“Understood, sir.”

“It would also be nice if we could eat someplace where we’re not going to stick out and the ladies won’t be bothered.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Once the team was in the van, Bloom and his colleague, Michaels, took the team to Number 8 Herbert Crescent. It was an unremarkable Victorian building behind Harrods department store in Knightsbridge. It was perfect and Harvath had no doubt that Ashford had made the reservations himself.

There was no name plaque on the shiny, black door; only a brass lion knocker with a buzzer recessed into the frame. Up above, a camera recorded the comings and goings of guests.

Bloom pressed the doorbell and when the door clicked open, ushered his charges inside. Standing in the small, carpeted foyer was a well-dressed man cradling an MP5. They had just entered London’s Special Forces Club.

Harvath’s suspicion that the lunch had been put together by Ashford was confirmed by the fact that there was already a table waiting for them under Bob’s name.

The club’s membership was open to anyone who had a clandestine role in or out of uniform. Its motto was: Spirit of Resistance. Simply put, it was the private club for current and former secret agents, Special Forces operatives, MI5, MI6, and CIA officers in London.

They were led to a large table in the dining room. After they were seated, menus were passed around and the day’s specials were explained. Bloom and Michaels sat at a table nearby.

None of the team felt they were dressed appropriately for a private club, but none of the other members seemed to mind. Perhaps some of the more wily intelligence operatives suspected what kind of work their American guests were up to, but if they did, they didn’t let on.

They were halfway through lunch when Harvath’s cell phone rang. Standing up, he walked back down to the entry hall to take the call. It was Reed Carlton.

“The Israelis broke the Skype transaction for us.”

“You’ve got the regional controller’s location? Where is he?” asked Harvath. “London?”

“No,” replied Carlton. “Amsterdam.”

CHAPTER 54

CHICAGO

Abdul Rashid rubbed the stubble on his cheeks and massaged his eyes with the heels of his hands as he poured more tea. It had been a long night.

It was bad enough the two police officers had happened upon them, but then the third man had come in through the alley door with his shotgun and the shooting had happened. Rashid had been forced to act quickly.

The first thing he had done was to call the police from one of his prepaid cell phones, which he promptly disposed of afterward. He reported shots fired, but gave the location as four blocks away. He also made up descriptions of the shooters, the vehicles they were driving, and the direction they were headed in.

Though the building they used as a mosque was in a largely commercial area and the shots had been fired late at night, there was still a chance that someone might have heard the exchange and reported it. Unless they were looking out a window onto the alley where it happened, they wouldn’t be able to give the police much more to go on than that they heard gunshots nearby. By phoning in a believable account of a gangbanger shoot-out four blocks away, Rashid all but guaranteed where the police would focus their efforts. That, though, would buy them only so much time.

The explosive compounds and all other incriminating materials had to be moved right away, as well as the hostages. Without time to go fetch two of Marwan’s trucks, they had to use the vehicles of the cell members at the mosque.

Pulling the vehicles into the alley, they loaded them as quickly as possible. Rashid personally kept watch for any other surprise visitors.

Once the vehicles had departed, he had one of his men follow him in the police officers’ Bronco, which he abandoned in a rough neighborhood several miles away. With any luck, it had been stolen within minutes.

It looked as if they had dodged a bullet. The only remaining loose end to be tied up was the mosque’s imam, whom Marwan handled with a phone call. Should the police come to question him about anything, he would simply tell the truth; after the faithful had departed following the final prayers of the evening, he had locked up the mosque and had gone home. He knew better than to reveal that things were happening in the basement. If the police wanted to look around, he was instructed to accommodate them. There was no incriminating evidence anywhere in the building.

So far, the police hadn’t showed up. Rashid doubted they would. For the time being, they were still safe. Or so he had thought.

“The timetable must be changed,” Marwan said as Rashid brought over tea for their guest.

“We should not speak in front of him,” the guest responded in Arabic, slicing one of his hooks through the air as if physically cutting off the conversation.

His name was Aazim Aleem. He was British by birth and had fought against the Soviets in Afghanistan. It was there that he had both hands blown off allegedly trying to deactivate a landmine close to a school. Only the truly naive believed the story. In truth, he had lost both of his hands when a bomb he was building prematurely detonated.

Rashid had met him once before, in Pakistan while he was travelling with Marwan. Aleem was a respected Islamic scholar who had studied at Egypt’s prestigious Al-Azhar University in Cairo. He was famous for his writings about jihad, as well as his sermons, the audio recordings of which were disseminated throughout the Islamic world and across the Internet. He was known as the “Mufti of Jihad,” but he never made any public appearances. Very few knew his true identity. Not even British or American intelligence agencies knew who he was. Back in the U.K., the man lived on a full disability pension paid for by the same government he plotted against and deeply desired to overthrow.

Rashid had been surprised to see Aleem at the mosque. It was completely unexpected and, happening so close to his cell going operational, he was quite sure that it wasn’t a coincidence.

He set down the tea and said, “I understand Arabic.”

Like an angry sea crab, Aleem leaned forward and snapped his hooks at him. “You are not one of us,” he hissed in English.

Rashid looked at Marwan. “I’m confused. Sheik Aleem grew up in the U.K. He speaks better English than I do and yet he’s got trust issues with me?”

“You were not a mujihadeen who fought against the Soviets.”

“With all due respect,” replied Rashid as he looked at Aleem, “the jihad against the Soviets is over.” He pointed at his chest for emphasis. “I represent the current jihad; the one that is actually being waged right now.”

Aleem smiled and addressed Marwan. “He doesn’t know his place very well, but he is passionate.”

Marwan Jarrah held his hand out to calm his protégé. “You will show our guest the respect he deserves, Shahab.”

Rashid did as he was told. “I apologize.”

“You are able to temper your passion,” noted Aleem. “That is important.”

“Important for what?”

“We’ve had a change of plans,” said Marwan.

Rashid looked at their guest and then back to his boss. “So Sheik Aleem is involved in our struggle?”

Aleem laughed. “I have been involved in this struggle since before you were born, boy.”

“Yes,” said Marwan. “He’s involved. There has been a problem in Europe.”

“What does Europe have to do with us?”

“He has much to learn,” replied Aleem.

Rashid was tempted to give the hook-handed old man a piece of his mind, but held his tongue. “So we are working in concert with the brothers in Europe.”