While Harvath was pulling her out, she was pulling out someone else; a young woman who had been in the room next to her. Despite her injuries, and the high probability that the rest of the building could have collapsed, Rodriguez had never let go.

With his last half-ounce of adrenaline, Harvath leapt to his feet and helped de Roon’s team hold the wall. When the second woman was free, they attempted to lower the wall as gently as possible, but no one had the strength to see it all the way down.

It landed with a deafening crash, which hastened more structural failure and sent them all scrambling from the building. Casey and Cooper carried Rodriguez, while Ericsson and Rhodes helped the young prostitute from the room next door.

Out on the street, they began to administer first aid. Harvath’s hands, elbows, and knees were bleeding, but he was in much better shape than most of the people around him.

Someone offered him a bottle of water. After dousing his wounds he drained what was left and surveyed the devastation around him. All of it from a single bomber. Though it would be no consolation to the families and loved ones of the dead, it could have been, it was supposed to have been, much, much worse.

He resolved to himself that no matter what he had to do, he would not let this scene repeat itself in America.

Calling de Roon over, he said, “Give me your car keys.”

The intelligence officer looked at him. “You can’t drive like that.”

“I need to get back to al-Yaqoubi. I need to finish his interrogation.”

De Roon looked over Harvath’s shoulder, saw the first waves of Dutch rescue personnel arriving on the scene and said, “I’ll drive and we’ll finish it together.”

CHAPTER 62

Khalil al-Yaqoubi asked to speak to his family when Harvath entered the Sacleipea’s infirmary. He wanted assurances that they were still alive and that they had not been harmed.

The DST operative in Rabat was Casey’s contact, but Casey had gone to the hospital with Rodriguez while the other team members stayed at the scene to help treat the victims. Harvath couldn’t have called the man if he wanted to. Not that it mattered. Al-Yaqoubi was in no position to ask for anything.

“The deal is off, Khalil,” said Harvath.

The Moroccan didn’t understand. “But I did everything you asked. I told you the truth.”

“One of the bombs went off,” said de Roon as he instructed his men to leave the infirmary.

You could have heard a pin drop as the heavy steel door slammed shut.

Harvath unwound the bandage from the man’s left foot.

“What are you doing?” al-Yaqoubi demanded.

“I’m going to make you pay for all of the people who died tonight. Then I am going to make you pay for all the people who died in Paris. Then I am going to make you pay for Rome.”

Picking up a forceps and scalpel, he told de Roon, “Hold down his legs,” and began probing for the sural nerve. It didn’t take long to find it.

The terrorist screamed from the white-hot intensity of the pain.

“After I’m done making you pay, then we’ll call your family and I’ll let you listen to them pay.”

“No!” al-Yaqoubi shouted. “I did everything you asked. I will continue to do everything you ask.”

Harvath dug the forceps in again. “It’s too late, Khalil,” he shouted so he could be heard above the man’s screaming. “I warned you what would happen if even one of those bombs went off.”

The man was crying and begged Harvath to stop. “I will do anything. Anything. Please.”

De Roon looked at Harvath and he backed off. “I want to know who you’re working for.”

“I don’t know,” he stammered and Harvath shoved the forceps back in.

Al-Yaqoubi’s body went rigid and he arched his back so high it looked like his spine was about to snap. Tears were rolling down his face.

“Stop lying to me, Khalil.”

The man was hyperventilating. Harvath drew back the forceps and waited for him to catch his breath. “Last chance, Khalil. Who are you working for?”

“I’m telling you the truth. I do not know.”

Harvath moved the forceps closer.

“Al-Qaeda!” the man yelled. “Al-Qaeda. We swore our oath to Sheik Osama.”

“You only say that because that’s what you think I want to hear,” said Harvath as he studied the man’s face to discern whether or not he was telling the truth.

“It’s true. I swear to you.”

“Tell me about site 243.”

“What?” replied al-Yaqoubi.

“Site 243.”

“I don’t know what that is. I have never heard of it.”

“What about the Chinese?”

“I don’t know any Chinese.”

Harvath sensed he was telling the truth. Whoever had put this network together, especially if it was the Chinese, would have used third-party nationals from top to bottom. Al-Yaqoubi probably believed he really was working for al-Qaeda. The idea that his network had been assembled by China only to be hijacked by someone else would have been utterly incomprehensible to him.

Harvath switched his line of questioning. “Where did you train?”

“Yemen and Pakistan.”

“Who do you report to? Who gives you your orders?”

“I don’t know his real name.”

Harvath noticed a slight change in the man’s expression and rammed the forceps back into his foot. Once again, al-Yaqoubi’s body rose off the bed and writhed as he tried to escape the pain.

“Aleem,” he yelled, “Aazim Aleem.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” said Harvath as he twisted the tool inside the man’s foot like a fork into a plate of spaghetti.

Al-Yaqoubi howled and had trouble catching his breath. “He, he, he preaches on the Internet and on CDs and cassette tapes. They call him the Mufti…” his voice trailed off.

“The what?” Harvath demanded.

“The Mufti of Jihad.”

That was a name Harvath had heard of. The man was a rock star to jihadists around the world. He kept a very low profile and as far as Harvath knew, no one had ever been able to identify him.

Harvath disengaged the forceps and slid them out of the man’s foot. “The Mufti of Jihad is a ghost,” he said. “No one knows who he is. Why would he make his identity known to you?”

It took a moment for al-Yaqoubi to respond. “Because he and I were in the camps together. He was my instructor. He recruited me.”

“Describe him to me.”

The accountant strained at the wrists and remembered that he was tied down. He was breathing heavily. “Hands. He has no hands. Only hooks.”

“Why?”

“Jihad, Afghanistan.”

The man was slipping away again.

“Focus, Khalil,” Harvath ordered. “Where is he from?”

“Don’t know.”

“Saudi Arabia? Egypt? What languages does he speak?”

“Arabic and…” he said, his voice trailing off.

“And what?”

When he didn’t answer, Harvath slapped him. “What other language does he speak?”

“English. Very good English. Like an Englishman.”

“Does he live in England? Is that where he’s based? Who else is involved?” Harvath demanded. “Tell me about America. Who is in charge of the attacks in America?”

The accountant didn’t answer, and Harvath knew he was on the verge of blacking out again. He grabbed a package of smelling salts and looked at de Roon.

The intelligence officer nodded. He had no intention of getting in Harvath’s way this time.

Harvath opened the salts and waved them under the terrorist’s nose.

Al-Yaqoubi began coughing and his eyes started to normalize as he shook his head back and forth. Harvath tossed the salts aside and asked his question again. “Who is in charge of the American attacks?”

“There is an Iraqi,” sputtered al-Yaqoubi. “He is in charge of American operations.”

“What’s his name? How do I find him?”

“I don’t know his name. Aleem was the only one I knew by name. The rest of us used code names.”