Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [120]
“No!”
“No, what?” replied Harvath.
“I will tell you what you want to know.”
“How do we stop the attack?”
Al-Yaqoubi started shaking. He was slipping into shock. Harvath slapped him to get his attention. “Where is the attack going to take place?”
“The Red Light District.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” pleaded al-Yaqoubi.
“We know the target is Dam Square,” said Harvath.
“That was before London was interrupted.”
“What time?”
“Sometime before midnight. I don’t know exactly when.”
“How do we stop it?”
The accountant’s shivering increased.
“How do we stop it?” Harvath repeated.
“You can’t.”
“Bullshit. How are they planning to attack?”
Al-Yaqoubi’s eyes were unfocused and when he failed to respond, Harvath slapped him again and repeated his question.
“Explosive vests,” the accountant stammered.
“Not bicycles?”
“After London, everything was changed.”
“Do the men have cell phones? Can they be recalled?”
“The only phones are on the explosives they are carrying. They are in their final stage and are not supposed to have contact with each other or anyone else.”
Chicken switches, thought Harvath. Just like London. He believed al-Yaqoubi was telling him the truth. It also made sense. You wouldn’t want your martyrs reaching out to a girlfriend or family member at the last minute only to have that bring about a change of heart.
“Someone will be watching them to make sure they carry out the operation, correct?”
The accountant nodded, his pupils beginning to dilate.
“Where will he be positioned?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about the bombers? Where will they be?”
“De Wallen,” he mumbled.
Harvath looked up at de Roon.
“I know it,” said the intelligence operative, “but it’s only a general district. He needs to be more specific.”
Harvath shifted his attention back to al-Yaqoubi, who was decompensating. His pulse was rapid and thready, his skin cool and clammy to the touch. They were going to lose him.
Harvath tried slapping him again, but it had no effect. He yelled into the man’s ear and knuckled his sternum without any success. “He’s crashing. He needs medical attention.”
“If we take him to a hospital, your interrogation is over,” said de Roon.
“If we don’t, he’s going to die.”
“You’re a SEAL. You have experience with battlefield medicine. Can’t you stabilize him?”
“With what?” asked Harvath, looking around. “Duct tape?”
De Roon slammed on his brakes and pulled to the shoulder. As he leapt from the car, he yelled for Casey to climb into the backseat to assist.
He removed a trauma bag from the trunk and tossed it to Harvath as he got back in the car, put it in gear, and peeled back out.
Harvath quickly unzipped the bag and emptied out its contents. It was full of QuikClots, Israeli bandages, and other odds and ends. “This isn’t enough. This will only help me stop the bleeding. At the very least, he’s going to need an IV and painkillers.”
Al-Yaqoubi had been laid across the backseat. Casey found a reflective space blanket in the supplies and opened it up and laid it across him, while Harvath began to tend to his wounds.
“If you had those supplies, could you stabilize him?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“But could you do it?”
“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