by Brad Taylor
“You feel this one connection is worth that risk.”
“I think the risk of not doing it far outweighs the risks of bringing him in. For what it’s worth, Pike is convinced he’s bad.”
President Hannister nodded, then addressed the assembled men. “Okay, we vote right here, right now.”
In the end, even Palmer voted to allow Pike free rein. Kurt said, “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”
Kerry chuckled, saying, “If Pike can find a thread by chasing a drug dealer’s bank account, I’m all about him continuing that streak of luck.”
Kurt said, “That’s the other data point we have. They aren’t drug dealer bank accounts. The South African found the terrorist in Gibraltar by also following a bank account. Apparently, he works for a company that deals in offshore accounts and was worried about the Panama Papers leaks just like we were, but in this case it was because the owner’s name was being forged on accounts he had nothing to do with. I sent Pike the Panama Papers data dump that we had, and the South African went through it, highlighting several accounts tied to his boss.”
“Who is his boss, and why is he messing around with offshore accounts?”
“His name is Dexter Worthington. He owns a defense contracting company called Icarus Solutions. As to why, I don’t know and don’t really care. That’s something for the FBI to look at. Anyway, we did our own analysis and a name triggered—Tariq bin Abdul-Aziz.”
“Who is that?”
“Remember the redacted congressional committee report on 9/11?”
“Yes, of course. The conspiracy theories about that were deafening, but in the end, it was nothing.”
“True. It was nothing, but now it might be something. Tariq is the son of a wealthy Saudi financier, and he was living in Sarasota, Florida, in September of 2001, the same place Mohamed Atta and others learned to fly. Tariq left the day before 9/11, and the FBI investigated the departure. It was very strange, with the house left fully furnished, to the point of leaving dirty dishes still in the sink and cars in the driveway. Apparently, he just woke up one day and took his whole family back to Saudi Arabia. The excuse was that he had to attend graduate school, but there was also some smoke about Mohamed Atta’s car license plate being found in the gate guard’s register as having come through Tariq’s neighborhood at one point. Anyway, the FBI couldn’t prove anything concrete one way or the other.”
“So . . . what are you saying? Saudi Arabia is behind this?”
“No, no. Not at all. At least not at this point. What I’m saying is that it’s beyond the realm of believable for a guy who turned up in the original 9/11 report to now be attached to bank accounts that have connections to another spectacular attack. In addition to that, the one dead terrorist in the Fez shootout had a Saudi passport, complete with a forged US visa.”
The secretary of state said, “So how does that help us? You want State to lean on KSA for information on Tariq? See if they’ll play ball?”
“No. For one, they refused to do anything about the FBI’s information right after 9/11, even preventing making Tariq available for questioning. I don’t think this will rise to a level that will change their minds, and I certainly don’t want them to alert him that we’re looking. For another, he’s not in Saudi Arabia. What I want is to get his name into every single database and police station in the United States.”
“What good will that do? Wait, are you saying . . .”
“Yes. I took the liberty of searching the ICE database this morning. Tariq bin Abdul-Aziz flew from Morocco last night and entered the United States in New York. His current whereabouts are unknown.”
The secretary of defense said, “This is sounding more and more like all of the evidence prior to 9/11. We were running around like chickens, flailing in the dark, knowing a hit was coming but having no idea how.”
“Well, it gets a little worse, but at least we have a focus this time. I’m convinced it’s the ports. The ghetto apartment that the terrorists were using in Fez contained a laptop computer that they left behind in their haste to escape. It was a marginal netbook without a lot of power, and didn’t have anything of special significance, but it did have a screenshot of Google Maps, and the location was of Norfolk, Virginia. By that, I mean the Norfolk shipyards, ports, and naval bases off the Chesapeake Bay.”
The secretary of defense said, “Anything more specific than that? Norfolk is a mix of civilian and military assets. I can definitely amp up the security on the military side, but short of stopping every single ship on the civilian side, there’s not much we can do. This is different from 9/11. We can’t stop the flow of trade like we did air travel.”
President Hannister said, “Can we do it for a single port? Now that we have this information? Can we stop just this port from receiving ships?”
Palmer said, “Sir, we’d need to consult at least three cabinet positions on what that would entail. It would be a massive disruption of trade, and the very fact that we did it would signal a victory.”
President Hannister turned to Kurt and said, “Are you sure it’s Norfolk? If I make that call, can you tell me it’s right?”
Kurt took a breath and then gave the bad news. “No, sir. I can’t.”
63
Third Mate Mitchell Redwing watched the cranes lifting the containers onto his ship, an endless chain of motion that reminded him of staring at an ant pile as a child. Docked in the port of Balboa on the Pacific side of the Panama Canal, his ship acted like a regional commuter airline, traveling back and forth between the West Coast of the United States and the Balboa terminal, taking container loads from the ships too large to use the canal.
They would offload their cargo at the Colón side on the Caribbean, and then the Panama railway would transport the containers across the isthmus to the Pacific side. Unlike the crew members of the enormous ships on the Caribbean side, he never had the pleasure of plying the high seas from one exotic port to another. He simply transported the goods straight up the coast, stopping like a bus at various ports. He didn’t mind, though.
