Chapter 4
MANILA
PHILIPPINES
SUNDAY
After the Itbayat operation, Harvath and his team went through the safe house of the spies-cum-saboteurs, gathered anything of intelligence value, cleaned themselves up, and headed for the tiny local airport.
The runways on both Itbayat and nearby Batan Island were too short for their Gulfstream G800, so they had to utilize a smaller, slower plane to get back to the Philippines’ capital city.
A CIA team met them on the tarmac at Ninoy Aquino International Airport, where the midmorning sun was already baking the concrete. The air was thick with the scent of jet fuel, but was mercifully less humid than it had been up north.
Once they had transferred their gear from the charter plane to the fleet of black Chevy Suburbans, they rolled out of the airport.
Harvath, riding in the lead vehicle, was heading to the embassy.
The rest of the team was heading to their hotel.
He had promised them the night off and would catch up with them later.
The U.S. Embassy, Manila, was one of the State Department’s largest diplomatic missions.
At one point, it catered to over eighteen thousand American and Filipino veterans, as well as their widows, and still housed the only U.S.
Department of Veterans Affairs office on foreign soil.
It was staffed by three hundred Americans in addition to one thousand foreign service nationals, across two compounds, which occupied a combined total of forty-two acres.
The size and scope were a testament to the deep connection between the Philippines and the United States.
As they drove toward the Ermita district, it was hard to believe that Manila had been the second-most-destroyed city of World War II. It was now one of the most densely populated cities on the planet. It was also one of Southeast Asia’s most rapidly developing.
All in less than a hundred years—and all of it thanks to the United States, which had ushered in a post?World War II rules-based order, particularly upon the high seas.
Without the U.S. Navy, much of Asia—especially the Southeast—would have been mired in piracy and constant warfare, and denied the economic advancements and opportunities that it had enjoyed.
After passing through the security checkpoint, they arrived at the Chancery building, where the CIA’s chief of station, Todd Gilbert, was already outside waiting.
Gilbert was an unremarkable man in his late fifties with crew-cut gray hair, a large nose, and very dark circles under his eyes. He was dressed in a gray Brooks Brothers suit with a thin gray tie and a perfectly folded, and probably pressed, pocket square in his breast pocket.
He looked like a CIA operative who had been cryogenically frozen decades ago and recently brought back to life.
Glancing at the man’s left wrist, Harvath wasn’t at all surprised to see him wearing a Timex, which in all fairness to Gilbert had become fashionable again, but he doubted that was why the station chief was wearing it.
“Thanks for coming in person,” said Gilbert, extending his hand.
“That was the agreement,” Harvath replied, grasping the man’s hand. “Is your Filipino counterpart here yet?”
The station chief shook his head. “It’s just going to be us for the debrief.”
Harvath thought that was a bit odd, but he got paid the same either way. “Any chance we can grab a coffee first? The only thing they had on the flight was salabat,” he stated, referring to a popular ginger tea.
“No problem. I’ve got a machine in my office.”
Carrying a hard-sided case with the evidence his team had collected from the safe house, Harvath followed the man inside the building. They passed through two more checkpoints before finally arriving at the CIA’s part of the embassy.
After checking in, they left their cell phones in individual, locked cubbies and then Gilbert led the way to his office.
The station was alive with activity. Flat-panel monitors displayed myriad international news channels. Almost all of which were focused on the Bangkok bombings.
“Any updates?” Harvath asked.
“The death count is now three hundred fourteen and more than two hundred twenty-two injured.”
“How many Americans?”
“At last count, eighty-three dead,” said Gilbert, “and fifty-six wounded. U.S. Embassy, Bangkok, is still trying to get their arms around it.”
“Has anyone claimed credit?” asked Harvath, angry at the loss of life, especially the loss of American lives. He envied the team that would eventually be dispatched to wreak vengeance upon the perpetrators.
“Not yet, but as this bears some hallmarks of the Bali bombings of 2002, Islamic terrorism is definitely on the table.”
Harvath remembered that attack. The death toll was also horrific. It was made even worse by the fact that the bombings had been staggered across multiple devices, just like Bangkok appeared to be, in order to maximize the carnage and the terror.
Entering the station chief’s office, Gilbert pointed out his coffee machine, and Harvath availed himself of a mug that read Spooks are Clever, Intuitive, and Awesome.
He brewed himself a tall black coffee with two shots of espresso, and moments later one of the CIA’s tech people arrived to collect the case.
After inventorying the contents, the young operative had Harvath sign a release, snapped the case shut, and carried it out of the room.
“Let’s head to the SCIF,” said Gilbert, referring to the sensitive compartmented information facility—a sound- and signal-proof room where anything they discussed couldn’t be overheard or intercepted.
Harvath nodded and the station chief led the way.
As soon as the pneumatic locks and door seals had hissed closed behind them, Gilbert directed Harvath to a chair near the head of the conference table and then sat down across from him.
“Four targets, zero interrogations,” the man stated. “Is that correct?”
“Four targets, two hundred–plus rounds of ammunition fired, and zero American casualties,” Harvath replied, taking a sip of coffee and clarifying what had happened.
“What about the bodies?”
“One of them jumped off a cliff and was dragged out to sea by the tide. We took the other three and dumped them back at their safe house.”
“Dumped them how?” asked Gilbert. “I believe your instructions, should you not have been able to capture and interrogate the suspects, were to send a clear message to Beijing.”
“It’s in my preliminary report. Did you look at the attachments?”
The CIA man had not. Accessing Harvath’s after-action report via the SCIF’s secure system, he scrolled to the end where multiple photos had been appended.
“Jesus,” the station chief replied, when he got to the attachment in question. “Are those railroad spikes?”
The three Chinese corpses had been arranged to mimic the three wise monkeys of See no evil, Hear no evil, Speak no evil fame.
“They’re called spike nails,” said Harvath. “They weigh a lot less, but other than that, they’re fairly similar.”
“What kind of unit travels with shit like that?”
Harvath hadn’t traveled with them. They’d found them at the safe house, but Gilbert didn’t need to know that. “I think Beijing will get the message,” he stated, returning to the subject. “Anything else you need from me?”
Gilbert, who was not an easy man to shock, paused for an additional moment before closing out of the file. “No, we’re done.”
“Good,” said Harvath, standing. “Can one of your guys run me back to the hotel?”
“Actually, your boss wants a word,” said the station chief, as he cued up the SCIF’s secure video conferencing software. “I’ll wait outside.”
Harvath had no idea what couldn’t wait until he got back to the States, but something told him the conversation wasn’t going to be good.