Full Black Read online

  FULL BLACK

  ALSO BY BRAD THOR

  The Lions of Lucerne

  Path of the Assassin

  State of the Union

  Blowback

  Takedown

  The First Commandment

  The Last Patriot

  The Apostle

  Foreign Influence

  The Athena Project

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead

  is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Brad Thor

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or

  portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address

  Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Atria Books hardcover edition July 2011

  ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thor, Brad.

  Full black : a thriller / by Brad Thor.

  p. cm.

  1. Harvath, Scot (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Intelligence officers—Fiction. 3. Terrorism—Prevention—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.H75F85 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2011020919

  ISBN 978-1-4165-8661-6

  ISBN 978-1-4165-8676-0 (ebook)

  To the patriots who exist across the political spectrum

  To all supporters of freedom and democracy

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Acknowledgments

  In the clandestine community, the most sensitive classified assignments are referred to as black operations.

  Few suspect, and even fewer realize, that there is a darker side to black operations. These missions are born in the shadows. They are not classified or recognized. They simply don’t exist.

  They are Full Black.

  The attacks as well as the strategy in this novel are based upon a disturbing blueprint designed to assist in and encourage the destruction of America. This blueprint, entitled Unrestricted Warfare, is real.

  While this is a work of fiction, specific information was purposely altered in certain sections so as not to enable those who wish to do harm.

  Many of the vulnerabilities depicted in this novel continue to exist.

  Ex Umbra—From the Shadows

  FULL BLACK

  CHAPTER 1

  SWEDISH COUNTRYSIDE

  NEAR UPPSALA

  FRIDAY

  His timing had been perfect. Swerving back into the lane at the last possible second, he watched in his rearview mirror as the white Škoda behind him careened off the road and slammed into a large tree.

  Applying his brakes, he pulled off the road and stepped out of his vehicle. The air smelled of spruce and spilled gasoline. The woman from the passenger side joined him. They had to move fast.

  Half their work had already been done for them. The terrorist in the Škoda’s passenger seat had not been wearing his seat belt. He was already dead.

  The driver was trying to unbuckle himself when Scot Harvath arrived at his window. He was cursing at him in Arabic from inside. Harvath removed a spark plug, often referred to as a ghetto glassbreaker, from his pocket and used it to smash the window.

  Grasping the terrorist’s head, Harvath gave a sharp twist and broke his neck. Gently, he guided the dead driver’s chin down to his chest.

  The final passenger was a young Muslim man seated in the back of the car who was screaming. As Riley Turner opened his door she could see he had wet himself. Painting his chest with the integrated laser sight of her Taser, she pulled the trigger.

  The compressed nitrogen propulsion system ejected two barbed probes and embedded them in the young man’s flesh. The insulated wires leading back to the weapon delivered a crackling pulse of electricity that incapacitated his neuromuscular capability.

  Yanking open the opposite door, Harvath carefully avoided the probes as he pulled the man from the vehicle and laid him on the ground. Once the man’s hands were FlexCuff’d behind his back, Harvath removed a roll of duct tape and slapped a piece over his mouth. Producing a pair of pliers, he yanked out the probes. The man winced and emitted a cry of pain from behind his gag. As he did, Harvath looked up and saw a familiar pearl-gray Opel minivan approaching.

  The van pulled parallel with the crash scene and slowed to a stop. The sliding door opened and a man in his midtwenties, holding a shopping bag, stepped out into a puddle of radiator fluid and broken glass.

  The young operative’s name was Sean Chase, and while he wasn’t a perfect match, he was the best they had.

  Chase was the product of an American father and an Egyptian mother. His features were such that Arabs saw him as Arab and Westerners often took him for one of their own. The question was, would the members of the Uppsala cell accept him?

  He was intended to be Harvath’s ultimate listening device and was going to switch places with the young Muslim from the backseat of the Škoda, Mansoor Aleem.

  Mansoor and the Uppsala cell were the only link the United States had to a string of terrorist attacks that had targeted Americans in Europe and the United States. And as bloody as those attacks had been, they were suppo
sedly nothing, compared to what intelligence reported the plotters were about to unleash.

  Subbing Chase for Mansoor was the most crucial and the most dangerous part of the assignment. According to their limited intelligence, only two Uppsala cell members had ever met Mansoor before and actually knew what he looked like. The men were friends of his uncle, a terrorist commander by the name of Aazim Aleem.

  The men had been dispatched to Arlanda airport in Stockholm to collect Mansoor and return him to the cell’s safe house two hours north. Thanks to Harvath, they were now both dead.

