Full Black (7 page)

T
hough no longer part of a working farm, the barn still retained the musty smell of raw earth and animal dung. It was exactly the kind of sensory input a man like Mansoor Aleem would find offensive.

Harvath made a loud show of closing and locking the wide doors behind him as he entered. In the center of the barn, the young jihadist was tied to a wooden chair taken from the farmhouse kitchen. A hood had been placed over his head before they had pulled away from the accident scene.

Though Mansoor had been an unknown up until quite recently, it wasn’t hard to work up a profile on him. In fact, by the very nature of what he did, it was quite easy to understand how he thought and thereby select the best approach for his interrogation.

As far as the real world was concerned, the young jihadist was a loser. He was unremarkable in almost every way. With a poor complexion, unappealing features, and a pair of eyes that bulged just enough to suggest he might have a thyroid condition, he was considerably unattractive. He was too skinny and therefore unimpressive physically. Beyond the bulging eyes, he fit the cyber jihadi/hacker mold to a T.

While he was nothing in the real world, in the digital world he could very well be the heat. He might woo the women in the chat rooms as if he were Don Juan incarnate, but he’d never have the courage to approach a member of the opposite sex in the flesh. Cyber-geeks like Mansoor were all about control; the control of information. It was the only thing they could have power over. Without it, they were impotent. When you placed them in a situation where they were devoid of any authority, or more precisely devoid of any control, it was tremendously unsettling for them.

They were also completely visual. Depriving them of the ability to see tipped them off-balance and made them more pliant to interrogation.

Harvath knew that the young man would still be in shock over what had happened in the car. That shock would only have been compounded since he had been taken prisoner and kept in the dark. He had been stripped down to his underwear and was shivering in the nighttime cold of the barn.

Harvath walked over and stood just behind the man’s left shoulder. He knew Mansoor had heard him enter and he didn’t doubt the man could sense his presence directly behind him. Keeping an eye on his watch, he allowed several minutes to pass, adding to the man’s discomfort.

Without warning, Harvath drew his hand back and slapped the jihadist hard in the side of his hooded head to make sure he was psychologically off-balance and hadn’t manufactured some semblance of resistance or bravado. It was important for the jihadist to understand that he was absolutely helpless.

Harvath stepped back and waited a full three minutes before speaking.

When he broke the silence, he was explicit. “Let me explain to you what is going on,” he said. “The only reason you’re alive is that until now, I have let you live. I can very easily decide to let you die. The choice is one hundred percent mine. The people I work with couldn’t care less what happens to you. Everything that happens from this point forward will depend on whether you cooperate with me. Do you understand?”

Mansoor Aleem nodded.

“Good,” replied Harvath. “I also want you to understand this. We know everything. And I mean everything. We know who you are. We know why you are here. We know all of it. If you lie to me, even once, I am going to kill you. Do you understand that?”

Once again, Mansoor nodded.

Reaching forward, Harvath ripped off the man’s hood. As his eyes were adjusting, Harvath tore the piece of duct tape from his mouth.

“Tell me why you are here,” demanded Harvath.

“I’m cold,” he said, his teeth chattering.

“Answer my question and I may be able to find you a blanket.”

Mansoor tried to lick his lips, but he had trouble creating saliva. “I need something to drink. May I have some water?”

“You’re not going to get anything until you answer my questions,” said Harvath, raising his voice. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

Harvath withdrew his Taser, activated the laser, and pointed it at him.

The jihadist flinched and turned his head away, anticipating another painful jolt of electricity. “I don’t know,” he repeated.

“You’re lying to me, Mansoor,” said Harvath. IT people harbored a collective fear of anything that would impair their computer skills. It was almost 100 percent universal. Threatening their eyes, their hands, or the ability of their brains to function was very powerful. “Maybe instead of killing you, I should hit you with so many jolts of electricity that we take that forty-gig brain of yours down to two kilobytes. How about that?”

“They sent me a ticket. That’s all I know,” he pleaded.

“Who sent it to you?”

“Friends of my uncle.”

“Your uncle Aazim?” demanded Harvath.

Mansoor nodded and dropped his gaze to the floor.

“And why would they do that?”

When the young man didn’t respond, Harvath put the laser dot on the floor where he knew Mansoor could see it and then traced it up his leg to the yellow stain on his underwear. “Why?”

“Because he had been killed,” Mansoor responded as he raised his eyes to lock them on Harvath. “They brought me here to protect me.”

Harvath turned off the laser and tucked the Taser back into his coat pocket. “They didn’t bring you here to protect you, Mansoor. They brought you here to kill you. Just like they killed your uncle.”

The young man didn’t know how to respond. He was shocked. He looked away. A full minute passed. Finally, he said, “I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe. I’m telling you the truth.” Harvath wasn’t telling the truth, but that made little difference. If he could convince Mansoor the Uppsala cell had brought him here to execute him, he might be willing to cooperate.

“You think about that for a little bit,” said Harvath as he began to replace the hood over the man’s head.

“What are you doing?” the jihadist implored, his teeth still chattering, his lips azure.

Harvath didn’t reply. Once the hood was in place, he walked over to the doors, unlocked them, and let himself out.

CHAPTER 10

H
ERMOSA
B
EACH

C
ALIFORNIA

“W
hat do you think you’re doing?” Luke Ralston asked as he watched Larry Salomon reach for the cordless telephone on the kitchen counter.

