Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [89]
Harvath still wanted to have a discussion with the priest about what had happened at the chalet, but the opportunity never really presented itself. It was none of his business, and he figured he should probably drop it and leave the man to his own conscience.
He had fed everything he was able to download from Sterk, including her medical condition, back to Carlton in Virginia. Outside of the dates and locations, she seemed to know very little about the attacks themselves.
She believed the cells were composed of Muslim males, but was uncertain of their ethnicity. They would be using homemade bombs packed with marbles, ball bearings, nails, or screws to act as shrapnel to maximize their killing power.
Sterk also couldn’t tell him if the men would be wearing suicide vests, if the bombs would be carried in backpacks, or if they would be packed in a car. She didn’t know how many bombs there would be or how they were designed to go off. She couldn’t say if the men would be hiding their explosives and leaving as had been done in Rome, or blowing themselves up as had been done in Paris. She also had no idea if there was one bomb intended for Piccadilly and one for Amsterdam’s Dam Square, multiple bombs at both, or one bomb at the former and multiple bombs at the latter.
As much as he wanted to, Harvath couldn’t be two places at once. With such sketchy information, the choice of which city to try to head off an attack in was a toss-up. It all came down to the numbers. He would go where the most American lives were at risk and it was the Old Man who made the call—London.
Carlton had excellent contacts in Great Britain; experienced people he could trust. He also had something else—a Delta unit training with the British SAS at a classified site in Wales. With one call from the Old Man to the DOD, the unit was packing its bags and heading for London.
When Harvath arrived, he was met by one of the deans of MI5, Robert Ashford. He was a barrel-chested man of medium height with steel-gray hair and a broad, flat nose. He looked very capable of handling trouble and also looked like he had probably dealt plenty of it out over the course of his career.
Ashford introduced himself and handed over his card. “Bob Ashford. Welcome to England.” Looking at Harvath’s bag, he added, “I understand there’s nothing special you need to declare, correct?”
As the capability kit at the safe house in Geneva wouldn’t cover Riley and the interrogation team, the Old Man had instructed Harvath to leave his gear behind. “Correct,” Harvath said, tapping his bag. “I only brought my toothbrush and a change of underwear. I was told you know all the best places to shop.”
Ashford smiled, removed his credentials, and navigated Harvath through the passport control and customs checkpoints. Parked in a fire lane just outside was a black BMW. The MI5 man directed Harvath to the passenger seat and then walked around and got behind the wheel.
“Seatbelts, please,” he said as he shut the door and started the vehicle. “Peaches would never forgive me if something happened to you.”
“Peaches?” repeated Harvath.
“A little joke amongst his friends. I assume you refer to him as Mr. Carlton or some such back in the States.”
“Either that or boss. Sometimes known simply as the Old Man.”
Ashford chuckled softly, applied his turn signal, and pulled away from the curb. “We weren’t always old, you know. We were once quite young. Younger than you even.”
Harvath didn’t need a reminder of his age. He still had a swollen testicle and a couple of bruises that five years ago would have been gone by now.
“Reed’s a good man and an even better operative,” Ashford added.
“Is that where the nickname Peaches comes from, or should I ask Mrs. Carlton about it?”
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