CHAPTER 12
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The Europeans had chosen not to project force into Libya. That was their choice, but as far as Harvath was concerned, it was a mistake.
Libya was in their backyard. The smugglers were pumping massive numbers of refugees into their countries. Hidden among those refugees were terrorists who were massacring their citizens.
It didn’t seem like a difficult calculus. Why have a military—complete with special operations units—if you weren’t willing to use it to take out threats to your nation? Fortunately, the United States didn’t feel that way.
From attacks on American tourists, embassies, and interests abroad, to attacks on its own homeland, the more terror was left to grow unchecked, the worse it was for everyone. Europe’s problems today would only grow to become America’s tomorrow.
U.S. President Paul Porter had laid down a marker. If America’s allies couldn’t, or wouldn’t, handle the metastasizing threats within their sphere of influence, the United States would.
He understood that, like his own FBI, European intelligence agencies were overwhelmed. Nevertheless, their reluctance to get more aggressive was concerning.
By clarifying his position, Porter was putting allies on notice that America would not sit idly by. In other words, if you see us operating in your neck of the woods, don’t be surprised and don’t say we didn’t warn you.
Harvath liked and admired many of the European teams he had worked with over the years. He understood that an overwhelming bureaucracy had hamstrung them. Nevertheless, their nations were in a fight for their lives. They needed to ask themselves some very difficult questions—and to do so quickly—beginning with who were they and what exactly were they prepared to do?
It was the same question their enemy had already asked, answered, and was acting upon.
If the Europeans had decided to go on the offensive in Libya, they would have started by focusing on the most accurate, most readily available intelligence. That was what Harvath had done, and the Italian Coast Guard had tapped into some of the best.
In addition to a satellite phone, most smugglers provided Italy-bound migrants with a GPS device. There were plenty, though, who didn’t.
Far too often, the Coast Guard’s Maritime Rescue Coordination Center in Rome received distress calls from terrified migrants who had no idea of their precise location, rendering a rescue next to impossible.
Even when a caller had access to GPS, the center still needed to verify their position. The slightest deviation from the caller’s actual location could mean the difference between life and death.
Fortunately, the Rescue Coordination Center had access to an outside verification source.
Abu Dhabi–based Thuraya was one of the largest satellite telecommunications companies in the world. Because of Thuraya’s excellent coverage of the Mediterranean, Libyan smugglers bought all of their satellite phones from them.
When the Italian Coast Guard received a migrant distress call, the first thing they did was contact Thuraya’s emergency 24/7 hotline. In turn, Thuraya would do a quick search and provide the phone’s GPS location.
That cooperation had helped save tens of thousands of lives. Sometimes, though, the Italian Coast Guard was unable to get to a sinking vessel quickly enough.
Such had been the case when the distress call from Mustapha Marzouk’s trawler had gone out six days ago. It too, the CIA had learned, had come from a Thuraya satellite phone.
Harvath, though, wasn’t interested in the phone’s position when the call had been made. He wanted to know who had purchased the phone in the first place.
While the CIA or their Italian counterparts could have requested the information from Thuraya, they doubted the Emirati company would comply. It was decided that the best, and quickest, way to access the data was to go take it.
Thuraya’s encrypted servers proved no match for the NSA, which soon delivered the information the CIA wanted.
Of the 150 passengers on Mustapha Marzouk’s doomed fishing boat, only three had survived.
After they had been found, clinging to a piece of wreckage, and pulled from the water, they all identified Umar Ali Halim as the smuggler who had sent them out into the impending storm.
Halim’s hideous reputation was well known by Italian authorities. What wasn’t so well known was his location.
The migrants he smuggled knew nothing about Libya. He changed embarkation points daily. Often, his men ferried the migrants out to their boats, which were already waiting for them a mile or more offshore. None of them could identify where they had been held or where they had specifically departed from. That’s why Harvath had wanted to focus on the satellite phones.
The phone used in Mustapha Marzouk’s case had been part of a bulk purchase. The purchaser didn’t try to hide his location, nor did he bother to travel from Libya to the Emirates to pay cash and smuggle back the devices.
Instead, the purchaser sat eleven kilometers southwest of the highly dangerous port city of Zuwara, clicking on the satellite company’s Buy button and running everything through a PayPal account flush with cash.
The NSA had pinpointed his Internet usage as the same location the phones had been delivered to.
It was a hole-in-the-wall electronics shop advertising cell phones, digital cameras, and laptop computers.
“Pull over,” Harvath ordered.
Haney did as instructed.
They observed the store as Harvath gave their communications gear a final check, then, grabbing a black messenger bag, he opened the door and stepped out.
It was the kind of hot, dusty street he had seen countless times over countless deployments. Squat buildings made of concrete block sat side by side. Sun-bleached awnings hung over faded, hand-painted signs in Arabic. In the little shade they provided, stacks of cheap crap sat for sale. There was sand everywhere. The entire town looked one breeze away from being swallowed up by the desert.
Whether it was the heat, or time for the midday Qailulah, few people were about. Even so, he didn’t want to draw attention to the shop by leaving a vehicle idling out front. “Find someplace close to park,” he said.
Glancing into his side mirror, Morrison replied, “Don’t be long. I don’t like this place.”
“Don’t worry,” Harvath stated, as he slid the door closed. “I don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.”
CHAPTER 13
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Entering the store, Harvath took it all in. It looked as if it had been a small grocery or maybe a pharmacy at some point.