Full Black - Brad Thor [2]
“I don’t know them.”
Harvath jabbed the muzzle of his weapon further up into the soft tissue under the man’s chin. Mansoor’s eyes began to water. “Don’t bullshit me, Mansoor. We know everything you’re up to.”
“But I don’t know anything,” he said emphatically. “Honestly. I was just supposed to get on the plane. That’s all. That’s why they picked me up at the airport. I don’t know where they were taking me.”
Harvath studied the man’s face. He was looking for microexpressions, tells people often radiate when lying or under stress from an act they are about to commit.
As far as Harvath could surmise, the man wasn’t lying. “I want a list of all the cell members. Right now.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Harvath pushed the gun up harder, causing Mansoor more pain.
“I only knew the two men in the car,” he said as his eyes drifted toward the wreck.
“You’re lying to me,” said Harvath.
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Describe the other cell members to me. Their ages, backgrounds, I want all of it.”
“I don’t know!” Mansoor insisted. “You keep asking me questions I can’t answer! The only two people I know in this entire country are dead! You killed them!”
With so little time, that was as good as Harvath was going to get. Patting Mansoor down, he located his wallet and tossed it to Chase. He then went through his pockets and removed everything else.
Chase already had a U.K. passport with his picture issued in Mansoor’s name. He also had a driving permit, ATM card, two credit cards, and a host of other pocket litter that would make him even more believable.
Chase fished through the handful of items Harvath had taken from his prisoner and pocketed a boarding pass, a London Tube card, and Mansoor’s house keys.
Opening the Škoda’s trunk, the young operator sifted through Mansoor’s suitcase and quickly studied the contents as he replaced the clothing with his own. Knowing everything the cyberjihadist had packed would give him more insight into the identity he was about to assume.
When he was done, he zipped up the case, removed it from the trunk, and closed the lid. Looking at Riley Turner, he said, “Let’s get this over with.”
Turner approached and unrolled a small surgical kit. She was in her midthirties, tall, fit, and very attractive. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had blue eyes and a wide, full mouth. Removing a syringe, she began to prep an anesthetic.
Chase shook his head. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ll pass on the Botox.”
“It’s your call,” she replied, gesturing for him to sit down on the backseat. “This is going to hurt, though.”
The young intelligence operative winked at her. “I can take it.”
She swept back his dark hair and abraded his forehead with a piece of sandpaper. To his credit, he sat there stoically, but that was the easy part. Next, Turner removed her scalpel. Placing it at his hairline, she dug in and cut a short, craggy line.
Chase sucked air through his clenched teeth as the blood began to flow down his forehead and into his eyes.
Turner handed him a handkerchief.
“God, that hurts,” he said.
“I warned you.”
Having secured Mansoor in the van, Harvath now rejoined them. Bending down, he gathered up a handful of broken glass and handed it to Turner, who sprinkled pieces into Chase’s hair, as well as the folds of his clothing.
Harvath searched the dead men and recovered their cell phones. After cloning their SIM cards, he reassembled the driver’s phone and tossed it to Chase, saying, “Showtime.”
CHAPTER 2
Mustafa Karami had not been expecting another call, especially one from Waqar. Waqar was supposed to be driving. Nafees was to send a text message when they got close to Uppsala. Something must have gone wrong. Karami answered his phone with trepidation.
“Please, you must help me,” said a distraught voice.
“Who is this?”
“Mansoor.”
“Why are you calling from this number?”
“There’s been an accident. I don’t know what to do.”
Karami was a thin, middle-aged man with a wispy gray beard. He had been extremely sick as a child growing up in Yemen and