Using an inflatable stretcher that looked like some kind of tactical pool toy, they were able to carry Haney out of the house and down to the beach. Once everyone was assembled, they called in the boats.
Harvath and Staelin stayed behind with two of the SEALs to cover the rest of the team as they waded out chest-high in the water and climbed onto the boats.
When they were aboard, Harvath and Staelin followed. The two SEALs on the beach came next.
The newcomers were issued Mustang inflatable flotation devices and headsets, which were quickly put on and plugged in.
Blankets were offered, but none of Harvath’s steely-eyed killers would be caught dead wrapped in a blanket. They had come into Libya like warriors and that was exactly how they were going to leave.
With all present and accounted for, the boat crews pointed their HSACs toward open water and slammed the throttles forward.
CHAPTER 43
* * *
* * *
PARIS
It was after 9:00 p.m. when the chemist, accompanied by two other young men, also in prayer caps, exited the mosque in Aubervilliers.
Puffing on a Gauloise, Tursunov watched from across the street. The two young men were the same he had seen Younes with that morning. Now, instead of saying good-bye and heading home, Younes was walking off with them in another direction.
There were only two reasons Tursunov could think of for why the authorities would be following a young, unemployed Muslim chemist. One reason was terrorism. The other reason was drugs.
It wasn’t until he saw the second cop following Younes that morning that the scales tipped for him. With his longer hair and goatee, that officer had drug detail written all over him.
Drugs and terrorism often went hand in hand. The Taliban made the bulk of their income from opium, and the cell that carried out the Madrid train bombing had financed its attack by selling drugs.
If Younes and his colleagues were involved with drugs, it was no wonder that the French authorities had taken an interest in them.
The surveillance team appeared about a block from the mosque. They were different players than Tursunov had spotted that morning.
Over the next six blocks, there were at least three different police officers who rotated in and out behind the young men as they walked. Tursunov also spotted a small Renault hatchback that had looped around the block twice, ignoring two perfectly good parking spots.
After another block, he could see where they were headed. Younes and his colleagues entered a crowded café and disappeared inside.
None of the surveillance team followed. The Renault hatchback double-parked several doors down. The first man from the rotation, who was now wearing a jacket and a ball cap, walked into a pharmacy and browsed near the window where he could watch the street. Tursunov decided to make his move.
Stepping into the café, he noticed that it was filled completely with men. There wasn’t a single woman to be seen.
It was loud and smelled like urinal disinfectant. Soccer games were on all of the TVs. Many men were playing cards. Others were smoking sisha pipes.
Approaching the comptoir, he ordered a Coke. The North African behind the bar looked at him long and hard. It was obvious his customer wasn’t from the neighborhood. He seemed to be deciding whether to serve him, or throw him out.
Removing a large roll of cash from his pocket, Tursunov peeled off a ten, set it on the counter, and then turned his back on the barman to study the room.
Off in a corner, Younes and his buddies had joined a group of other young North African men. Tursunov doubted any of them had just come from the mosque.
They sported gold jewelry and expensive basketball shoes. They were street thugs, probably gang members. It would not have surprised him if they had violent criminal histories.
He watched as the man who appeared to be the leader nodded at one of his lieutenants. The lieutenant withdrew three envelopes from inside his waistband and handed one each to Younes and his two friends. As he did, Tursunov thought he could see a pistol.
Neither Younes nor his colleagues opened the envelopes to see what was inside. As quickly as they appeared, they disappeared into the young man’s pockets.
Tursunov was all but certain at this point that his hypothesis regarding Younes was correct. All he needed was a confession.
So, when the lieutenant stood up to go use the men’s room, he decided to extract one.
Taking another sip of his Coke, he glanced at the barman, who was at the other end of the comptoir. His attention was on a newly arrived group of customers.
Back at Younes’s table, the young men were engrossed in a serious discussion. None of them were even keeping an eye on the front, much less the traffic headed to and from the restroom.
Setting his Coke down on the bar, Tursunov collected his change and walked back to the men’s room, eyeballing the location of the rear exit as he did.
As he opened the door, he saw one man at the sink washing his hands, and heard another man standing at one of the urinals.
The man finishing up at the lone sink looked at him in the mirror. The Tajik raised his hands like a surgeon and nodded at the water, indicating he needed to use the sink next.
Turning off the water, the man grabbed several paper towels from the dispenser and dried his hands as he exited.
Tursunov turned the water back on to mask the sound of his movements. Slipping across the dingy tiles, he quietly locked the door. Then, like a ghost, he materialized behind the lieutenant at the urinal.
The street thug was three inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a good thirty years younger than the Tajik. But if life had taught him anything, it was that there was no substitute for experience and treachery.
It had also taught him that a man was never so vulnerable as when he had his dick out.
Taking full advantage of the element of surprise, he drove the lieutenant’s head right into the wall above the urinal.
Simultaneously, he pulled the man’s pistol, a 9 mm PAMAS G1, from his waistband and drove the barrel into the base of his skull.
When the man tried to fight back, Tursunov slammed his boot into the back of the man’s right knee, causing him to fall, face-first, into the urinal.
Grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair, he forced him to remain there. “What were the envelopes for?” he demanded.
“Va te faire enculer!” the man replied defiantly. Go fuck yourself!
Tursunov knew some French, but not enough to carry out an interrogation. “English,” he demanded, as he moved the pistol to the man’s temple, cocked the hammer, and released the safety. “What were the envelopes for?”
“Money,” the man relented. “Money.”
“Money for what?”
When the man didn’t answer, the Tajik jerked his head back and slammed his face into the porcelain urinal, breaking three of his teeth.
“Money for what?” he repeated.
“Putain,” the lieutenant cursed as blood gushed from his mouth. Fuck.
Tursunov jerked his head back again and the man yelled, “Drugs. It was for drugs.”
Just as he had thought. “What kind?”
“Crystal.”
“They sold you methamphetamine?”