Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [117]
De Roon scrolled through the file and read. “He is a Dutch citizen of Moroccan extraction, Rabat to be exact. According to our records, he has three wives and eleven children, but despite the fact that they receive Dutch social assistance—”
“Wait a second,” said Harvath. “This guy is an accountant and his family receives welfare?”
The intelligence man shook his head. “The system has a lot of problems, including the fact that we cannot find any proof of current residency for the family.”
“None?”
“No. We have no Dutch medical, Dutch school, or Dutch employment records for any of them.”
“Which means they’re probably back in Morocco.”
That gave Casey an idea. “Do we have full names and dates of birth for the family?” she asked as she removed her cell phone.
De Roon pulled it up and handed his BlackBerry to her.
“What are you doing?” asked Harvath.
Casey highlighted a number in her address book and activated the call button. “I know a few people in the Moroccan secret police,” she replied. “If that’s where this guy’s family is, we might not have to walk into his office at all.”
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