Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [64]
“I was already out of high school,” said Harvath, “and if you don’t mind, Father, I’d rather not talk about this anymore.”
“I understand,” said Peio as he took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled out the window.
Harvath doubted it, but he let it go and the two men sat in silence for several minutes.
“May I ask you how your father died?” said the priest.
“He was a SEAL. He died in a training accident.”
“Nicholas told me you had been a SEAL. Is that why?”
“I suppose that was part of it,” replied Harvath.
“I think your father would be proud of you.”
This was one of the biggest reasons Harvath hated conducting these types of ops with someone he didn’t know. What they were doing was akin to surveillance. It was grindingly boring to sit around and wait to be set loose on a target. The boredom got to some people faster than others and when it did, they always wanted to “chat.” And it was often about stuff that was entirely too personal.
“With all due respect, Padre,” he said, “you don’t really know that much about me.”
“Don’t I? I know you care for Nicholas. I know you care for Argos and Draco. I know you care for your country and I know you care for this woman, Tracy. You are a good man. Nicholas told me so and I can see it for myself. And no matter what has happened to you up to this point in your life, I want you to know that God wants you to be happy.”
“Even if I want to kill all the Muslim fundamentalists in the world?”
It took Peio a moment to ascertain whether Harvath was pulling his leg. “Let’s leave the fundamentalists out of this.”
He was about to make a snappy remark that probably would have drawn the ire of the priest when his cell phone rang. It was Nicholas.
“I’ve got him.”
CHAPTER 29
CHICAGO
My wife called,” said Paul Davidson as John Vaughan slid back into the Bronco and handed a Styrofoam cup of coffee over to him.
“Yeah?” replied the Organized Crime officer, pulling the passenger door shut. “What’d she say?”
“She says she’s naming you in the divorce decree as well.”
“Me? I only kept you out one night.”
“Yeah, but today is punta Sunday.”
“What the hell is punta Sunday?” asked Vaughan, vaguely recognizing the Spanish-sounding word.
“Today’s the day, we, you know,” said Davidson awkwardly.
“Are you serious? You only have sex with your wife on Sundays?”
“And my birthday.”
Vaughan started laughing.
“Go ahead and laugh,” said Davidson, “but this is going to affect you too.”
“Me?” he repeated. “How the hell could this possibly affect me?”
“You’ll see. Trust me.”
Vaughan rolled his eyes and peeled the lid off his coffee. Examining the logs from the dispatch computer in Nasiri’s cab, he had discovered a pattern. The Pakistani driver picked up fares in a certain part of the city at regular times of the day. As that area was nowhere near his apartment, there had to be another reason Nasiri favored it.
On a hunch, Vaughan cross-referenced the pickups with Muslim prayer times and his hunch paid off. Nasiri was picking up fares after he had gone to pray. The only problem was that there were no official mosques within the entire eight-block radius they were looking at. The keyword, though, was official.
With one phone call, Davidson was able to learn that there were unofficial, makeshift mosques and prayer rooms all across the city. Normally they were hiding right in plain sight. People just didn’t know what to look for, such as an abundance of taxicabs in front, papered-over windows, Arabic writing, or the word Masjid written somewhere on the facade.
Once Vaughan and Davidson found out, it took them several hours, but they finally located what they believed to be Mohammed Nasiri’s mosque.
Unlike American places of worship, Vaughan knew that it wasn’t unusual for mosques, especially those frequented by fundamentalists, to be used to plot attacks, store weapons, and give sanctuary to terrorists.
“Anything else happen while I was gone?” he asked.
Davidson pretended to consult his notebook. “Muammar Gaddafi dropped bin Laden and Zawahiri