by Ben Coes
“For what it’s worth, Harry mentioned this,” said Lyne. “He guessed this is where Raditz got the funds. He’s opening up their files for us to look at.”
“‘Fighting terrorism,’” said Calibrisi, shaking his head in disgust. “Ironic.”
Lindsay, Calibrisi’s assistant, opened the door.
“It’s Jim Bruckheimer. He says it’s urgent.”
Calibrisi pointed at his desk phone, indicating to send the call there. A moment later, the phone started beeping. Calibrisi hit the speaker button.
“Hi, Jim.”
“Hector, sorry to interrupt,” said Bruckheimer, “but I have some information.”
“Good.”
“Well, you were partially right, I’m not sure he knows what the hell he’s doing. His passport hit the grid five days ago. United Airlines DFW to Mexico City, seat 4A.”
Calibrisi looked at Polk, then muted the phone.
“We’re going to need someone down there,” said Calibrisi.
Polk nodded, pulling out his cell phone.
Calibrisi unmuted the phone. “Is he still in Mexico?”
“I don’t know definitively,” said Bruckheimer, “but if I had to guess, I’d say yes. He bought a round-trip ticket but wasn’t on the return flight. And other than the passport ringing the bell, there’s been no electronic signature event. We have his credit cards, his ex-wife’s credit cards, cell phones, bank accounts, and everything we know of, and there hasn’t been any activity whatsoever. He’s probably using cash or traveler’s checks, though we can’t find any big cash withdrawals going back six months and no purchases of traveler’s checks either.”
“He’s been working with a company called MH Armas,” said Calibrisi. “It’s a weapons manufacturer in Tampico, on the coast. He probably visited there several times over the past couple of years. I need your guys digging deep into signals intelligence coming out of Tampico. Run Raditz’s photo against any media you’ve intercepted from the U.S. border down to Central America.”
“Got it,” said Bruckheimer. “PRISM’s going to be our best hope of finding him. It’s designed to correlate seemingly random electronic activity by module.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we can pinpoint an individual based on past activity even if the current activity uses a different electronic signature. For example, if we can find a record from last year, such as a credit card purchase or a cell call that was definitively executed by Raditz, PRISM will correlate the activity to present-day signals intelligence. If he called a number with his old cell phone a year ago and then called that same number with a new, unknown phone, we’ll be able to lock onto him, track him, define a new set of electronic signatures, and find him.”
“I can’t imagine he’d be so stupid—”
“You’d be surprised.”
“He knows how PRISM works.”
“You didn’t,” said Bruckheimer.
Calibrisi grinned. “Asshole.”
“If he stayed at a hotel, if he bought a meal, if he so much as bought a pack of gum a year ago and he uses a traveler’s check from outside of Mexico, or visits the same hotel or store, we’ll flag it. Doesn’t mean it’s him, but it might be. You’d be surprised how quickly it narrows it down. People are creatures of habit.”
Calibrisi reached for the phone. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” said Bruckheimer. “The urgent part. Just for the hell of it, I had one of my analysts look at the passenger manifests on that United Airlines flight from Dallas. One of the other passengers aboard the flight tripped an algorithm. Approximately ten minutes after the flight landed in Mexico City, someone other than Raditz made a phone call to a PBX switch located in Berlin that previously correlated to Raditz. In other words, PRISM flagged the call because it already had Raditz’s cell records.”
“How do you know it wasn’t him?”
“Because we listened in. We caught the last few seconds. The PBX is some sort of cloaking device, a conduit frag—hides both users and then encrypts their conversation. But before the encryption took hold, we heard him. He was Arab.”
“Did you run it through voice recognition?”
“Yes. It didn’t match anything in our files. But it wasn’t Raditz.”
“Okay, I’m following.”
“The point is,” Bruckheimer continued, “Raditz himself has either called or been called through the exact same switch at least a dozen times, including a week ago. Anyway, we marked the correlation and then ran the caller’s cell activity against the passenger manifest in order to try to narrow down who it was. An hour ago, the owner of the cell used his passport to check into a hotel in Mexico City. Because we’re tracking the cell by SAT, we know it’s the same individual.”
