Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [129]
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