Full Black (36 page)

“In fact, there’s an infamous story about an impending miners’ strike in South Africa back in the apartheid days. PROMIS helped track down the instigators, all of whom then ‘disappeared.’ The strike never took place.

“It is easily one of the most incredible and most incredibly dangerous pieces of software ever constructed. At least it was.

“When the Finns discovered the trapdoors in PROMIS, they realized they needed their own system, not one provided by a foreign government with potentially ulterior motives. That’s when they started working on TIP and took the process to an entirely new level.

“They kept all the features of PROMIS and then, via true artificial intelligence, went supernova by giving it a fully functioning brain. TIP not only can think, it can anticipate. The U.S. is going crazy trying to catch up. That’s one of the reasons NSA has partnered with Google. And if you think TIP is scary, wait’ll you see what Google is building with all they’re learning about human behavior from the millions of Google search queries logged on their system every day.”

Harvath didn’t doubt it. And while he appreciated any edge he could get in the fight against America’s enemies, the damage programs like PROMIS and TIP could wreak in the wrong hands was obvious. “There’s really no such thing as privacy anymore, is there?” he said.

“Not in the United States,” replied Nicholas. “At some point, remind me to explain the Narus technology to you and the electronic driftnet the NSA has strung out across cyberspace. Suffice it to say that every single email, text message, fax, and phone conversation is being recorded and stored. The problem for the NSA is sifting all that data for what they want. It’s like trying to drink from a fire hose. It’s one of the big reasons the terrorists are going low-tech. As the Chinese recognized when assembling their unrestricted warfare plans, the U.S. is overdependent on technology. Outwit that technology and you can flummox the world’s sole superpower.

“That’s what the Finns have done with TIP. The system is so amazing, it has been able to double back on America.”

“How many U.S. intelligence agencies has it compromised?” asked Harvath.

“We don’t know yet,” said Carlton, “but we’ve alerted the appropriate people on our end.”

“Was our group penetrated?”

“Not that we can tell,” said Nicholas. “They seemed more interested in the FBI, CIA, NSA, DIA, and other, more high-profile places.”

“How long have you had access to TIP?”

“Not long enough.”

“Okay, so what’s the connection with this guy Shafik in Albuquerque?” asked Harvath, changing gears. “You ran his name through TIP and you came up with the Egypt Air flight manifest. He arrived in the U.S. with another Egyptian named Mohammed Fahad Nazif. Nazif is the subject of an FBI investigation, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Why is the FBI interested in Nazif?”

Nicholas clicked his mouse and zoomed in on the map. “Three weeks ago, Mohammed Fahad Nazif blew himself up while rigging the support columns of a downtown Chicago office building with military-grade explosives.”

“What?” replied Harvath.

“The building is known as 100 North Riverside Plaza. We believe it was selected as another transportation target because it was built suspended over the Amtrak train tracks.”

“So at least one of the dot colors represents transportation?”

“That’s what we now think.”

“How come we didn’t hear about this?” asked Harvath.

“The FBI used local media to put out a cover story about a gas rupture and a minor explosion,” said Nicholas. “It happened in the business district late on a Sunday evening. No one, other than Nazif, was injured or killed.”

“Even so, we should have been read in.”

Carlton shook his head. “You keep forgetting that you’re in the private sector. The FBI doesn’t have to tell us anything.”

It was true. A decade past 9/11, the FBI and the CIA still barely shared any intelligence. To expect either of them to share with a private organization was crazy. “We’ve got two dead Egyptians, then,” said Harvath. “They both originally came into the country on the same flight fifteen years ago and both attempted to carry out terrorist attacks with explosives a few weeks apart. One succeeded and one didn’t. Does that about sum it up?”

“Almost,” said Nicholas. “They both came into the country on what is known as dual intent visas. One came in on an L-1, the other an H1-B. The exact type of visa isn’t important. What is important is that because it was a dual intent visa, they were allowed to apply for a green card while they were working here. Both requests were granted.”

“Tell me they were both sponsored by the same employer,” said Harvath.

Nicholas shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. They were sponsored by two different companies. What’s interesting, though, is that by accessing the Department of State database, we discovered that both men applied for their visas at the U.S. consular office in Cairo within weeks of each other.”

“Okay,” said Harvath, sensing there was something else.

“After accessing the Immigration and Naturalization Service database, we learned that both men, though living in different parts of the country and working for different companies, used the same law firm to process their green card applications.”

“Dual intent visas with an American sponsor would have meant a lot less scrutiny upon arriving in the United States,” said Harvath.

“It also meant that they could come and go back to their country of origin if they wanted, without raising significant attention. Essentially, they had a corporation standing behind them, vouching for their authenticity. And because of their visas, they were recognized as aliens of extraordinary ability.”

“How many dual intent visa holders were on that flight?”

“Including Shafik and Nazif?” replied Nicholas. “Eight.”

“So besides our bombers, there were six others,” said Harvath, hopeful that they might be on to something. “How many of the six ended up applying for and being granted a green card or U.S. citizenship?”

Nicholas held up his left index finger. “Only one.”

“Another Egyptian?”

Nicholas nodded. “Want to venture a guess about when and where his original visa application was made?”

“Same U.S. consular office and within the same time frame as Shafik and Nazif?”

“He also used the same law firm to apply for his green card.”

“That’s it,” said Harvath. “What do we know about the law firm? Did the same lawyer handle all three green card applications?”

“The firm is based in New York,” replied Nicholas. “Though it could be the same attorney farming out the work to associates, a different lawyer was listed on each application. We’re trying to get hold of their billing records to see if there is some similarity in how the legal fees were paid.”

