The Enemy Inside

by William Christie

  “Jan Mohammad what?” was the first thing Troy said. “In Pakistan it’s always Jan Mohammad something.”

  “That’s it,” said Storey, reading the screen. “I guess he was fresh out of ideas for this pseudonym.”

  They trailed Jan Mohammad for a week, recording his patterns. They rented three cars at a time, used a different one every day, then turned them in and rented three more. He didn’t spend any time at all at his carpet business. Or any other job that might have paid for that BMW.

  He went food shopping every day, and then drove up to the Glória neighborhood, on the opposite side of Botafogo Bay. Glória was an old neighborhood. Once tony, then gone to seed, now rediscovered and turned trendy again by urban yuppie pioneers. Big old nineteenth-century houses, one of which Jan Mohammad lugged his groceries into every day.

  “That’s a lot of damn chow,” said Troy. “Who’s he feeding?”

  “More than a couple of people, that’s for sure,” said Storey.

  One the third day of surveillance there was a change of routine. Jan Mohammad visited the house in Glória, then made the twelve-mile drive north to Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport on Governor’s Island. With a passenger in the car. As usual the traffic was crazy, and no Brazilian worth his salt stopped for red lights.

  Instead of parking in front of one of the two terminals, Jan Mohammad drove to the short-term lot.

  Poett was driving the surveillance car, with Troy in the backseat and Storey, as usual, watching the map display.

  “Okay, great opportunity,” he said. “He’s not dropping the guy off, he’s going in with him. Lee, he’s seen you already. You stick with the car. I’ll get off at Terminal 1. Gary, you take Terminal 2. Whichever one they go to, we’ll already be inside waiting. We’ll leave our pieces here, we might have to go through security.”

  Storey and Poett ducked out of sight, opened up their shirts, and removed the Null USH shoulder holsters they’d been wearing next to their skin. They stashed them and the silenced Glock pistols under the seat.

  The two terminals were almost side by side. Storey went though the doors and quickly oriented himself before buying a newspaper and finding a seat with a good view.

  A few minutes later Jan Mohammad entered the terminal with his companion, who was definitely not an Arab or East Asian. Only the companion was carrying a suitcase. They turned down the concourse and disappeared around a curve.

  Storey gave them a little time, then got up and followed. They were checking in at the TAM-Meridional counter. Storey continued on and passed through security. He kept walking until he found the TAM gates, picking the first one with people in it and taking a seat where he could see the aisle.

  Jan Mohammad and his companion soon appeared. And turned right into that particular gate. It was a local flight to São Paulo. Had to be a connection to somewhere else.

  Storey was plotting how to get a look at the boarding pass when the two of them sat down in the only two remaining adjacent seats. Right next to him.

  Which might have sounded like the ideal situation, but really wasn’t. Because it was like having his fly unzipped in public, magnified to the tenth power. Storey couldn’t pay too much attention to them. But ignoring them would be equally suspicious. Every single move he made had to be carefully contemplated and calibrated.

  So of course his nose itched. His ass itched. He wanted to fidget. For a second there he even thought his eyelid was beginning to twitch. A million insecurities blew up from nowhere. Should he cough a couple of times, or would it sound unnatural? Blow his nose? He couldn’t get up and walk away. He had to sit there and sweat.

  Storey read his newspaper page by page, and even that was a nightmare since it was in Portuguese and he couldn’t understand a word. He was praying they wouldn’t make conversation or ask him about a headline.

  He needn’t have worried. They didn’t even say a word to each other.

  This torture lasted for thirty minutes until the plane began to board. When the third economy row was called, Jan Mohammad and his companion stood up and embraced, Jan Mohammad saying in Arabic, “God be with you, my brother. A safe journey and all success. Our prayers follow you.”

  “God be with you also,” the other replied, also in Arabic. “A thousand thanks for all your labors.”

  While they were saying their good-byes, Storey got a good look at the boarding pass in the companion’s hand. He committed the rows and seat numbers to memory.