Graduating from the Merchant Marine Academy five years ago, he’d had visions of sailing all over the world, not being a back-and-forth truck driver, but it was a good living. A comfortable one. He certainly enjoyed his time in Panama. In Los Angeles, not so much.
He worried now because of the march of time. The railway line was old, and the new canal locks were open, allowing the enormous ships—much larger than his—to transit the isthmus. Currently, some companies were skittish because of a few collisions with the walls of the locks, but eventually, they’d work it out. And his employer of feeder ships would be left in the dustbin of history, like the taxicab was becoming with Uber.
He paced the deck of the ship, watching each container loading, checking his manifest and generally acting as if he knew what was being brought aboard. In truth, he did not. Nobody could. There were way more goods in the containers than any single human could track, and too many points of intersection for something not on the manifest to be introduced, from the initial port to the transload at Colón to the rail transport to the transload here in Balboa. He knew that smuggling using these points of failure was rampant, including drugs and even humans, but it was an overwhelming task, so like every other shipper, he relied on the paperwork. If it matched up, then it matched up.
After all, he wasn’t responsible for what was loaded in the containers. That was the responsibility of the people across the ocean. When loading the containers, they had to adhere to the United States’ Maritime Transportation Security Act—a law created after the terrorist attacks on 9/11. If they certified that the cargo met the requirements, all he had to do was certify that the manifest and seals were correct.
He did so, tracking one container after another. Two hours after the loading had begun, he checked off a specific container, watching as it was lowered to the deck and
placed at the bottom of the stack.
Its cable seal was correct, so he signaled for the loading to continue. He did nothing more than ensure it was seaworthy, without any structural deficiencies. It sank to the steel of the deck, and the crew hands rushed to secure it in place, building a foundation for the multiple containers that would be stacked above it. It was one container of thousands Mitchell had loaded in his five years on the sea. One more container full of stuffed animals, auto parts, or interior lighting that he didn’t give a second glance.
But he should have. This one would hold much more importance in his life than the modernization of the canal.
64
Carly leaned over Knuckles to get a view outside the jet’s window and said, “What now? I thought we were cleared for Algeciras.”
Knuckles saw Pike talking into a phone on the tarmac and said, “I have no idea. Just relax. You can’t worry about every little thing. When he comes back on, he’ll let us know.”
“Doesn’t that drive you batshit? I mean, with this guy, every day is a new adventure.”
Knuckles said, “It’s not him. It’s the life. The one you signed on for.”
Carly leaned back into her chair and said, “That’s ridiculous. Even in the CIA we have plans. We don’t fly by the seat of our pants every waking moment.”
Knuckles said, “Neither do we. It might look like we do, but it’s really the opposite. We react to changing conditions better than anyone on the planet, and we capitalize on those changes. Most would execute a plan that no longer had any meaning. We do not.” A little miffed at the exchange, he said, “Maybe you should have just stayed in the CIA. It would have been easier.”
Surprised, she said, “Hey, wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”
He glanced to the rear, where Jennifer was sitting next to the man named Johan, and said, “I’ve seen what she’s been through. Pike supported her every step of the way, but even that almost wasn’t enough. She’s succeeded because she has the drive. If you don’t have the commitment, it’s not going to work out here.”
Carly said, “What are you talking about? Is this about us?”
Knuckles’s eyebrows flew up. He hissed, “Don’t say that out loud. We can’t date and be on the same team.”
Carly sagged back into her seat, chuckling.
He said, “What the hell is so funny?”
“Knuckles, everyone on this plane knows we’re dating. Everyone, and it’s not a big deal. I’m a case officer; you’re an Operator. We aren’t in the same chain of command, and I’m not on this team. This isn’t high school.”
Knuckles sat for a little bit, then said, “You don’t want a job like Jennifer’s? Wouldn’t you like to do something more than just a support role?”
Carly considered the words, then said, “Yeah, I guess that would be cool, but I sure as shit wouldn’t want to put up with the crap she did. I mean, my job’s hard, but at least it’s already seeded with females. I don’t have to be the glass-ceiling breaker.”
He turned to her and said, “And that’s all it is? You don’t want to try for something more because it’s safer where you are?”
He saw her eyes squint, and he knew he’d overstepped. She said, “You think it’s easy being a female case officer in the CIA? You think it was easy getting to where I am? Not everybody pines to be on a supersecret team. I work better alone. I like being the master of my own fate and don’t need the dick measuring on a team to define my worth.”
He smiled and held his hands up, saying, “I’m not looking for a fight; it’s just that you won’t get a shot if the command thinks I’m dating you. There can’t be any skeletons in the closet that might interfere with the decision.”
She said, “What do you mean, ‘get a shot’?”
Pike entered the cabin, saying, “It looks like a split mission. Everyone on me.”
Carly glared at Knuckles, but he unbuckled his seat belt, relieved. They gathered around one of the tables in the Rock Star bird, leaving Johan in the back chained to an eyebolt.
