“Probably.”

The answer seemed to satisfy de Roon, who began issuing orders over his radio as he put his foot down even harder on the accelerator.

CHAPTER 58

The rusting Liberian-registered freighter was called the Sacleipea and had the filthiest infirmary Harvath had ever seen. Nevertheless, it was well stocked and de Roon’s men had everything Harvath had asked for ready and waiting when they carried Khalil al-Yaqoubi in.

Casey helped get an IV going and began administering pain meds while Harvath plucked as much road debris from the accountant’s shredded feet as possible. Once he had cleaned and rebandaged the man’s wounds, he taped up his nose and gave him a dose of antibiotics to begin fighting any potential infection.

Harvath opened a package of smelling salts and waved it under al-Yaqoubi’s nose until he came to. The man shook his head violently to get away from the odor, but soon opened his eyes. He tried to move his arms, but they were Flex-Cuffed to the infirmary gurney.

“Where am I?”

“Not nearly close enough to save your family,” said Harvath as he tossed away the salts.

“I told you everything.”

Harvath was in no mood to argue. “How many bombers are there?”

“Six.”

“Plus one making sure they detonate, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I want physical descriptions of all of them. I also want to know where the bombs were assembled and how.”

The accountant nodded his assent.

“And, Khalil,” said Harvath, locking eyes with the man. “The descriptions you give me had better be perfect. If we are unable to stop them, if even one bomb goes off, your family is as good as dead.”

Al-Yaqoubi’s bombers had picked one of the most densely packed tourist areas in Amsterdam. De Wallen was the most popular red-light district and was located in the heart of the oldest part of the city. It was a network of alleys and small streets crisscrossing several blocks and canals south of the Oude Kerk.

Scantily clad women, midgets, hermaphrodites, and transvestites offered themselves from behind large windows or glass doors often accompanied by a red light. The prostitutes’ places of business were often interspersed with sex shops, peep shows, hash bars, and live-sex theaters.

Tourists gawked at the women, but for the most part kept moving. The challenge for Harvath and Martin de Roon was how to field their teams. Dutch law enforcement officials were similar to their American counterparts and were easy to spot by their physiques and demeanor.

Regardless, no one spent hours upon hours wending their way through De Wallen. It wasn’t that big. Anyone who did so would be pegged as unusual and therefore suspect. The last thing they wanted to do was tip their hand.

Harvath came up with an idea to put four of Martin’s youngest operatives in soccer jerseys. They looked like athletes anyway and could convincingly pass themselves off as teammates out celebrating a win. De Roon thought it was a good idea and decided to okay it, suggesting the men park themselves at one of the hash bars in the center of the red-light district.

He also agreed that since most people never looked up, placing snipers out of sight along as many of the rooftops as possible was a good idea. Using small cameras to observe the streets below them, they acted as extra eyes in the skies and wouldn’t need to expose themselves unless they were ready to take a shot.

The positions for the last assets to be placed in were the hardest to decide upon. While couples and bachelorette parties strolled through De Wallen, they kept moving and rarely passed the same location twice unless it was on their way home after a night out on the town.

Casey didn’t need to be asked. She knew placing the Athena Team in the windows was the best way to watch the flow of people and they all volunteered. All that needed to be decided was which windows they would take. Once Harvath and Martin had identified the best possible locations, de Roon contacted a cop he knew and trusted who dealt with the red-light district and explained that he was running a very quiet sting. The occupants of the windows in question were paid a hefty sum of cash from Harvath’s funds and given the night off.

Everything was ready to go except for one thing. The Athena Team members were probably some of the most attractive “prostitutes” the red-light district had ever seen. Before the operation could begin, they needed to figure out a means by which to dissuade potential customers from bothering them. The plan they came up with actually helped distribute their remaining operatives.

Operatives, including Harvath and de Roon, were placed out of sight with each of the women. If a potential suitor approached and wanted to arrange for her services, each operative would say that he had bought her for the night and to take a hike. In addition, they would also be wearing the same soccer jerseys. If someone did hit up all five women, they’d be left thinking some soccer team or hooligan fan club had taken over the best talent in the district and hopefully move on.

With positioning out of the way, Harvath was left to reflect on the men they were looking for. Al-Yaqoubi had been quite ingenious. Instead of recruiting Arab Muslims for his attack, he had recruited Indonesians.

Indonesia was the most populous Muslim country in the world and had once been a Dutch colony. People of Indonesian descent could be found throughout the Netherlands. They had largely assimilated themselves into the culture and weren’t considered threatening, unlike their Arab brethren. They also could move through the red-light district, even during a time of heightened anxiety and security, without drawing attention to themselves.

Al-Yaqoubi was in bad shape, and it was a fight to keep him conscious. He could only give rough descriptions of the men. They were of average height, with dark hair and eyes; all in their mid twenties. He had no idea how they would be dressed except to say that they would have to employ some means to cover their bomb vests.

The cell’s controller was in his late thirties and also Indonesian. He had a thick, white scar behind his left ear from a motorcycle accident in his youth. The accountant only knew the bombers by their Muslim names and not their given names under which they lived their Dutch lives. He did, though, know the controller’s given name, Joost Moerdani. It was all they got out of him before he slipped back into unconsciousness.

With that information, Martin had been able to pull the man’s driver’s license and passport photos. Everyone, including the plainclothes police that had been brought in to form a covert ring around the red-light district, knew what he looked like. If he was spotted, everyone had been given strict orders not to take him down. They were to report his location and attempt to keep him under surveillance.

It was a warm night and Harvath hoped that would help them spot their suicide bombers. Indonesian men wearing sweatshirts, sweaters, jackets, or bulky shirts would get very special attention.

Once a potential bomber was ID’d, the nearest team members would go to work. Posing as a tourist taking video of the red-light district with a camera phone, one member would try to get the man’s picture while the other would track him.

The picture would be sent to de Roon’s men on the Sacleipea. If al-Yaqoubi was awake, then he would be shown the picture to help confirm identification. If he wasn’t awake, they were going to be in a lot of trouble.

Assuming al-Yaqoubi would be able to ID the bombers, the rules of engagement became very clear. The target needed to be taken out. The only question was how to do it without starting a panic that would send tourists screaming.