  The team had had the men under surveillance since they had arrived at the airport. The driver had made only one phone call after they had picked up Mansoor and left the airport. Harvath felt confident the call had been to the cell in Uppsala confirming the pickup.

  Harvath now pulled the young Muslim to his feet and pushed him up against the van. Drawing his Glock pistol, he placed it under the man’s chin and pulled the tape from over his mouth. “You saw what I did to your friends?”

  Mansoor Aleem was trembling. Slowly, he nodded.

  While his uncle was a very, very bad guy, as were the two dead men slumped in the Škoda, Mansoor was on the cyber side of the jihad and hadn’t experienced violence or dead bodies firsthand. That didn’t mean he wasn’t just as guilty as jihadis who pulled triggers, planted bombs, or blew themselves up. He was guilty as hell. He was also a potential treasure trove of information, having run a lot of his uncle’s cyber operations. Harvath had no doubt the United States would be able to extract a ton from him. But first, he wanted to be as sure as he could be that he wasn’t sending Chase into a trap.

  “We know all about the Uppsala cell,” said Harvath. “We want you to take us to them.”

  Mansoor stammered, trying to find his words. “I, I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Harvath demanded.

  “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 had almost died. The sickness had affected his physical development. He appeared frail and much older than he actually was.

  Despite his physical limitations his mind was incredibly sharp. He was well suited to the role he had been assigned. Nothing escaped his flinty gaze or his keen intellect.

  Having been brutally tortured as a young man by the Yemeni government, he had learned the hard way to place operational security above all else. He didn’t like speaking on cell phones. “Where are your traveling companions?”

  “I think they’re both dead.”

  “Dead?” Karami demanded.

  “A car swerved and we hit a tree.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “I don’t know. Who cares what kind of car? Waqar and Nafees are dead.”

  The young man was borderline hysterical. Karami tried to calm him down. “Are you injured?” he asked calmly.

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. I hit my head. There’s some blood.”

  Karami needed to bring him in. “Is the vehicle operable?”

  “No,” replied the young man.

  “Were there any witnesses? Have the police been called?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know that either. What am I supposed to do? Are you going to come get me or not?”

  Karami forgave the boy his insolence. He was scared and very likely in shock. “Tell me what you see around you, so I can discern where you are.”

  Chase rattled off a few of the landmarks nearby.

  “Okay,” Karami replied as he removed a map from his desk. “That’s good. I believe I know where you are. I will send two of the brothers to pick you up. There’s a village less than three kilometers up the road. As you
enter it, you’ll see a grocery market on your left. Beyond that is a soccer pitch. Wait there and the brothers will come for you.”

  “Praise be to Allah,” said Chase.

  Karami gave him a list of things he wanted him to do and then ended the call.

  Turning to two of his men, Karami relayed what had happened and dispatched them to pick up the young computer wizard.

  When the men had gone, Karami turned to his most devoted acolyte, Sabah. Sabah was a large, battle-hardened Palestinian. In his previous life, before becoming a mujahideen, he had been a corrupt police officer in the West Bank town of Ramallah.

  “I want you to find this accident, Sabah, and I want you to make sure that it was in fact an accident. Do you understand?”

  Sabah nodded.

  “Good,” Karami said in response. “Whatever you learn, you tell no one but me. Understood?”

  Once again, Sabah nodded.

  “We cannot afford accidents. Not with everything that has happened. We can only trust each other. No one else.” With a wave of his hand, Karami ordered him out. “Go.”

  He was paranoid, but he had cause. So many of their plans had been undone that Mustafa Karami was suspicious of everything and everyone.

  He hoped that Sabah would be able to get to the bottom of it. It was a small country road, after all, and not very often traveled. Karami had selected the route himself. If the accident scene was undisturbed, Sabah would be able to ascertain what had happened. If the police or bystanders were already there, there would be nothing he could do.

  If that was the case, Karami would have to conduct his own investigation. It would begin with Mansoor Aleem himself. Until he was satisfied, he could not risk trusting even the nephew of a great man like Aazim Aleem. Anyone could be corrupted. Anyone could be gotten to.

  Fulfilling their final obligation was all that mattered now. Karami had sworn an oath. He would stick to that oath and he would not allow anything or anyone to get in his way.

  He was reflecting on whether it was a good idea to bring Mansoor to the actual safe house or find somewhere else for him to remain temporarily when the Skype icon on his laptop bounced.