“Where is our third Egyptian now?”

“Los Angeles. His name is Tariq Sarhan.”

“I want everything you can find on him,” said Harvath.

“I’ve already started,” said Nicholas as he selected one of his monitors and brought up a multicolored graph.

“What’s that?”

“A quick snapshot of utility usage at the home registered to a Mr. Tariq Hafiz Sarhan. According to TIP, he’s taken on several houseguests in the last thirty-six hours. Which means either he’s got relatives who just dropped in—”

“Or he’s planning something,” replied Harvath, who then turned to Carlton. “We need to handle this. Just us.”

“Meaning?”

“No Feds. No local law enforcement.”

“That’s not going to sit well. Especially not in the wake of what just happened. We could get our asses handed to us.”

“We already have,” said Harvath. “Two of our operations have already gone sideways.”

Carlton knew he was right. “What do you want to do?”

“Until we know what’s going on, we need to be totally off everyone’s radar. We limit everything to just you, me, and Nicholas. The operation can’t leave this room. We don’t even tell DoD if we don’t have to. We go Full Black.”

The Old Man looked at Nicholas and then back at Harvath. “Okay,” he finally said. “Tell us what you’re going to need.”

CHAPTER 47

L
OS
A
NGELES

T
he home of Yaroslav Yatsko, the ex-FSB agent, sat in the Hollywood Hills above Sunset Boulevard. It was pink stucco with a small, mosaic-studded swimming pool and hot tub that spilled its warm water into the pool like a waterfall. The landscaping was lush and thick. It was early evening and no one saw Luke Ralston when he magnetized an alarm contact point, jimmied a window in the back, and let himself in.

The house was empty, yet the smell of sour Russian cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Yatsko had been here and, judging by the packed bag sitting at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom, he was planning to come back.

Ralston searched the bag. It included some clothes and a few toiletry items, but that was all. Yatsko appeared to be getting ready to go to ground. There was probably a safe or a cache of some sort in the house with money, a weapon, and maybe even a few fake IDs with matching credit cards. Ralston was going to need some extra cash and he had no problem taking it from some two-bit Russian hood.

Lavrov had made some phone calls, trying to quietly pin down Yatsko’s whereabouts. The former FSB man had been seen briefly at several of his businesses, before disappearing for the rest of the afternoon. The man probably had a bunch of loose ends to tie up before falling off the grid. Ralston was glad he had managed to get to the house before the Russian disappeared for good. Now, all he had to do was wait.

After selecting an item from Yatsko’s impressive baseball memorabilia collection, Ralston found a seat and made himself comfortable. Less than two hours later, he heard a car enter the drive and pull around to the garage at the side of the house.

As the garage door went up, Ralston made his way to the window and watched as a black BMW turned around and backed into the garage. Yatsko was alone. That he was backing into his garage made no sense unless it was a security measure of some sort. Ralston stepped into the hallway off the kitchen near the door that led into the garage and made ready to welcome the Russian home.

The BMW rolled into the garage and its ignition was turned off as the garage door descended. Moments later, Ralston heard a door slam shut, followed by footfalls and then a code being punched into an alarm panel in the garage. When the door into the house opened, Ralston waited until the Russian had stepped all the way inside before swinging the bat.

It connected squarely with the Russian’s knees, and he screamed in agony as he collapsed to the floor.

Ralston pulled out a pair of plastic restraints from his pocket and quickly zip-tied the man’s hands behind his back.

“You’re dead,” Yatsko yelled through his clenched teeth. He had a thick accent. “I don’t know who you are, but you are dead!”

“That’s right,” Ralston said. “You don’t know who I am and you’re the one who’s going to be dead if you don’t shut your fucking mouth. Where’s the safe?”

“That’s what this is?” he groaned. “A robbery?”

Ralston kicked him hard in the side. “Where’s the safe, asshole?”

“Bedroom.”

Despite the man’s size, Ralston grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the wooden floor to a hallway on the other side of the living room.

“Which one?”

“The last one,” said Yatsko. “On the left.”

Ralston dragged him into the bedroom and let go of him. The walls of the room were lined with fabric-covered panels. An ugly, overly large four-poster bed took up way too much space.

“Where?” demanded Ralston.

“Wherever you go, I’ll find you,” said the mobster. “I promise you.”

“The only thing I want to hear out of you,” said Ralston as he cranked the bat back and swung it hard at the man’s broken right kneecap, “is where the safe is and how to get into it.”

The Russian cried out once more and tears again poured out of his eyes and streamed down his face.

“How about the other knee? Should I hit that one again, too?”

“Behind the wardrobe,” the man stammered.

“What’s that?”

“The wardrobe,” he repeated, his voice quavering. “The safe is behind it.”

Ralston pushed the chest out of the way. All that was behind it was one of the ugly fabric panels. Gently, he pushed on it and it popped open upon a set of hidden hinges.

“What’s the combination?”

Yatsko gave it to him.

Inside, Ralston found multiple stacks of currency, passports, a portable computer drive, and some jewelry. Pulling a pillowcase off one of the pillows on the bed, he crossed back over to the safe and took everything but the jewelry.

Grabbing Yatsko by the collar again, he dragged him out of the bedroom.

“But I don’t have anything else worth stealing!” he implored.

“Shut up.”

Ralston dragged the Russian back across the house and into the hallway near the kitchen. He dropped him near the door to the garage.

“Do you want my car?” the mobster asked. “Take it. The keys are in it.”