  Storey couldn’t hang around and be the only one left at the gate with Jan Mohammad. He waited until they both began moving down the line, then slipped away. Three gates down he found a pillar to both lounge against and conceal himself.

  Jan Mohammad watched until the aircraft pulled away, then headed back into the terminal.

  Since he was now a familiar face, Storey gave him a lot of room. Jan Mohammad got onto the travelator that connected Terminal 1 to Terminal 2.

  Storey stayed put, not wanting to get caught short if Jan Mohammad doubled back. He dialed Poett on his cell phone. “Our friend’s about to join you. Alone, so don’t worry about anyone but him. I’m staying here.”

  “Okay,” Poett replied. “Here he comes. I’ve got him.”

  “Call me if he leaves.” He’d just been sitting at an airline gate for a half hour, but Storey felt drained by his ordeal. He bought a couple of Cokes to ram some caffeine into his system. And he didn’t stop fretting, because now he was fretting about how Poett would handle himself. Poett may have been an experienced counterintelligence man making a tail in an airport terminal, but the only things Ed Storey didn’t worry about were the ones he did himself. His armpits were soaked.

  As he drank his Coke he thought he ought to call Troy, who was probably having his own little battle with impatience.

  The conversation was conducted in Spanish, and as soon as the connection was made Troy said, “What’s going on?”

  “Number two got on a flight,” said Storey. “Number one is now in Terminal 1. You’re not double-parked anywhere, are you?

  “No, I’m on the top of one of the car parks. Got a nice view of the entrances of both terminals.”

  “Good, stay there. I’m staying here at 1. Nobody moves until we hear from our friend.”

  “Oh, it’s one of those,” said Troy. “Okay, staying put.”

  While he waited, Storey made a call with his satellite phone. Back in Washington they manned a twenty-four-hour toll-free number that was like your own personal concierge. They booked flights, hotels, and rental cars anywhere in the world. And instantly answered all of the different kinds of information requests that popped up in foreign countries. Storey gave the operator his work name and ID number. When she confirmed his identity he said, “AeroMexico flight 17 from São Paulo to Mexico City. What’s the plane’s next stop?”

  A pause and clicking of computer keys. “No next stop. The plane overnights in Mexico City. Do you want its schedule for tomorrow?”

  “No thanks,” said Storey. “That’s all I need.”

  Mexico City. Unless there was another flight from there on another airline. But he wouldn’t ask them to trace the seat number and name on a voice call, in the clear. It would have to be sent as encrypted text later.

  An hour passed. Storey wanted to call Poett, make sure his phone hadn’t gone down. But he didn’t. He didn’t believe in bothering people while they were working.

  Three very long hours later Poett finally called. “Flight just came in, and he’s waiting at Customs.”

  “Okay,” said Storey. “You get eyes on the arrival. After they leave the terminal, call again and we’ll pick you up.”

  “Understood.”

  Storey broke the connection and dialed Troy. “Pick me up at Terminal 1. Don’t go to Terminal 2.”

  They drove around until Poett called back. When he got in the car he was beaming with the excitement. “He met TAP Portugal flight 177 from Lisbon. One man.”

  “Let me have t
he phone you used,” said Storey.

  Poett passed his over. Storey had already collected Troy’s. He made sure they were turned off, since a cell phone that was on sent out a continuous signal, which made its location easy to trace to the nearest tower. The phones had been purchased with fake ID. But if the police or Brazilian security ever picked them up with the phones in their possession, or if the numbers were somehow compromised, then every call they made and their exact whereabouts could be traced. He wiped the phones down for fingerprints and put them in a paper bag. Then he stomped on the bag. The debris would go in the nearest trash can, and their next calls would be made from a new set of phones, which was why they always bought so many.

  “I didn’t get eyes on the new arrival,” Troy said to Poett. “What did he look like?”

  “Enough like the guy he took to the airport to be his brother. Caucasian.”

  “Caucasian is right,” said Storey.

