Jack Evans jumped in. “We’re watching them, too. The next natural step for the Maras, considering they’re already multinational, is to tie in with al Qaeda, Hamas, or Hezbollah. Not for the sake of theology or politics. Money. Money through arms and drug sales.”
“It’s the fastest-growing gang in America in terms of numbers and territory,” Mulligan added. “I’ve had to issue advisories for our agents to take extra care dealing with them. They’re vicious. They don’t play by any rules and they out-number us two-to-one. We’ve got about fifteen thousand agents against their thirty thousand. That disparity increases daily.”
“And these are the guys who are doing the transporting?” the president asked before turning to Evans.
“Extrapolating from what I’ve learned, yes,” Roarke stated.
“So what do we do?” Bernstein asked, bringing the burning issue to question. “Seems like it’s an FBI action.”
“Precisely. Roarke,” Mulligan continued. “Do you really trust this kid up in Montana?”
“I do. But he needs our protection. With the Maras everywhere, he’ll be recognized the moment he surfaces.”
“He knocked on my door,” General Johnson said, referring to Perez asking for asylum. “How ‘bout we bring him into the service.”
“He might be willing,” Roarke added. “But not until we get his tattoos off. Fortunately, he’s not completely covered like other gang members. After that, he could be interested. The army, with some high school education, could turn him around. In the meantime, he’s willing to tell us everything. We just can’t scare him.”
“Then talk to him again. What’s his name?” Mulligan asked.
“Ricardo Perez.”
“Let Mr. Ricardo Perez know that we trust him. And to make it through this, he has to trust us.”
Thirty-seven
Helena, Montana
14 January
0615 hrs
Richard C. Montclair, an extreme state’s-rights advocate all of his thirty-three years in state government as a legislator and ultimately the governor, did not take kindly to the pressure from Washington. He consistently voted against or outright vetoed federal aid for purely political reasons and was damned sure he wasn’t going to put on additional state police because an unwanted highly mortgaged Uncle Sam said so.
That was until he got a call on a direct line only known, he thought, by his mistress.
“Governor,” the voice said in the most unpleasant tone, “this is Robert Mulligan.”
“And who the hell is Robert Mulligan. You have the wrong number.”
“Oh I have the right number, sir. I have a lot of right numbers. I know exactly who I’m talking to and what line I got him on. I’m the director of the FBI.”
Montclair swallowed hard and swung his legs out of bed. Not his bed.
“What do you want?”
“You know exactly what, Governor. You can argue any fucking thing you want till the cows come home with the president and the party. But not with me. Not now. Not on this. For the past twelve hours we have been requesting Montana law enforcement officers on an assist. You have ignored the calls and ordered others to do the same. So now you get to hear from me on this very special telephone number of yours. The request remains the same, but with an additional message. If you do not cooperate immediately, I promise that you will become front page news for your utter and complete incompetence and disregard in a matter of national security.”
“I don’t take threats lightly, Mulligan.”
“Neither do I.”
The response made the sixty-one-year-old state leader catch his breath. Mulligan had turned the phrase and applied far more sinister meaning.
“How many men?”
“Fifty.”
“I’ll give you ten,” Montclair offered smugly.
“Fifty men and women in marked and unmarked cars, on the road in sixty minutes,” Mulligan shot back. “And if all you have is forty-nine, then you better get out in your Cadillac, the one parked right outside on Viscaya Drive, and do the job of the fiftieth.” Then strictly for effect he added, “If yours isn’t gassed up, borrow the Lexus you arranged for your real estate girlfriend to have. It’s in her garage just a floor below you.”
“You’ll get your fifty,” Montclair acknowledged.
“I’m sending special agent Shannon Davis to Helena. He will coordinate. And you, sir, will cooperate and instruct others to do the same with each and every one of his orders. Davis will need everyone’s frequencies and phone numbers the moment he touches down.
“You mean you don’t have everyone’s phone numbers already? Just mine?”
“Fifty cars, Montclair! And watch out. Someone may whisper the wrong thing in your wife’s ear when she returns home tonight.”
“I got it. But the cost.”
“The cost?” Mulligan cut him off. “You have no idea,” the FBI chief said. He wasn’t talking money.
Montclair sent word to the Montana Highway Patrol Supervisor to get the fifty vehicles on the road, most on overtime. In turn, local police departments were also alerted. They were all e-mailed photographs and descriptions of two foreign nationals believed to be operating within Montana. The information was sent with explicit FBI orders:
PERSONS OF INTEREST. IF LOCATED: DO NOT DETAIN OR ARREST. REPORT. USE EXTREME CAUTION NOT TO BE OBSERVED. BY ORDER OF THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS.
Great Falls, Montana
“Slow down, that could be it,” said SGT Mary Perkins to her rookie partner Carl Boardman.
She was a nine-year veteran with enough savvy to know that no matter who they were after, their suspicion could trigger flight and that was not what the FBI wanted.
“Easy does it.” They rolled past the Quality Inn Ponderosa Motel on Central Avenue in Great Falls, Montana. She looked at the car. “Green Toyota Camry, right. License plate…slower. Bravo Sam George 498. We’ve got a match. Okay, forward and do a u-ey at the corner. Breakfast time. Maybe they’re eating.