Calibrisi glanced at Polk, who pointed at his cell and gave him a thumbs-up, indicating he had someone on the line.
“Anyway, so here’s the interesting part.”
“It’s already interesting, Jim.”
“I know. I mean really interesting. It’s a French passport that belongs to someone named Pierre Lagrange. He’s a thirty-year-old male from Marseilles. That all checked out, but when we processed his photo, that is, when we ran it against our facial recognition platform, it popped. We have a match on four photos, all showing this guy with Nazir. He’s in the background. He’s an Iraqi named Haider Allawi.”
“What the hell does it mean?” asked Calibrisi, speaking to no one in particular.
“It means Nazir is cleaning up his mess,” said Polk.
“Why hasn’t he killed him yet?” asked Calibrisi.
“Maybe he has,” said Polk. “Or maybe it’s a RECON—”
“You guys are jumping to conclusions,” interrupted Bruckheimer. “It doesn’t mean Raditz is there too. It’s circumstantial. I just want to be clear.”
“Do you have this guy’s location in real time?” asked Polk.
“Yeah,” said Bruckheimer. “He’s at the St. Regis Hotel in Mexico City.”
“Call us if you find anything on Raditz,” said Calibrisi, “and thanks, Jim. It’s damn fine work.”
Calibrisi ended the call and looked at Polk.
“They must need Raditz alive,” he said.
Polk picked up a small remote and hit a button, lowering a plasma screen from the ceiling. A moment later, the face of a young, handsome Hispanic man appeared. He was outdoors. He had longish black hair, a beard and mustache, and was shirtless, his chest, shoulders, and arms ripped. He wore sunglasses and was leaning back in a white lounge chair, the blue water of a swimming pool behind him, along with several bikini-clad women. He communicated through an earbud as his cell streamed his image back to Langley.
“Hello?”
If he was at all self-conscious about lounging by a pool, half-dressed, surrounded by beautiful women, he didn’t show it.
“Franco, it’s Bill.”
Franco was Franco Gutierrez, a member of CIA paramilitary under the direction of Special Operations Group. Gutierrez was based in Rio de Janeiro, though his area of activity stretched from the U.S. border with Mexico down through Central and South America.
“Hey, boss,” Franco said, grinning. He had a soft Spanish accent.
“Where are you?” asked Polk.
“Medellín.”
“You need to pack up and get to the airport,” said Polk.
Gutierrez’s smile vanished. He stood up and started walking through the throng of young women and men socializing by the rooftop pool, pulling on a short-sleeve linen shirt as he moved.
“Do I need to arrange transportation?”
“No, we’ll take care of it. Get to the private terminal. You’ll get your orders when you’re in the air.”
“Can you at least tell me where I’m going?”
“Mexico City.”
25
MEXICO CITY
Allawi was in traffic when he received the text message from Nazir:
:: UNLEASH THE DOGS ::
He slammed his hand into the steering wheel. He knew this might happen.
It had been two days now. Allawi had been tracking Raditz, first to Mexico City, then to Tampico to meet with the ship captain, then back to Mexico City. Raditz, as far as Allawi could tell, didn’t have a clue.
On the outskirts of the city, he’d been pulled over by the police for speeding. That was when he lost him. Because the tracking technology required proximity of about a thousand feet.
For eighteen hours now, Allawi had driven what seemed like every street in the city, searching for Raditz.
His iPad was on at all times, propped up on the passenger seat. The tracking app was on. Allawi should’ve been able to see Raditz’s location if he was within a thousand feet. Now, the screen was empty.
:: UNLEASH THE DOGS ::
He hadn’t informed Nazir that he’d lost him. Now he would have to. Raditz could be gone from Mexico City. He could’ve discovered the thin wafer of plastic inside his wallet. He could be anywhere by now. China. Africa. Anywhere.
Yet Allawi remained in Mexico City, searching. False hope, perhaps, but at least there was a chance.
Allawi was exhausted. He knew how disappointed Nazir would be, but he had no choice. He had to tell him.
