The Lynx helicopter flared as it came in and landed on the Horse Guards Parade exercise ground in Whitehall. Crowds of tourists, gathered for the famous changing of the guard, were kept a safe distance away by formally garbed Household Cavalry troopers.
Both Harvath and the Athena Team members were familiar with the Household Cavalry, as it was a highly respected operational regiment whose personnel, which included Prince Harry, had served courageously in both Iraq and Afghanistan.
A special contingent of troopers spirited the helicopter’s passengers to the archway that led to the street. There were shouts of “Coming through. They have an ivory!” as the team passed beneath the ceremonial arch reserved solely for the queen and those who had been given the queen’s permission to pass in the form of a formal ivory invitation. Harvath had no idea if Marx had contacted the queen, but the speed and professionalism with which they were ushered through was remarkable.
Out on the street, they divided up into teams and Harvath watched as the women transformed right before his eyes. They made subtle adjustments to their clothes and hairstyles that could later be changed at a moment’s notice and would result in their appearance’s being significantly altered. Like their male colleagues, this Delta Force detachment was exceedingly well trained.
Once again, Harvath was teamed with Gretchen Casey. Cooper went with Ericsson and Rodriguez went with Rhodes. Halfway up the street, he watched Cooper and Ericsson duck inside a T-shirt shop. He could see the scene playing out in his mind without even being there. In a hurry, their tour bus leaving momentarily, two tourists wanted to stock up on a bunch of souvenirs.
If they were smart, which Harvath already knew they were, they’d be buying a bunch of clothing to help further alter their appearance. The bonus was that the bags they’d be carrying would make them look even more like tourists.
As they approached the statue of Sir Henry Havelock with Lord Nelson’s column and Trafalgar looming behind, Harvath was amazed at the number of people that were out. Black cabs, double-decker and tour buses disgorged people on every corner, and somewhere in that mass of humanity was the man they were looking for.
Because of the number of operatives now involved, Ashford wanted firm call signs and Harvath’s team had been designated Corona. He was Corona One; Casey, Corona Two; Cooper, Corona Three; Ericsson, Four; Rodriguez Five; and Rhodes Six. Ashford took the call sign Viceroy.
Harvath and Casey had picked up a tourist map, while the other women used maps that they had found on the Web via their iPhones.
They gave Trafalgar a wide berth and stayed well across the street. Via the bone mic he was wearing, Harvath pretended to consult his map with Casey and said, “Okay, Viceroy. Where’s the subject?”
“He’s heading into the National Gallery.”
Before Harvath could respond, Cooper said, “This is Corona Three. We’ve got him.”
The dance went on for over an hour. The man they were following used channels, stair-stepping, intrusion points, and timing stops. He also changed his appearance several more times, but it made no difference. He never spotted Harvath’s team and was therefore unable to shake them.
He walked into an Internet café on Charing Cross Road with Megan Rhodes right on his heels. It was a small, storefront operation that sold newspapers, cigarettes, and Western Union services in addition to Internet access. The space looked like it had once belonged to a grocer and they also offered Skype, IT maintenance, Web design, computer networking, and Web and data security. It was an odd hodgepodge to say the least.
Chewing gum and clicking away at her iPhone, Rhodes was directed by an overly pierced clerk to the only remaining terminal, the one right next to the man she was following.
Having pulled out her earpiece before walking into the café, Rhodes was now communicating via text messages with Gretchen Casey, who, along with Harvath, was two blocks away and closing.
Nikki Rodriguez took up a position outside, while Cooper and Ericsson split up to cover any rear exits. Ashford’s men maintained their perimeter, ready to move in as soon as Harvath gave the command.
“Shut up,” Rhodes snorted as she popped her gum, rolled her eyes, and thumbed out another text message.
The controller cursed the “ugly American” under his breath and tried to tune her out as he opened up his Web browser.
Rhodes set her phone down next to her computer and opened her Web browser as well and began slowly surfing through a series of tourism links for the Cotswolds.
The man next to her logged on to his Skype account, picked up the headset next to his computer, and initiated a VOIP call.
“The oranges were no good,” he said in Arabic. “I have no idea why,” he added after a pause to listen to something said by whoever was on the other end. “It might have been just this batch or it could have been throughout the entire crop.”
The cryptic call went on for several minutes as the men spoke in code. Rhodes’s iPhone was recording the entire thing and broadcasting it to Casey.
“I understand,” the controller finally said. “It is the right thing to do.” He then disconnected the call and removed his headset.
Rhodes paid no attention to the man as he stood up to leave. Once he was at the door, she picked up her phone and said, “He’s coming out. Take him down.”
In case the man had some sort of a relationship with the café, they waited until he was half a block away and then Harvath and Rodriguez did the honors with a blast from one of the Taser X3s.
By the time Harvath had the man’s wrists bound with a pair of EZ Cuffs, an MI5 van was in the street, its sliding door wide open.
He and Rodriguez chucked the man inside and then watched as it raced away. Turning to her, he asked, “Did that guy smell like goat to you?”
Rodriguez shook her head and went back to join the rest of the team at the café.
A small, nondescript car pulled up to the curb, dropped off Bob Ash-ford, and then took off in the same direction as the van.
“Do we have any idea who he is yet?” asked Harvath as Ashford approached.
“We think he may be a former Yemeni Intelligence Service operative, but we’re not sure.”
“Based on the way he conducted his surveillance detection routes, he’s had formal training. And if that’s true, he won’t be an easy interrogation subject.”
“Suffice it to say that the people he’s just been handed over to will get to the bottom of who he is, sooner rather than later,” said the MI5 man. “Trust me.”
Harvath didn’t doubt it. There were certain things the Brits did very well and were able to keep away from the press. One of those things was the interrogation techniques they used to drain intelligence from suspected terrorists.
He was about to ask if the techniques involved things the American press found so hateful like calling terrorists names and hurting their feelings when Casey emerged from the Internet café and hurriedly walked over to them.
“I think we may have caught a break, but we’re going to need some real muscle in there.”
“Let’s get to it then,” said Harvath.
He took a step forward but Gretchen put her hand against his chest and stopped him. “Not your kind of muscle, Prince Charming,” she said, turning to look at Ashford. “His.”