From what they had been told, the immigrants tended to stay away from the ethnic Swedes, who blamed a lot of their problems on the “Muslim invaders.” Unless he encountered a group of youths looking to start a fight, Harvath expected to be given a wide berth. His Swedish was limited. The only words he knew were those he had picked up in the SEALs when he had dated a string of SAS flight attendants and earned his call sign, Norseman.
As many people do with foreign languages, he’d learned the bad words first. If anyone did come up to engage him, he could act the part of the surly drunk, toss out a few choice phrases, and keep going. He hoped he wouldn’t even need to do that.
Right in front of the safe house and right on cue, the rip Harvath had placed in the bottom of one of his grocery bags tore the rest of the way open and spilled its contents onto the ground. He swore in Swedish and muttered to himself as he bent over to pick everything up. Stealing the occasional glance at the building, he saw that all of the window shades were drawn tight.
Chase wouldn’t communicate his message until he saw the car parked on the street with the book, so Harvath gathered up his groceries and continued down the block.
At the end of the street he turned the corner and walked three blocks. In a weed-choked parking area sat a large panel truck covered with graffiti. Six serious-looking, extremely fit men in matching blue T-shirts and jeans stood talking. Alongside their truck, they looked like a team of movers, which was exactly what Harvath wanted people to believe.
As he got nearer, Harvath could see that though they appeared casual, their eyes were constantly scanning the area, taking nothing for granted. The Old Man had put the assault team together himself and they were true professionals, loaded for bear and ready for anything.
The team leader was a former U.S. Special Forces soldier who then spent several years with the CIA’s “Special Activities Division” before being transferred up to the paramilitary “Special Operations Group” composed of ex-DevGru SEALS and CAG operators. He was a tall man with a fishhook-shaped scar on his left cheek. His name was Schiller and he was only a year older than Harvath.
Once the plan for raiding the safe house had been hatched, Schiller had been the one to find the truck. Inside were cardboard boxes filled with the assault team’s gear. Posing as a Swedish moving company, they would unload the boxes onto dollies and wheel them into the building. Once inside, they would unpack the weapons, radios, Swedish Security Service uniforms, helmets, and body armor, and suit up.
For a job like this, it was customary to have at least two to three times as many men as they had. Ideally, you’d also have a surveillance team watching the apartment from somewhere close by. One operator would watch the front of the building while another watched the back and a third stayed behind the wheel of the truck. On the perimeter an additional operator would be in charge of communications. Inside, the teams would post men in the stairwells and at the elevator. Finally, there would be the assault team itself, which would be in charge of actually hitting the apartment. That was how it was done on your own turf or in a cooperative assignment with a foreign government. But because the Swedes had no idea that the Americans were operating within their territory, they’d had to remain lean.
As someone who never asked people to do what he wouldn’t do, and as someone who always wanted to be the first through the door, Harvath had wanted to lead the team inside. Schiller, though, had been against it.
Harvath was in charge of the operation and thought about pulling rank, but instead he took a deep breath and stood down. The assaulters were Schiller’s men. There could be almost a telepathic bond on assault teams. They instinctively knew where each other would be and what each would do at every minute. Harvath understood not to take it personally. He hadn’t trained with them. He couldn’t blame Schiller or his assaulters for not wanting to compromise the integrity of their team.
Without Riley, they numbered seven, total. Schiller wanted Harvath to stay outside and watch the rear of the building while one of his assaulters stayed with the truck in front. The apartment complex backed up to a large wooded area where a cell member could disappear quickly.
It was a good idea, but it wasn’t perfect. None of Schiller’s men spoke Swedish-not even any of the bad words. Sitting in the truck might result in some sort of interaction with someone from the neighborhood. Therefore, this time Harvath asserted his authority and stated that he’d remain in front with the truck while one of Schiller’s men watched the back and coordinated the radio communications.
Schiller agreed and threw Harvath an extra blue T-shirt. As Harvath changed, Schiller reviewed the rest of the assignments. He would be leading three of the assaulters into the apartment, while a fifth would stay in the hall and cover their six so no one could hit the team from behind.
All of the weapons and radios had been checked before the team had left their temporary apartment in Uppsala. In a sports bag in the cab of the truck was a suppressed MP7 for Harvath along with a radio and a black plate carrier vest emblazoned with the word Sakerhetspolisen across the front and back.
Schiller also handed him a blue baseball cap, since he’d already walked right past the safe house once. To sit outside in the truck, Harvath needed to do everything he could to make sure that he wasn’t recognized. The man had raised a good point. That also meant that until they were ready to launch their operation, Harvath couldn’t go anywhere near the safe house again. Someone else was going to have to look to see if Chase had raised his signal. In fact, they were probably going to have to take turns. Once again, Harvath wished that Riley was with them.
Each of the assaulters had brought a change of clothes, so Harvath put together a surveillance roster-who would go, when he would go, and what his ruse would be while passing the safe house so that none of them would draw undue attention.
They had an additional vehicle parked a block away from the truck, and Harvath decided they would use it as well, but sparingly. If any of the members of the cell saw the same vehicle go by twice, especially one that wasn’t a regular in the neighborhood, they might get spooked and do something stupid.
With all the rotations decided upon, all they could do was wait. The ball was now in Chase’s court.
CHAPTER 20
Chase had zeroed in on the cell leader the moment he’d been shown into the apartment. Mustafa Karami was a slight man who looked much older than the other members. He sported a patchy beard, a slim nose, and a pair of deeply set, dark eyes.
He radiated a controlled, simmering anger that seemed ready to erupt at any moment. He was different from most of the jihadists Chase had come across. Not unique, just different. Most of them were not very bright, and they lacked self-control. That wasn’t Karami, though. He was the picture of self-control. He was also very intelligent. Chase could tell that just from one look at his face. That’s what made him different.
As the man embraced and kissed him on both cheeks, Chase sensed something else. This was a man who would slash your throat at a moment’s notice if he felt it necessary. He would feel no remorse about it either. He’d probably sit there and drink his chai as he watched you bleed out on the floor. Between Karami and Sabah, his number two, Chase had a lot to be concerned about.
The other cell members in the apartment were like the two men who had picked him up at the soccer field and had taken him to the garage. They were either muscle or simply jihadist cannon fodder. None of them were exceptionally intelligent nor were they particularly talented. He doubted they’d be of any intelligence value whatsoever.
After welcoming him, Karami sat Chase down and asked the huge man named Sabah to fetch tea. He made small talk as was customary and when Sabah returned with a tray, he poured the tea and offered Chase a snack. There were bowls of dates, figs, and nuts. Chase thanked him and helped himself.
“Your uncle was a wonderful soldier of Allah. He is in Paradise now.”
“Masha’Allah,” Chase replied. God has willed it.
“It was your uncle’s desire that if anything happened to him, we take care of you.”
Chase shrugged and took a sip of his tea. It was important that he maintain his aloof, disinterested hacker attitude.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Karami was testing him as Sabah had. The last time Chase had seen Aazim Aleem was when pieces of him