“Leaving a message for my office,” replied the film producer.

Ralston shook his head. “No calls. No emails. Nothing,” he said sternly as he poured a mug of coffee and motioned for his friend to sit down.

They had driven south of L.A. to the quiet coastal community of Hermosa Beach. Ralston had steered clear of the freeways and major arteries in an effort to avoid traffic cameras. He had also disassembled his cell phone so no cellular print could be made of his progress or direction. He didn’t need to worry about Salomon’s phone, as it had been left behind at the house in Coldwater Canyon.

Ralston knew he needed to get them someplace safe. It had to be somewhere they could lie low and figure out what their next move was going to be. Going to Ralston’s apartment was out of the question. Sooner or later it would be crawling with police. The same went for any of the properties Salomon owned in Palm Springs or up near Santa Barbara. For all intents and purposes, they needed to completely drop off the grid. And for that to happen, they were going to need some help.

At just after three in the morning, they pulled into the driveway of a modest stucco house with a Spanish tile roof, two blocks back from the ocean. It belonged to an old friend of Ralston’s named Hank McBride.

Hank was a former Navy SEAL in his late sixties who dabbled in a wide field of endeavors, including technical consulting in Hollywood, though he had yet to work on any of Salomon’s movies. Despite their age difference, Ralston and Hank McBride had developed a good friendship and shared many of the same friends within the small, tightly knit Special Operations community.

“How long before we see it on the news?” said Hank, who had the TV near the kitchen table turned on, but muted.

Ralston had just come back inside after having parked Salomon’s Wagoneer in the garage and covered it with a tarp. “If I had to guess the window on this, I’d say probably not for a few more hours,” he replied. The graze on the side of his head had been easily covered with a Band-Aid, but it was a serious reminder of how close he had come to being killed.

Salomon sat down and accepted the mug of coffee. “If I don’t get the studio’s publicist working on this, it’s going to be a nightmare. Just let me make one call so she can get ahead of it.”

Once again, Ralston shook his head. “This already is a nightmare, Larry. A grade-A shitstorm.”

“I know. I could be tainted by this forever. Look at what happened to Phil Spector. And there’d been only one body in his house. I’ve got—” Salomon’s voice trailed off as he did the math. “Six bodies, if you count what’s left of the one outside who you apparently parked on.”

Hank let out a low whistle. “Six? That’s pretty good.”

“Only four of them were bad guys,” clarified Ralston. “The other two worked with Larry. Speaking of which—”

Salomon suddenly realized something. “The hard drives. Damn it. We forgot to get them out of the house.”

“What hard drives?”

“From the computers in the office.”

Ralston needed him to slow down. “Let’s take things one step at a time. First, I want to know about the two men who were killed. Jeremy and—?”

“Chip,” said Salomon.

“Who were they?”

“They were working on a film project with me.”

“You said it was a documentary?” asked Ralston.

The movie producer nodded, but didn’t elaborate.

“Why was everything set up in your office at home? Why weren’t you working at the studio?”

“Because this was a private project.”

Ralston’s antennae went up. “Private?”

“Yeah,” said the producer, somewhat absentmindedly, as he stared into his coffee cup. “Personal.”

“Larry, we’re pretty good friends, wouldn’t you say?”

Salomon nodded.

“So why don’t you come clean and tell me what you’ve been up to. Let’s start with who Jeremy and Chip are.”

The producer took a sip of coffee and set the mug back on the table. He was still very upset. “They were friends of mine. Chip is a blogger and political activist and Jeremy is, or I guess I should be using the past tense, Jeremy was a film student who had teamed up with Chip to make a short film.”

“A short film about what?”

“Endowments.”

Ralston wasn’t sure he had heard that correctly. “As in financial endowments? Like at universities?”

Salomon nodded.

“Not exactly the type of summer blockbuster you’re known for, but everyone in Hollywood has their pet projects, I guess. What I don’t understand is why you were working on this out of your house?”

Hank McBride looked away from the TV and over his shoulder at Salomon. “Short film isn’t code for porn, is it?”

Ralston held up his hand at the man.

“I’m just saying,” replied Hank as he went back to monitoring the television. “Something doesn’t sound right. You don’t get a visit from a wet work team for making documentaries.”

“And you probably don’t get it for making porn, either,” argued Ralston.

“You do if the Russians are involved somehow,” countered Hank.

He had a point. Turning his attention back to Salomon, he said, “Let’s back all the way up. Is there any reason someone would want to kill you?”

The producer shrugged.

“That’s not a no, Larry.”

“The film we’ve been making might not be too popular,” Salomon responded.

“Do you think it’s something worth killing over?”

“Maybe.”

Ralston was taken aback. “Then we really do need to start from the beginning. What’s the film called?”

Salomon mumbled his response and Ralston had to ask him to repeat it. “Well Endowed,” he said.

“I was right,” said Hank without turning away from the TV. “Making skin flicks.”

“Do you mind?” asked Ralston.

Hank shrugged and went back to clicking through the muted channels, searching for any stories about what had happened at the producer’s home.

Refocusing on Salomon, Ralston said, “Was this project your idea, or did somebody bring it to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to be going anywhere for a while,” said Hank as he stopped on a channel that was streaming helicopter footage from above a hilly, wooded area. “Your house is in Coldwater Canyon, right?”

“Yes,” said Salomon.

“Then I’d say the window for when your story would make the news just got slammed shut.”

CHAPTER 11