Pike said, “The Taskforce is still working through the ramifications of what we’ve sent them, trying to make connections, and we now have a change of mission.”
Knuckles said, “So the Algeciras thing is a no-go?”
“No. It’s still prime, but they continued digging into the bank account information, and one of the offshore accounts is tied to one in New York, and that account was used in Norfolk, Virginia. Right now, they don’t know why. It’s just a couple of lines on a bank transfer, but it’s in Norfolk, and given the map we found, that’s where we’re headed.”
Retro said, “Holy shit. The mother lode.”
Pike grinned and said, “Yeah, I think so. There are still some posse comitatus issues with the Taskforce charter, but me, you, Veep, and Jennifer are headed back to DC now. Hopefully by the time we land they’ll have something to give us for hunting.”
Knuckles realized he was missing out. He said, “Wait, what? What am I doing?”
“You and Carly are headed to Algeciras. Find the guy with the phone and get information out of him. Find out what he knows. We don’t have anything but a city at this point. We need something more.”
He said, “She’s not an Operator. I should be going with you.”
The sentence, of course, made no sense, and Knuckles knew it. So did Carly, the insult sinking home. He saw her expression and said, “That’s not what I meant. This Algeciras mission is a side note. Pike, you’re going to need me on the X in Norfolk.”
Jennifer said, “I’ll go with her, if you want.”
Pike said, “This isn’t a democracy. Knuckles is going to Algeciras. I need experience there and you’re it. We have Omega authority, and that’s no small thing. I’ll need your judgment. We’ll overfly Algeciras and get a pinpoint. I expect a report of success by the time I land.”
Knuckles nodded, not liking the answer. He glanced at Carly and saw nothing but venom. He said, “Maybe me and Jennifer should do it.”
Pike said, “Nope. It’s you and Carly. Let’s see how that works out.”
Knuckles saw exactly what he was doing. He said, “I’m not so sure this is smart.”
Jennifer looked at Carly and said, “Why? I think it’s perfect. It’ll showcase her abilities on a live mission.”
Carly said, “Why am I the only person who doesn’t know what the state of play is? Why am I being tagged for a mission when I’m not even a member of the team?”
Pike said, “I might need everyone else. You want out, say the word, but you’re now a member of the Taskforce. I use you as I see fit, just like I did with Creed in the Bahamas. You don’t think you can handle it, I’ll put Jennifer on it and go into my mission an Operator short. Your call.”
Incensed, she said, “Who said I can’t handle it?”
65
An hour later they were circling the city of Algeciras, Retro in the back working the technical kit for a pinpoint of the targeted phone. He said, “Got it. It’s active.”
The Taskforce information had placed the targeted handset in the cell network of Algeciras, but that was obviously too broad a target set to be of much use, so it was up to Retro to try to trick the handset into thinking their aircraft was a cell tower, then implant malware into the operating system of the phone that would allow him to manipulate its embedded GPS function.
Pike said, “Can you penetrate?”
If he couldn’t, they’d have to locate the phone the old-fashioned way—by triangulating its signal, a technique that had been used against radio networks since World War II.
Retro said, “I think so. I’m talking to it now.”
Five minutes later, he said, “It’s in. I’m releasing the phone back to the network. I’ve got it slaved.”
Pike directed the pilot to continue to the Jerez Airport, the closes
t commercial strip to the city, and Retro came forward carrying a laptop and what looked like a thick smartphone.
He set the laptop on the table and manipulated a mapping function, zooming in on a blue dot. He said, “According to Taskforce mapping data, it’s sitting in a mosque right now.”
Carly said, “That’s good news. At least we know he’s Muslim. How are we going to figure out if he’s Moroccan, though? That could take some work.”
Pike and Knuckles grinned, and she said, “What’s so funny?”
Pike said, “If he looks Moroccan, we’re taking him.”
“But Kurt said . . .”
“Kurt knows what we’re doing. Knuckles will make the call, but we’re not going to spend five days developing this guy.”
She glanced at Jennifer but said nothing else. Knuckles studied the map, saying, “How am I going to pinpoint his phone? There could be a hundred people inside praying.”
Retro passed across the smartphone. “This is now slaved to his handset, so you can follow the marble until you sort out who has it. Let him go somewhere else, then take a snapshot of the people. Do that a few times, and you’ll figure out who he is.”
The pilot called for them to buckle up for the descent into Jerez, and ten minutes later they were on the ground. The aircraft taxied to the general aviation terminal; then the pilot killed the engines. Knuckles and Carly stood up, carrying nothing more than a backpack each. Pike said, “Make the call in one cycle of darkness. Either you get him or you decide to abort, but I want you headed back home tomorrow night at the latest. There’s a rendition flight inbound right now. Whether it comes home with a terrorist or not, I want you on that aircraft.”
Knuckles nodded, saying, “Don’t do anything without me.”
—
One and a half hours after landing, Knuckles and Carly were sitting in a rented Honda across the street from the mosque, having arrived later than they wanted. Luckily, the blue marble was still inside.