  “What are you talking about now?” said Troy.

  “I mean Caucasian, like from the Caucasus,” said Storey. “The one who flew out was a Chechen.”

  “And just how the hell do you know that?” said Poett.

  “Heard him speak,” said Storey. “I heard that Arabic accent in Afghanistan. Only the Chechens speak it that way.”

  “Shit,” said Troy. “You were close enough to hear him talk?”

  “Not on purpose,” said Storey.

  “Where did he go?” said Troy.

  “São Paulo to Mexico City.”

  “One goes out and one comes in,” said Poett. “Regular little conveyor belt they’ve got going. No wonder all the groceries in that safe house in Glória.”

  “They’re running a rat line,” said Storey. “They’re moving people, and this is a way station.”

  “Europe to Mexico?” said Troy. “That’s not good. One person from Europe to Mexico is an agent. A bunch of people from Europe to Mexico is an attack.”

  “Washington better pay attention to this one,” said Storey. “We’re going to need a full-strength support team, maybe two, to do that surveillance. And then I reckon we’re going to have to hit that house.”

  “I don’t know about Washington,” said Poett. “But I think I know how the Brazilians are going to feel about that.”

  “That’s what worries me,” said Storey. “It’s not so much that I’m worried about the Brazilians as I’m worried about Washington being worried about the Brazilians.”

  “Translated,” Troy said to Poett, “we’re going to get fucked again.”

  Chapter Ten

  “If you’re going to do the interrogation and try to play him back into the network, you definitely shouldn’t be arresting him,” said Supervisory Special Agent Benjamin Timmins.

  With just a bare desk and a computer, his voice echoed around that borrowed L.A. office. Of course L.A. wasn’t going to give the Washington interlopers anything good. Beth Royale knew they were lucky they weren’t working out of the bathrooms. “Ordinarily, Ben, I’d agree with you. But you know what’s going to happen if someone else brings him in.”

  “No, Beth, I’m pretty sure I don’t. Other than placing him under arrest, cuffing him, Mirandizing him, and driving him down here. Besides that, I’m not following you.”

  “They’re going to kick down his front door and arrest him in front of his wife and kids. Or they’ll go to the market and arrest him in front of his employees. Either way, he’ll be so humiliated that he’d rather go to jail than do anything for us.”

  Timmins just looked at her and sighed. Beth loved hearing that sound. She always knew she was right when he sighed.

  “You know,” said Timmins, “I could always order them not to do that.”

  “Oh, Ben, do you really want me to say what I’m thinking right now?”

  “Not particularly. Go pick him up yourself.” Then Timmins gave her the kind of smile that let Beth know something unpleasant was on the way. “But before you make the collar,” he continued, “I want you to meet your new partner.”

  “A partner? We team up with whoever’s available.”

  “Yes, we do. But we have an agent that’s new to counterterrorism, and I want her to learn the ropes from you.”

  “Her? Ben, I thought you’d evolved beyond that old ‘team the chicks up together so they don’t bother the guys’ technique.”

  “Ordinarily, I have—and nice try, by the way. But in this case I want her to learn the ropes from you. Did I mention that before?”

  “Where is she?”

  Timmins slowly rose from his chair, opened his door, and pointed out into the office.

  He was pointing at a pert blonde in a very stylish cream-colored suit, sitting with her legs crossed and delicately holding a coffee cup, smiling, surrounded by four equally smiling male Special Agents.

  He had to be kidding. “You mean Miss Legally Blonde is my new partner?”

  “Yes, Beth, she is. Paul Moody’s taking medical retirement after you got him all shot up. So you need a new partner.”

  “I did not get Paul all shot up.”

  “The fact remains that he did get shot up. He’s not coming back, and that is your new partner.”

  “She looks like she lettered in baton twirling.”

  “I really don’t know. You’ll have to ask her. Let’s get the introductions done, and then you can coordinate with the other teams rolling on the arrests.”

