Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [91]
Ashford soon brought his BMW to a stop in front of an immaculate Georgian town house in Belgravia, just southwest of Buckingham Palace.
“There’s a package for you in the boot,” he said, activating the trunk-release as Harvath climbed out.
Harvath walked to the rear of the BMW, and inside was a large, hard-sided suitcase. Lifting it out, he walked back around to the front of the vehicle.
Ashford rolled down his window. “Peaches has pinned a lot of his hopes on you. He says you have good judgment and that we can trust you.”
“You can,” replied Harvath.
“Good, because we’ve put a lot at risk. There are many people we’ve kept out of the loop for security reasons. When this goes down, they’re not going to be happy that they weren’t included.”
“They’ll get over it.”
“Provided everything goes to plan. But, if a bomb or bombs are detonated tomorrow and there are casualties, there will be hell to pay.”
Harvath had no trouble grasping who Ashford and the Brits intended to stick with the bill if something went wrong. “We want to take as many of them alive as possible.”
“Let’s hope we get them all,” said Ashford, putting his car in gear. He looked at his watch. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning at six. I’ll pick you up here. If I hear of anything before then, I’ll call you.”
Harvath thanked him and stepped back from the curb as the MI5 man pulled away. Opening the townhome’s wrought-iron gate, he walked up the stairs to the front door. He punched the code Reed had given him into the keypad and stepped inside.
There was a cavernous silence. It was immediate, as if a television had just been shut off, but the echoes of a program still lingered in the air.
Harvath was suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone. He set the case down and stepped into the living room.
For a moment, he thought that he had entered the wrong house. Then he saw the weapons, one of which had been picked up and was now pointing right at his chest.
CHAPTER 43
The woman pointing the MP5 at Harvath turned to one of her colleagues and commented, “I thought somebody said this guy was hot.”
The other five women in the room laughed.
“He’s a lot better than that guy we had to work with in Dubai,” replied another. “Remember him? What was his name?”
“Aswad.”
Most of the women groaned.
The woman holding the MP5 looked Harvath up and down. “He’s definitely better looking than ass wad, but is he into goats? That’s the question.”
The women laughed again.
“There are a lot of things I’m okay walking in on a man doing,” the woman continued, “but the goat thing isn’t one of them.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harvath through the laughter. “I must be in the wrong place. I’m looking for the Emily Dickinson reading?”
“He’s also a smartass,” said the woman as she lowered her MP5. “Just my type.”
So this was what an Athena Team looked like, Harvath thought to himself. He had heard the stories about Delta haunting high-end women’s sporting events, recruiting the best female athletes to turn into operators, but he had never worked with any of them.
They were considered just as lethal as their male counterparts and often posed as wives in husband/wife teams with male Delta operators, especially in countries or situations where sending in two or more men would raise too much suspicion. The ruse worked particularly well when posing as missionaries or NGO workers.
The women were also deployed as they were now, in all-female teams, normally composed of four to six members.
Harvath had every confidence in their abilities. He also liked the fact that they’d be harder for the bad guys to key in on.
In their mid twenties to early thirties, the women were all extremely fit. They were also very attractive and represented a cross section of backgrounds.
Harvath was trying to figure out who was in charge when one of the women stepped forward and introduced herself, “I’m Gretchen Casey.”
She had brown hair pulled back and a slight southern drawl. It sounded as if she might have been from Texas.
“Nice to meet you,” Harvath