Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [130]
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.”
Harvath doubted Aleem was his real name. He would have used a pseudonym as well.
“The man in America,” said Harvath as he raised the forceps again and hovered over the accountant’s foot, “what’s his code name?”
“Yusuf. We called him Yusuf.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He is a businessman of some sort.”
“What kind of business?”
“I don’t know.”
Harvath debated shoving the forceps back inside the man’s foot, but held back. “You said he was an Iraqi. How long has he been in the United States?”
“I don’t know.”
“I am losing my patience, Khalil. You don’t seem to know much at all. Where in Iraq is the man from?”
“Fallujah. He comes from a large family there.”
“How do you know?”
“Iraqis like to brag about their families. He had a cousin who was the local commander of the National Guard. He talked about him a lot. He said that was how he was introduced to al-Qaeda.”
Harvath lowered the forceps. “What was his cousin’s name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Try harder!” Harvath shouted. “Your family’s life depends on it.”
Al-Yaqoubi’s pulse was pounding as he searched his brain for the name. “Hadi? Halef? I can’t remember.”
Harvath looked at de Roon. “Call Rabat. Tell the DST that Khalil has been uncooperative and that they should begin.”
“Hakim!” the accountant yelled, the name rushing back to him. “His cousin’s name was Omar-Hakim.”
Omar-Hakim was the Iraqi National Guard commander Harvath had forced into helping him take down the al-Qaeda safe house outside Fallujah; the same safe house where the child hostages had been kept. Stunned, Harvath dropped the surgical instrument he was holding and ran from the infirmary.
Bursting through one of the exterior bulkheads, he began dialing the number for his contact in Fallujah before he even had a full-strength signal.
The call failed. Harvath cursed and dialed again. A few moments later, Mike Dent answered his phone.
“Mike, it’s Scot,” said Harvath. “Is Omar-Hakim still alive?”
“No,” replied the man from Fallujah. “He was tortured to death a couple of days after you dropped him off. Are you having an attack of conscience or something?”
The Iraqi had gotten what he deserved. In fact, he probably deserved much worse, but that didn’t matter now. “Do you know any of his family members in Fallujah?”
“I don’t know any of them, but everyone knows of them. Why?”
“He has a cousin. A businessman in America. I need you to find out everything you can about him.”
“How soon do you need it?” asked Dent.
“I need it immediately and I don’t care what you have to do to get it. Do you understand?”
“Can I use local talent?”
“Use whoever you have to and agree to pay them whatever they want,” said Harvath, “but you get me that information and you get it for me ASAP.”
CHAPTER 63
CHICAGO
I have already made provisions for weapons and ammunition,” said Marwan. “Your trip is not necessary. Focus on the remaining elements which need to be accomplished.”
Rashid tried to explain. “When we left the hotel, did you notice the two cops standing there?”
“Yes, I saw them, but I don’t—”
“How about their vests?”
“Level-two soft body armor,” said the man. “Level three if they have upgraded from what they were given at the police academy.”
“That’s the armor. What about the carriers they use?”
“Carriers don’t provide ballistic protection,