Harvath changed the subject. He wanted to establish rapport with his prisoner, but he also needed to establish a baseline for his interrogation in order to discern if Ho was lying. “I noticed your albums.”
“What about them?”
“My mother was a big Charlie Byrd fan. Do you have any of his records?”
“I do,” Ho said reservedly. “A record he did with Stan Getz.”
Harvath nodded his head for a moment, seemingly transported. “I remember Getz. My mother’s favorite song was ‘The Girl from Ipanema.’ She used to play it over and over. All the time.”
“Why are you asking me about records?”
“Because, Mr. Ho, you strike me as a refined man. I also assume that you’re a good father and that you care about your son. Whatever choices you have made, he doesn’t deserve to die.”
Ho shook his head. “No, he doesn’t. He’s a good boy.”
“Like I said, if you don’t cooperate, they’re going to kill your son. You, though, will not be executed. You’ll be sent to a top-secret detention facility in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where the only thing worse than the unbearably cold winters are the unbearable, mosquito-infested summers. You’ll be subjected to extremely hard outdoor labor every day, as well as solitary confinement.
“Within your first week, you’ll wish you had been executed. Within your first month, you’ll start trying to figure out ways to escape. Within your first year, you’ll realize that the only escape you’ll ever achieve is through death.
“And on a side note, I’ve seen your kitchen. You know what good food is. The dogs at this facility eat better than the prisoners. You can’t even call what they serve food. The men they send there are animals. They don’t possess your level of refinement. The utter absence of any comforts whatsoever will make life there harder, bleaker. There are no Amnesty International or Red Cross visits there. They aren’t even aware the facility exists.
“It is designed to impose a punishment worse than death. And to top it all off, you’ll be alone with your thoughts and the knowledge that all of it, including the death of your son, could have been prevented.”
Ho stared at him blankly—completely unsure of what to do.
Harvath let the silence linger for several moments before asking, “Wouldn’t you do anything to save your son?”
The man nodded.
“Then accept the offer, Mr. Ho. Come work for us.”
“If I work for you, I’m as good as dead.”
“If you work for us,” said Harvath, “we can protect you. I give you my personal guarantee.”
“Can you protect my son? Can you get him out of China?”
Harvath looked at Stephanie Esposito, who nodded. He then turned back to Ren Ho. “Yes, we can. But first, you and I are going to have a very in-depth conversation. If at any point you lie to me, our deal is off. Is that understood?”
“I understand,” Ho replied.
Harvath began with questions he already knew the answers to. “What is the codename for your operation?”
“In Chinese, it is called Xuĕ Lóng. Snow Dragon.”
“How many cells are there?”
“Six.”
“How many members in each cell?”
“Two,” Ho replied.
“Where are the cells located?”
“Seattle, Las Vegas, Des Moines, Dallas, Nashville, and Baltimore.”
Harvath kept his eyes locked on the man’s face and asked, “How did you enlist the cell members?”
“We used recruiters. One in Dubai and one in Mogadishu.”
“Who is Tommy Wong?”
“He’s a triad member in Los Angeles.”
“Which triad?”
“14K,” said Ho.
So far, all of his answers had been correct and truthful. Harvath had not noticed any microexpressions that would suggest the man was lying.
“The engineering students from the UAE all arrived in the United States by which city?”
“Houston.”
“What was the cover used to secure their visas?”
“An internship with NASA for Muslim students,” Ho replied.
“Each of them carried a cell phone. Where did these phones come from?”
“Tommy Wong bought the phones and shipped them to me. I got them to the recruiter in Dubai, who then gave them to the students before they left for the U.S.”
Harvath was now ready to start asking other questions.
“Who is their handler?”
“I am,” Ho answered.
“Where are your control files on the cell members?”
“On my computer. In the den. The password is Samba477823//*.”
“And the hardcopies?” Harvath asked.
“Under the last stall in the barn. Beneath the hay is a trapdoor that leads to a storm cellar. All the files are there.”
Harvath looked at Chase and said, “Take the HRT breachers with you to the barn. Make sure none of it is wired. Let me know what you find.”