  “You know I’ll get you for this, Ben. I don’t forget, and I don’t care how long it takes.”

  “That particular threat has been communicated before. Come along now.”

  They walked up to the little group, Timmins saying, “Excuse me, guys.”

  That only turned off the conversation. Then Timmins stared at them until they left. “Beth Royale—Sondra Dewberry.”

  Beth almost said: cut the crap and tell me her real name. Except her hand was being shaken, and she was hearing, “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Wonderful, she had blue eyes, too. “I’ll bet you have.”

  “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” said Timmins. Then he scampered off like the little weasel he was.

  “Richmond?” said Beth. That deep molasses and honeysuckle accent was unmistakable.

  “Why yes. And you picked it up right off.”

  “UVA?”

  “No, Virginia Tech. And yourself ?”

  “Colombia.”

  The nose wrinkled up. “Oh, New York. I was almost assigned there out of the Academy.”

  That just happened to have been Beth’s first posting. “What happened?”

  “Oh, I managed to get it changed.”

  I’ll bet you did, Beth thought.

  “Everyone has been telling me that counterterrorism is just like working the streets.”

  “That’s what nearly everyone in the Bureau thinks,” said Beth. “And everyone who thinks that is full of shit.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s my entire orientation speech, in case you were wondering,” said Beth. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “What did you work?”

  “White-collar squad.”

  Ah, yes, the mean streets of white-collar crime. Beth wasn’t sure she really wanted to know how her new partner had gotten on a Fly-Away Team with that kind of background. “Well, we’re going to make some arrests today. Ostensibly for receiving and selling stolen goods and money laundering.”

  “What goods?”

  “Baby formula, mostly.”

  “That’s getting popular on the East Coast, too.”

  She almost sounded professional there, Beth thought. “The ringleader also runs a network of sleepers, in our opinion. But we can’t make a case. And if you can’t make a case, then make the news. So while the bosses are in front of the cameras, we are going to very quietly pick up the ringleader’s brother-in-law. No perp walk on TV for him. And I’m going to see if I can convince him to be a C.I., and run him
back into the network.”

  “Is he dirty?”

  “Probably peripherally. He knows what’s going on, but we couldn’t charge him with anything major anyway. But that’s beside the point. Deportation is what he’s going to be worried about.” Beth looked at her watch. “Arrest briefing’s in ten minutes.”

  “I have to visit the powder room first.”

  “The powder room?”

  “Yes.”

  As Sondra Dewberry crossed the office, to the accompaniment of all the agents leaning over their desks to check her out as soon as she’d passed, Beth just thought to herself: the fucking powder room.

  “Hey, Beth. New partner?”

  It was Karen the Spook, the CIA analyst assigned to their Fly Squad. And, being CIA among FBI, an outsider. And maybe because of that one of Beth’s best friends.

  It came out of Beth’s mouth like a warning. “Karen ...”

  Karen was a short, trim, busty, really funny brunette who walked with a slight limp. She’d been a case officer, one of the real spies. But some kind of overseas accident—she claimed it was a car crash, though Beth doubted it—forced her to leave the field and switch to analysis. It had also gotten her stuck with the FBI, which she didn’t particularly enjoy either. She’d confided to Beth that she’d never seen so many tight asses in one place before. It was like an insurance company with guns and police powers.

  Other than that, Karen liked to say that her only real regret about her accident was not being able to wear high-heeled boots anymore. She’d had an impressive collection, and sensible shoes just didn’t make it for her. “So tell me,” she said breathlessly. “What’s Scarlett O’Hara really like?”

  Beth had known this was going to happen. “Karen ...”

  “And what state did she represent in the Miss America pageant?”

  “Karen, don’t even fucking start ...”

  “Was joining the FBI her way of working for world peace?”

  “You know, Karen, we should be ashamed of ourselves. Here we are, women working in a predominantly male environment. And we’ve got a new sister joining us, whom we should be embracing in the spirit of feminine solidarity. And instead we’re acting like a couple of evil bitches.”