Boardman was excited. “Got it.”
“But don’t blow it. Take everything calmly.”
Boardman parked the squad car and they calmly went into the Ponderosa, covering the steps with jovial conversation about nothing in particular, saying hi to the staff. It wasn’t unusual for them to grab a free coffee or continental breakfast.
Perkins gave the layout an obtuse glance. Three long-haul truckers at the counter. Alone at one table a middle-aged man, likely in sales due to the spreadsheets he was laboring over. A family of five and two men who appeared to be completely out of place in the far corner. The possible subjects.
Perkins pointed to two seats against a far wall. She claimed the one that would give her a constant view of the corner table simply by looking at Boardman. But first, as the senior officer, she said,
“Make me some of those griddle pancakes,” Perkins told Boardman. “And a fruit cup and java.”
“Yes ma’am,” Boardman obliged. Perkins picked up a newspaper left at a nearby table and pretended to read. When her partner came back with the food, she joked with him and then casually sent a text message that was sure to get relayed very quickly.
And that’s when things started speeding up.
The pair looked like they didn’t belong. Neither Haim nor Calib knew the first thing about espionage; not when they were spotted or if they were being tailed. They tried to blend in with jeans and parkas. It only partially worked. They did know that the less they spoke, the better off they’d be. That was about it.
The one thing they did have down was how to accomplish their mission. Considering what they were handling, one misstep would—not could—cost them their own lives instead of those others.
After ten minutes, the men rose and avoided the two Great Falls police officers on their way out.
Perkins was reading a return text at the time.
stay with them…do not apprehend unless ordered
report all movement. feds o
n the way.
The thirty-three-year-old police woman had a deep desire to make the arrests, but she also aspired to an FBI appointment. Besides, the younger Boardman was unproven in the field. Play it safe, she reasoned. As ordered.
After watching the subjects clear the door, she told her partner, “Let’s go. When we’re outside, stand on my left facing the street. Talk to me about anything. Your dick size. Who you want to fuck. I don’t care. I won’t be listening. I want to see where they’re going.”
“Okay.”
Perkins nonchalantly watched the men return to a ground motel room adjacent to the lot where their car was parked. Once they were inside, she directed her partner to return with her to their squad car. Still completely normally, they pulled into traffic, and at the next intersection did another 180, drove past the Quality Inn, pulled over, and took up a position fifty yards down the street from the motel in a nonthreatening position and with a clear line of sight.
Perkins texted their status and waited.
Haim sat at a desk and traced a route on a AAA Montana state map. Next to it was a topographical map from the U.S. Geological Department. He’d circled a destination on both, identifying a location ninety miles to the south.
“Number two today,” he said. “Another tomorrow, then Denver airport and home, my friend,” he told the young Calib.
“Praise Allah. Allah is good,” Calib chanted.
“Allah is good, and Mr. Haddad shall be great for our bank accounts,” the more experienced man responded.
They laughed, packed up, and prepared to leave. There’d be no tip for the woman who cleaned the room.
Shannon Davis’s government Gulfstream 450 touched down at Helena Regional Airport after a four-and-a-half-hour flight from Washington. He was completely caught up with Perkins’s surveillance texts by the time the plane came to a stop. Now he needed to speak with her.
“This is Agent Davis of the FBI. Is this SGT Perkins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant, your texts were forwarded to me. What is your status?”
“We’re parked down the street, diagonally across from the suspects”
“Exactly where?”
“The suspects are in The Quality Inn Ponderosa on Central Avenue in Great Falls. They’ve been there for,” she checked her watch to be precise, “twenty-two minutes.”
Davis and his men transferred to a black Lincoln Navigator that the bureau called in from a local dealership in Helena.
“Looks like we’re ninety minutes from you. Straight up I-15. Unless…” Davis considered jumping back on the jet and flying to Malmstrom Air Force Base. It would cut the time by more than half. The bureau could arrange for another vehicle. “Perkins, I’ve got another idea, instead of driving… .”
“Wait.”
“What?” Davis asked.
“They’ve just exited the room. They’ve got rolling suitcases. Putting them into the backseat. Now getting into their vehicle.”
“Okay, follow them, but do not, unless under my order, take any action. Do you understand?” He felt she did. She’d done everything right so far.
“Affirmative.”
“Will do.”
“And call in backup with the same instructions. I want to talk to everyone in pursuit. Nothing aggressive. No cowboy stuff. You’ll switch off.”
“Yes, sir.” By the book, she thought again.
Which way? Which way? Davis played with the car’s GPS display. He calculated distances and driving time. If it was north, Davis and his team would hop back on the jet. If the subjects headed south, then intersecting them on the road would be faster.
“Let the pilot know we may be wheels up again,” he told his associate Greg Ketz. “We’ll need enough fuel for about ninety miles.”
Ketz got out of the SUV, ran over to the G4, and explained the possible change of plans. He flashed a quick thumbs-up to Davis from the open door.