He took a right off of Rio Hudson and looked for a place to park. He didn’t want to be driving when he spoke with Nazir.
He saw the hotel ahead. He took a left and went past the entrance to the employee parking lot, then stopped. He reached for his phone, frustration, anger, above all, fatigue on his face. As he started to dial, his eyes shot to the passenger seat. There, on the screen, a red digital light was flashing.
He’d found Raditz.
26
IN THE AIR
Two hours after lifting off from Medellín in the Air America GV, Franco’s cell phone buzzed as an encrypted message arrived from Langley. The message was blank except for a link to the encrypted document, which he double-tapped:
ACCESS CONTROL: 741
DOCUMENT REENCRYPTION 00:59:48
A prompt appeared that asked him to press his thumb against the screen. A moment later, a different prompt asked him to stare into the camera on his phone as a remote application scanned his irises. The document opened:
TOP SECRET
NCS
NAT SEC PRIORITY: DDCIA * NOC4899-W
SPEC SHEET: MISSION ARCHITECTURE
RECONNAISSANCE OF VIP
PRIORITY LEVEL TAU
1. GUTIERREZ arrives IATA (Mexico City Benito Juárez International Airport) via COMPANY transport BRAE BURN TWO (GV121 ex. Medellín, COL). Flight time 4:12. CREW: OC34OWEN + CR22MEADE.
2. BRAE BURN TWO remains at IATA and prepares for exfiltration.
3. GUTIERREZ moves to DROP POINT [St. Regis Hotel (as of 17:35:00) subject to change]. Room under alias MARTINEZ, JESUS (Passport control).
4. GUTIERREZ receives precise location information for recon of TARGET when available.
5. TARGET is MARK RADITZ, U.S. Citizen [VIP], see photograph and notes below.
6. RADITZ is in flight and faces long-term incarceration for violations of multiple national security laws. He should be considered a CATEGORY 1 FLIGHT RISK.
7. RADITZ is combatant level 6 and has specific aptitude with various weapons though no known combat experience and no hand-to-hand skills or experience. He should be considered moderately dangerous.
8. This is a PRIORITY TAU action [DCIA 55]: RADITZ has high-value intelligence and should be exfiltrated with extreme intent but alive.
9. SPECIAL NOTE 1: We believe RADITZ is in the immediate vicinity of HAIDER ALLAWI, an Iraqi and known ISIS official. See photos below.
10. ALLAWI is traveling under French alias PIERRE LAGRANGE. It is not known why ALLAWI and RADITZ are traveling together. The two men could be meeting or RADITZ could be under watch and at risk.
11. Rules of engagement: RADITZ has deep knowledge of U.S. SFO operating protocols. Use any means necessary {NOC J-099 RE “1998 transborder exemption”} to secure RADITZ and remove from DROP TARGET and exfiltrate to IATA BRAE BURN TWO for flight to U.S.
12. ALLAWI is not target. Tactical consequence should in no way contravene main mission architecture. However, if opportunity presents itself, ALLAWI can and should be terminated with extreme prejudice.
13. RADITZ should be secured once on board for flight to U.S.
14. Exfiltration to Joint Base Andrews, Maryland, USA via BRAE BURN TWO.
Franco reread the mission spec a few more times, then scanned the photos attached to the file. He didn’t recognize Raditz, but he knew damn well who he was.
“You fucked up,” Franco muttered aloud as he studied the photos.
Next he looked at the photos of Allawi. Like all of them, Allawi was young, with a look of cold determination on his face.
Franco’s mind swirled with questions. Why would Raditz be running? If Allawi was nearby and wanted to kill Raditz, why hadn’t he already? Of course, maybe he had. And if Allawi was there to meet Raditz, why?
Franco had long ago gotten used to the way information was segregated and filtered out when it came to operations. The fact that the orders contained no further information about Raditz and what he’d done, Franco knew, was to protect the United States. Whatever Raditz had done was bad, so bad they didn’t want it ever to see the light of day. SOP.
Standard operating procedure. Yet something about the assignment troubled him.
