Yes, we’ve reacquired him. The sport coat is gone. He’s got the blue jumper on now along with a pair of wire-rim glasses. The khakis and shoes are the same.”

“He’s definitely running SDRs,” said Harvath.

“Agreed. Right now he is on Waterloo Place, near the Sofitel headed toward Trafalgar. We’re going to mobilize all the teams we have and flood the area. We’re getting his picture out to police as well.”

“Don’t do that,” Harvath cautioned.

“Why the devil shouldn’t we?”

“If he’s the controller of the East London cell, he’s going to need to get in touch with his superior to sort out what just happened. They have no idea how deeply they’ve been penetrated and if other cells are at risk.”

“What if we lose him?” asked Marx now.

“The only way that will happen is if we spook him. So we won’t spook him. The last thing we want to do is put the kind of surveillance on him that he’d be expecting.”

“You want to use your team again.”

Harvath looked at Casey and the rest of the Athena Team, who all flashed him thumbs-up. “Your people can establish a loose cordon,” Harvath said. “Keep it at least three or four blocks out. We’ll let my team work inside the bubble.”

“You realize that just because they’re women, that doesn’t mean he won’t take notice of them. If he sees any of them a second time, we’re going to have a problem.”

“So let’s make sure we don’t have any problems. Put your teams into the area, but hold them as far back as possible. We’ll stay on the radios and you can give us CCTV updates as to what our man is doing. Meanwhile, try to find out who the hell he is and get me everything you can on him.”

“We will,” said Marx. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” replied Harvath glancing back down at the map. “I’m going to need you to make an important phone call for me.”

CHAPTER 52
 

The Lynx helicopter flared as it came in and landed on the Horse Guards Parade exercise ground in Whitehall. Crowds of tourists, gathered for the famous changing of the guard, were kept a safe distance away by formally garbed Household Cavalry troopers.

Both Harvath and the Athena Team members were familiar with the Household Cavalry, as it was a highly respected operational regiment whose personnel, which included Prince Harry, had served courageously in both Iraq and Afghanistan.

A special contingent of troopers spirited the helicopter’s passengers to the archway that led to the street. There were shouts of “Coming through. They have an ivory!” as the team passed beneath the ceremonial arch reserved solely for the queen and those who had been given the queen’s permission to pass in the form of a formal ivory invitation. Harvath had no idea if Marx had contacted the queen, but the speed and professionalism with which they were ushered through was remarkable.

Out on the street, they divided up into teams and Harvath watched as the women transformed right before his eyes. They made subtle adjustments to their clothes and hairstyles that could later be changed at a moment’s notice and would result in their appearance’s being significantly
altered. Like their male colleagues, this Delta Force detachment was exceedingly well trained.

Once again, Harvath was teamed with Gretchen Casey. Cooper went with Ericsson and Rodriguez went with Rhodes. Halfway up the street, he watched Cooper and Ericsson duck inside a T-shirt shop. He could see the scene playing out in his mind without even being there. In a hurry, their tour bus leaving momentarily, two tourists wanted to stock up on a bunch of souvenirs.

If they were smart, which Harvath already knew they were, they’d be buying a bunch of clothing to help further alter their appearance. The bonus was that the bags they’d be carrying would make them look even more like tourists.

As they approached the statue of Sir Henry Havelock with Lord Nelson’s column and Trafalgar looming behind, Harvath was amazed at the number of people that were out. Black cabs, double-decker and tour buses disgorged people on every corner, and somewhere in that mass of humanity was the man they were looking for.

Because of the number of operatives now involved, Ashford wanted firm call signs and Harvath’s team had been designated
Corona.
He was Corona One; Casey, Corona Two; Cooper, Corona Three; Ericsson, Four; Rodriguez Five; and Rhodes Six. Ashford took the call sign
Viceroy
.

Harvath and Casey had picked up a tourist map, while the other women used maps that they had found on the Web via their iPhones.

They gave Trafalgar a wide berth and stayed well across the street. Via the bone mic he was wearing, Harvath pretended to consult his map with Casey and said, “Okay, Viceroy. Where’s the subject?”

“He’s heading into the National Gallery.”

Before Harvath could respond, Cooper said, “This is Corona Three. We’ve got him.”

The dance went on for over an hour. The man they were following used channels, stair-stepping, intrusion points, and timing stops. He also changed his appearance several more times, but it made no difference. He never spotted Harvath’s team and was therefore unable to shake them.

He walked into an Internet café on Charing Cross Road with Megan Rhodes right on his heels. It was a small, storefront operation that sold
newspapers, cigarettes, and Western Union services in addition to Internet access. The space looked like it had once belonged to a grocer and they also offered Skype, IT maintenance, Web design, computer networking, and Web and data security. It was an odd hodgepodge to say the least.

Chewing gum and clicking away at her iPhone, Rhodes was directed by an overly pierced clerk to the only remaining terminal, the one right next to the man she was following.

Having pulled out her earpiece before walking into the café, Rhodes was now communicating via text messages with Gretchen Casey, who, along with Harvath, was two blocks away and closing.

Nikki Rodriguez took up a position outside, while Cooper and Ericsson split up to cover any rear exits. Ashford’s men maintained their perimeter, ready to move in as soon as Harvath gave the command.

“Shut up,” Rhodes snorted as she popped her gum, rolled her eyes, and thumbed out another text message.

The controller cursed the “ugly American” under his breath and tried to tune her out as he opened up his Web browser.