“Any word?” Davis asked Perkins.
“I’ll know in a moment, sir. Pulling onto Central now. Going west. Stand by.”
The wait, only a minute, still seemed insufferable. Davis wanted to get on the way.
“Okay, we’re starting now, too. Their blinker is on. Making a right onto Park Drive North. I expect they’ll make a left on the 15 spur, which is Central again. Stand by.”
“Don’t lose them and don’t get spotted.”
“Whoa, making a right onto Central. Heading east. Repeat. Heading east, not to the 15.”
“East?” Davis zoomed in on the GPS. “Options, Perkins?” Things suddenly got much more urgent and out of control.
“Well, there’s the 87 North and 87 East. Don’t know.”
“Roger. Stay on them.”
Ketz returned to the Navigator. “What are we doing?”
“Staying put for another few minutes. Other airports are north and east of Great Falls?”
“I’ll find out.” Ketz returned to the G4.
“Talk to me, Perkins,” Davis said.
“Slow going. Decision point about two minutes.”
Davis stayed in the car where it was quieter and he could look at the map. Intercepting would be quicker than catching up, so he was already ruling out Malmstrom.
“Left on Fifteenth Street North,” Perkins reported. “That’s 87. North it is.”
“Roger. Hanging up. Will call you from the plane. Checking airports now.”
“Wait! What are you flying?”
“Gulfstream 450.” Davis was impressed. “Why?”
“Runway requirements. There’s an airport at Fort Benton. I’ve seen jets go in there. Not sure the runway length, but you’d get there about the same time as we would. It’s about forty minutes from here. Maybe even quicker.”
“Terrific. Thanks. I’ll get back to you in a few.” This gal’s sharp.
The pilot told Davis the Gulfstream generally needed a 4,000-foot landing strip, though he could bring it in shorter. Fort Benton Airport had two runways. One was 1,700 feet. The other: 4,300. “We’ll do just fine.”
The next call was to arrange for another car. He had the bureau take care of that request. Midway into the flight he had word that a new Ford Expedition would be at the terminal, delivered by Jim Taylor Motors by the time they landed.
Thirty-three minutes to be precise, the Gulfstream touched down. The Expedition with #2 tinted windows was right in front of the terminal. A salesman held the keys. He was very willing to drive and more interested discovering who the VIPs were.
Davis took the car with a thank you and a signature on an agreement, leaving the young man wondering.
“Perkins, jogging onto State Highway 387 out of the airport. I see a right ahead on 87. Where are you?
“About four miles to the south.”
“We’ll take it slow. Come up on us. Then we’ll get a good look at the subjects.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Perkins. Very good suggestion on the Fort Benton.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.” SGT Mary Perkins was very pleased.
Three miles ahead, the Toyota passed Davis’s Expedition.
“Okay, I have them. Hang back.”
“Then what?” Mistake. She wished she’d worded the question differently.
“They’ll determine what we’ll do. And when.”
“What did they do?” she asked.
“Nothing good, SGT Perkins.”
The SUV speeded up. “Call you back.”
Davis kept driving. Ketz pointed a Canon SLR camera at the Toyota as they passed on the right. The subjects couldn’t see them through the tinted windows. The coating made for darker images, but they’d serve the purpose. Seconds later, Ketz e-mailed the photographs to Quantico and photo recognition expert Touch Parsons.
Thirty-eight
Montana ranch country
Later
“Switch off,” Davis said. He eased back and let an unmarked Montana Highway Patrol officer that had joined
them to take point on the green Camry. “Give him a good two hundred yards. No closer.”
“Yes, sir,”
It was the sixth change in an hour without incident.
“Subjects pulling up to a convenience store,” the state trooper reported.
“Drive past. Don’t pull over. I’ll check it out.” They were just south of Havre.
Davis rolled up slowly, but there was no good place to stop without drawing attention.
The Toyota was at the side of the store. He saw the two men park next to another vehicle. The trunks were open on both, and some boxes were transferred from the second vehicle to the Camry.
“Shit. Something’s going on. I want an unmarked car to get me the plates on a blue Ford Focus.”
A third highway patrol officer responded. “Be there in two.”
The passengers returned to the Camry, drove back to 87, but in the opposite direction. South.
“We’re on the move again. South. Get those state vehicles out of sight. Fast.”
The tail began again retracing the route roughly eighty miles to Great Falls. They got back on Fifteenth Avenue, but instead of returning to the motel, they made a left heading west on 89. Davis widened the GPS screen again to see what might be ahead.
The road took them south of Malmstrom Air Force Base, beyond Belt and Stanford, and farther into Big Sky Country.
After a total of four hours on the road, including their stop near Havre, they pulled into Lewistown, a town of 5,900, squarely dead center in Montana. Haim had heard the expression. It amused him.
Dead Center. They’d make certain it would become that tonight.
“Slowing down,” Davis said, now in the lead. “And somebody please tell me where the hell we are?”
“Old Montana town,” Perkins reported. “Haven’t been here in years. Used to go fishing with my dad. Think we’ll catch some big ones tonight?”
“We just may, Perkins,” David responded.
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 23