“Twenty minutes out, Franco,” said one of the pilots over the Gulfstream’s intercom.
Franco reread the brief one last time. As he moved once again to the photos, the screen shot abruptly red and the document reencrypted and disappeared.
He went to the back of the cabin. A steel cabinet, four feet high, six feet wide, was bolted to the right wall. Inside were several rows of weapons, all arranged neatly. The top two shelves were various carbines, submachine guns, and sniper rifles. The next two rows contained handguns of many shapes and varieties. Another row was lined with knives, suppressors, lights, holsters, disposable international cell phones, and a few other accessories. The bottom four rows were stacked with ammo.
Franco picked out a Kimber Super Match II .45 ACP with an undermounted halogen light. He slammed in a fourteen-round extended magazine. He didn’t expect Raditz to require the use of the gun, but that’s not who it was for. He also grabbed an SRD45 suppressor—eight inches long, titanium—and a custom-made drop-leg holster that could accommodate the pistol with the suppressor locked into the muzzle. He found a SOG S37K SEAL Team fixed-blade combat knife and sheathed it around his left calf. He scanned quickly and then, just in case, took a backup gun: a small, highly concealable Ruger LC9, which he sheathed to his right calf.
He grabbed two disposable cell phones.
Franco shut the doors. He opened a cabinet across from the weapons store. It was the jet’s field trauma kit, filled with various tools, bandages, and medicines. He reached for a small bottle filled with a milklike liquid: propofol, a short-acting, intravenously administered amnestic agent. He also took a syringe.
A few minutes later, the Gulfstream taxied to a stop near a nondescript building.
Franco unlocked the cabin door and hit the hydraulic button. The door began moving out and a set of air stairs lowered to the tarmac.
Franco leaned into the cockpit. “Hopefully, it’ll be quick,” said Franco.
“Any time estimate?”
Franco shook his head.
“A few hours. It could take longer. It’s a priority exfiltration. Get this thing refueled.”
27
SOUTH BENTALOU STREET
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
South Bentalou ran through one of the poorest neighborhoods in Baltimore. It was a street more accustomed to police cruisers than BMWs, but that’s what Daisy Calibrisi was driving, her mother’s shiny red BMW X5 SUV. Both sides of the block were lined with small two-story homes made of brick or concrete. Most were dilapidated, with
peeling paint and broken windows, and a few had long ago been abandoned, their doors and windows covered in boards or plastic. In some places, garbage lay strewn on the sidewalk, empty beer cans and wine bottles, chairs missing legs and with torn fabric, a hubcap here, even a mattress leaning against a neglected tree. People milled about on the sidewalks. In a few places, front steps were occupied by people sitting and watching the street as if it were a television set.
Daisy parked the SUV in front of a brick home about halfway down the block. In front, two black children passed a worn football. Daisy turned off the car and climbed out.
One of the boys turned to look at her. An enthusiastic smile flashed across his lips. “Daisy!” he yelled.
“Hey, slugger,” she said, as the boy ran to her and threw his arms around her waist.
“She said you were coming,” he said.
“Of course I’m coming, Anthony,” said Daisy, holding him an extra moment. She glanced at the other boy, who was small and wore glasses. He stood still, holding the football, a dour expression on his face.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” the boy responded shyly.
“You must be Rex?”
A slight grin hit his lips. “Yeah.”
Daisy stepped toward him and extended her hand.
“I’m Daisy,” she said, kneeling down so that she was at eye level with him, then taking his hand and shaking it firmly.
“I know. Gramma told me about you.”
“Well, she told me about you, Rex, and it sounds like you’re one of the smartest students in your whole grade.”
He smiled, saying nothing.
“He ain’t smarter than me,” said Anthony from behind Daisy.
Rex continued to look at Daisy, then rolled his eyes knowingly.
“Anthony, you’re the smartest in your grade,” she said, standing up and signaling to Rex for the football. He underhanded it to her.
“But what’s even more important than being the smartest?” she asked, holding the football.
Anthony rolled his eyes. He’d heard this sermon before.
