Act of War - Brad Thor Page 0,39
Hanjour, his voice trembling.
“And who will put you there?”
“You will.”
Harvath watched the recruiter’s face. He was establishing a baseline in order to be able to read his microexpressions and catch whether, at any point, he was lying.
When Harvath was ready, he asked, “Who is Ahmad Yaqub?”
“Ahmad Yaqub?”
Harvath exploded off the wall. “That is not an acceptable response. That’s a delaying tactic. For that, you’re going back in the box.”
Harvath walked over to the door, pounded on it, and yelled, “Bring me the box.”
Hanjour began shaking. “Please,” he implored him. “No box.”
“You’re doing it to yourself, Khuram. I told you what would happen if you didn’t cooperate.”
“I will cooperate. Please.”
“Who is Ahmad Yaqub?” Harvath demanded.
“I do not know this man,” said Hanjour.
There was an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his left eye.
“What is your name?” Harvath demanded.
“My name?”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Khuram Hanjour.”
No twitch.
“Who is Ahmad Yaqub?”
“I have told you. I do not know this man.”
There it was again, the tell. Hanjour was lying.
Cowles entered with the Storm Case, placed it on the floor, and then exited the cell. Immediately, Hanjour began breathing faster. Just seeing the case was enough to trigger a panic attack.
Harvath walked over to the chair and pointed at the case. “I’m sure it felt like an eternity for you inside there. It wasn’t. You weren’t in there that long at all. This time, though, you will be. I have all the time in the world. I can lock you in that box and come back later tonight, tomorrow, or I can leave you in there for days.
“You’ll feel like you’re going to die, like you can’t breathe, but I’m not going to let you die, Khuram. I am going to keep you alive so that your fear grinds down every nerve, every fiber in your body. You’re going to go insane, but before you do, I promise, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
Harvath dragged the case right next to his prisoner and opened the lid. The odor was horrible. It smelled not only of urine and feces, but of sweat and one hundred percent pure fear.
He moved behind Hanjour to unsecure him from the chair and the man said, “Please, no. Please.”
Harvath ignored him and reached for the first restraint.
“Ahmad Yaqub is a mujahideen from Saudi Arabia,” Hanjour blurted out. “He is a member of Al Qaeda.”
Harvath stopped what he was doing and slowly circled back in front of the recruiter. “How long have you known him?”
Hanjour paused to consider his response, but it appeared a legitimate attempt to recollect the exact information. “Five years.”
No twitch.
“Where is Ahmad Yaqub based?” Harvath asked. “Where does he live?”
“Waziristan.”
No twitch. Hanjour was telling him the truth.
“When was the last time you both communicated?”
Hanjour thought and then replied. “Sometime in the last six months.”
“He paid you to recruit a team of men.”
Hanjour nodded.
“No nodding,” Harvath ordered. “Answer me.”
“Yes. He hired me to recruit a team of men.”
“For what purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
Harvath kicked the man’s chair, hard. “For what purpose?”
“I don’t know,” Hanjour repeated. The outburst had startled him, but he didn’t appear to be lying.
“He asked for engineers. Six students.”
That was a new piece of information. “Students?”
“Yes, Ahmad Yaqub wanted engineering students,” said Hanjour.
“Why?”
“Because it was easier to get them U.S. visas.”
Harvath knew Levy was watching the feed of the interrogation in a room upstairs. He didn’t need to look into the camera to tell her what to do; she would already be on a secure link back to Langley.
“Did you get the visas yourself?”
“Yes. I got the visas,” Hanjour replied.
“What were their names?”
“I don’t remember.”
There it was, the twitch.
“You’re lying to me,” said Harvath. Pulling the hood from his back pocket, he prepared to pull it over the man’s head and Hanjour began stammering again.
The recruiter rattled off a list of six names. Harvath listened and then made him do it again.
It appeared that Hanjour was telling the truth. Harvath, though, knew there was only one way to be absolutely sure.
CHAPTER 18
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Hanjour lived beyond his means on Palm Jumeirah—an artificial archipelago built out into the Persian Gulf. It had been constructed in the shape of a palm tree with a trunk, a crown with seventeen fronds, and an outer eleven-kilometer crescent that acted as a breakwater. It had been dubbed the “eighth wonder of the world,” and even by Dubai standards, was extremely ostentatious.
There was shopping, luxury five-star hotels, restaurants, sports complexes, mosques, a monorail, and even two U.S. 1970s F-100