CHAPTER 56

Martin de Roon ordered the other two vehicles to hang back. The less attention they drew to themselves, the better. One blacked-out Mercedes cruising through one of Amsterdam’s worst Muslim ghettos was more than enough.

“There are two pistols in the armrest between you,” he said.

Casey opened it and Harvath fished out a pair of SIG-Sauer P226s and an extra magazine for each.

“It goes without saying that you didn’t get those weapons from us.”

“Understood,” replied Harvath as he handed Casey a pistol and a spare magazine. “Have you heard anything back from Morocco?”

She checked her phone again. “They’re approaching the house. That’s all I know.”

Harvath glanced at his watch. They were running out of time. “What’s plan B if the house is empty?”

“We create a distraction on the next block,” said de Roon. “Something big. Something that will draw people out of houses and shops. We pick a building and send in fire trucks and ambulances. We send them in fast and loud. We make police go in and set up barricades to hold people back.

“As soon as the crowds begin to gather and enough people have gone to see what is happening, we pull up in the van and grab al-Yaqoubi and the other men in the office.”

“How quickly could you get all of those emergency responders there?” asked Harvath.

“It would only take a matter of minutes.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” said Casey as she read the message that had just come across her phone. “Two of al-Yaqoubi’s wives and several of the children are apparently at the Rabat house. My DST contact wants to know how he should proceed.”

“Tell him to take the house.”

“Roger that,” replied Casey, who called her contact in Morocco’s secret police, formally known as the Direction de la Securité du Territoire, or DST.

Above a wooded gorge, south of Rabat’s diplomatic district at Ain Aouda, the United States had helped Morocco build an interrogation and detention facility for its al-Qaeda suspects. It was run by the Moroccan DST, and Gretchen Casey had participated in several interrogations there over the last two years.

She put the call on speaker phone so Harvath and de Roon could listen in to the takedown. Commands were issued in Arabic as men could be heard jumping out of cars and pounding on a door.

In typical Arab fashion a woman could be heard arguing with the men, and when that didn’t work, she slipped into sobbing hysterics, claiming she didn’t know anyone named Khalil al-Yaqoubi.

Finally, the DST man in Rabat told Casey they were ready to make the call. “How close are we?” she asked de Roon.

“Four blocks. Less than two minutes out,” he replied.

“Proceed to the target.”

The intelligence officer nodded and instructed his operative to take the next left. They stopped there and waited for the second Mercedes. When de Roon’s operative had gotten out, he retrieved several items from the trunk and then slid behind the wheel. Casey joined him up front while Harvath remained in the backseat.

When they were half a block away from the target, Casey told her contact in Rabat to make the call.

They pulled up in front of the accounting office just as the phone began to ring. The DST operative had called from inside the house in Rabat. Casey could hear everything from his end, including when he put al-Yaqoubi’s wife and then one of his children on the phone.

The instructions were very clear. The DST operative told al-Yaqoubi to look out the window. When the accountant confirmed that the black Mercedes had just pulled up, the DST man told him to stand and without saying a word, hang up the phone and exit the office. If he was seen to utter even a single syllable, his family would be killed.

It was a despicable tactic, but one Harvath had learned long ago to accept. In the war against Islamic fundamentalists, often the only tie greater than the tie to their god was their tie to their families, especially when children were involved. It made Harvath wonder if maybe he was actually better off without children himself. Maybe Tracy had been doing him a favor. He could only imagine how horrifically gut-wrenching it would be to be on al-Yaqoubi’s end of the phone right now.

They watched as al-Yaqoubi hung up the receiver, stood up from his desk, and exited the office. The team in the surveillance van watched and confirmed that he had not spoken a word to his confused colleagues.

Walking up to the Mercedes, he opened the door and got in. Harvath pointed the SIG-Sauer at his chest and told him in Arabic to sit down. The man did so.

“Close the door.”

Al-Yaqoubi complied. Harvath looked at de Roon and said, “Drive.”

“Who are you? What have you done to my family?” the man demanded in English. He was far from being frightened. In fact, he was indignant.

“How do we stop the attack?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

De Roon said, “The surveillance team says the men in the office seem confused. They are all standing at the window trying to figure out what just happened. Should the men go in and get them, or do you want our guest to make the call?”

This was where Harvath was going to have to take a gamble. If the men in the office were in on the plot, al-Yaqoubi’s sudden departure might seem odd, but they would likely rationalize that something had come up that he needed to take care of right away. As far as they would have been able to tell, he had left of his own free will. Besides, he had climbed into a Mercedes, not a police car. While indeed unusual, and while it may have put them in a state of unease, it wouldn’t have been enough to cause them to ring any alarm bells. Not yet.

Harvath decided to leave them in the office. “Tell your team to keep watching and to let us know if any of them pick up a landline or cell phone.”

“Understood,” said de Roon as he radioed the orders to his team.

“How do we stop the attack?” Harvath repeated to their passenger.

“I want to know what you have done to my family!” the man demanded once more.

Harvath nodded at Casey who brought de Roon’s Taser up over her seat, aimed it at al-Yaqoubi’s torso, and pulled the trigger.

Instantly, he cried out and his body seized as if he’d been overcome by rigor mortis. Harvath waited until it was safe and after tucking his weapon into his waistband, zipped the man’s wrists together behind his back with a pair of Flex Cuffs. Pushing him back in his seat, he patted him down and removed the man’s cell phone, keys, and pocket litter, which he set in a pile on the floor.

“How long until we’re there?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes,” replied de Roon.

Harvath looked at his watch. “We don’t have that kind of time. We’re going to have to interrogate him here.”

He wrapped al-Yaqoubi’s ankles with duct tape and then took the Taser from Casey.

Catching de Roon’s eyes in the rearview mirror he said, “No matter what happens do what I say and don’t stop driving.”