Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [109]
As they approached the statue of Sir Henry Havelock with Lord Nelson’s column and Trafalgar looming behind, Harvath was amazed at the number of people that were out. Black cabs, double-decker and tour buses disgorged people on every corner, and somewhere in that mass of humanity was the man they were looking for.
Because of the number of operatives now involved, Ashford wanted firm call signs and Harvath’s team had been designated Corona. He was Corona One; Casey, Corona Two; Cooper, Corona Three; Ericsson, Four; Rodriguez Five; and Rhodes Six. Ashford took the call sign Viceroy.
Harvath and Casey had picked up a tourist map, while the other women used maps that they had found on the Web via their iPhones.
They gave Trafalgar a wide berth and stayed well across the street. Via the bone mic he was wearing, Harvath pretended to consult his map with Casey and said, “Okay, Viceroy. Where’s the subject?”
“He’s heading into the National Gallery.”
Before Harvath could respond, Cooper said, “This is Corona Three. We’ve got him.”
The dance went on for over an hour. The man they were following used channels, stair-stepping, intrusion points, and timing stops. He also changed his appearance several more times, but it made no difference. He never spotted Harvath’s team and was therefore unable to shake them.
He walked into an Internet café on Charing Cross Road with Megan Rhodes right on his heels. It was a small, storefront operation that sold newspapers, cigarettes, and Western Union services in addition to Internet access. The space looked like it had once belonged to a grocer and they also offered Skype, IT maintenance, Web design, computer networking, and Web and data security. It was an odd hodgepodge to say the least.
Chewing gum and clicking away at her iPhone, Rhodes was directed by an overly pierced clerk to the only remaining terminal, the one right next to the man she was following.
Having pulled out her earpiece before walking into the café, Rhodes was now communicating via text messages with Gretchen Casey, who, along with Harvath, was two blocks away and closing.
Nikki Rodriguez took up a position outside, while Cooper and Ericsson split up to cover any rear exits. Ashford’s men maintained their perimeter, ready to move in as soon as Harvath gave the command.
“Shut up,” Rhodes snorted as she popped her gum, rolled her eyes, and thumbed out another text message.
The controller cursed the “ugly American” under his breath and tried to tune her out as he opened up his Web browser.
Rhodes set her phone down next to her computer and opened her Web browser as well and began slowly surfing through a series of tourism links for the Cotswolds.
The man next to her logged on to his Skype account, picked up the headset next to his computer, and initiated a VOIP call.
“The oranges were no good,” he said in Arabic. “I have no idea why,” he added after a pause to listen to something said by whoever was on the other end. “It might have been just this batch or it could have been throughout the entire crop.”
The cryptic call went on for several minutes as the men spoke in code. Rhodes’s iPhone was recording the entire thing and broadcasting it to Casey.
“I understand,” the controller finally said. “It is the right thing to do.” He then disconnected the call and removed his headset.
Rhodes paid no attention to the man as he stood up to leave. Once he was at the door, she picked up her phone and said, “He’s coming out. Take him down.”
In case the man had some sort of a relationship with the café, they waited until he was half a block away and then Harvath and Rodriguez did the honors with a blast from one of the Taser X3s.
By the time Harvath had the man’s wrists bound with a pair of EZ Cuffs, an MI5 van was in the street, its sliding door wide open.
He and Rodriguez chucked the man inside and then watched as it raced away. Turning to her, he asked, “Did that guy smell like goat to you?”
Rodriguez shook her head and went back