The Enemy Inside

by William Christie

  All cell phones were capable of this, and there was no way for anyone to tell that their phone was in diagnostic mode until they tried to place a call.

  Lund tapped a key, and over the laptop speakers they could hear the Chechens talking.

  “I guess they’re speaking Chechen,” said Troy. “What the hell is that language called anyway?”

  “Chechen,” said Storey.

  “You fucking with me now?” Troy demanded.

  “You?” said Storey. “Never.”

  “You know,” said Poett, “even not speaking the language, it does sound like they’re hashing something out.”

  “Oh yeah,” Troy said wearily. “They’re trying to decide whether to call the emergency number. Don’t bet against Ed on that.”

  Lund recorded it all for future translation. Then the conversation tapered off. “I think they’re getting ready to call,” he said, remotely cycling the phone in the house off and then back on again, taking it out of diagnostic mode.

  The graph on his screen began to register again. “Another call going out.”

  Storey nodded. Lund never got caught short. It wasn’t just the technical side—he was an artist at this.

  “Let’s see what the phone number is,” said Lund. “International access code, they’re calling out of the country. Country code fifty-two. Mexico. City code eighty-one. What’s that?” He tapped on another laptop keyboard to answer his own question. “Monterrey.”

  “Damn close to the border,” Troy muttered.

  “Not picking up,” said Lund. “They’re leaving a message on the voice mail.”

  “Smart,” said Storey. “The controller keeps his phone turned off, so he can’t be tracked. That’s probably why they waited until now to call. Controller checks his voice mail a few times a day. This must be one of them.”

  “It’s in French,” said Lund. He played the message back.

  “Please tell me someone in this van speaks French so I don’t have to wait on Washington for a translation,” said Troy.

  After a pause, Sergeant Sarver said hesitantly, “Just high school.”

  He left that hanging too long, and Troy blurted out, “Well, do you fucking understand it or not?”

  Sergeant Sarver was an electronics technician, not a special operator, and by now nicely rattled by the attention. “Something about his mother being sick.”

  “Word code,” said Storey.

  “He says their brother hasn’t ... I guess hasn’t been seen for two days. And he wants to know what to do,” said Sergeant Sarver. “I think.”

  “That’s fine,” Storey said to Sarver, before Troy could get on Sarver’s ass again.

  “Damn, Ed,” Poett exclaimed. “That was the emergency call.”

  “It’s one of his little party tricks,” Troy explained. “He’s always predicting what people are going to do or say.”

  “You mean guessing,” said Poett.

  “No, I mean predicting,” said Troy.

  Storey had his PDA out and was writing something. Then he extended the antenna and held the PDA out the van window, since satellite phones needed line-of-sight to work. And the camouflaged antenna on his PDA wasn’t as powerful as the bulky cigar-shaped one on an Iridium phone. After transmitting his message to Washington, he said, “Now Lee’s going to ask me what I’m doing.”

  “Wow, that’s fucking amazing,” Poett said dryly.

  “Let’s hope I get my callback before they get theirs,” said Storey. “Pete, can you send them a text message and identify it as coming from the number they just called?”

  “Sure,” said Lund. “I just duplicate their ID codes.”

  Storey’s PDA began to vibrate. Answering the call, his reply came up on the PDA screen. He showed it to Lund. “Send them this as a text message from the Mexican number. Then send the one below as text to the Mexican number, from them. As soon as you’re done, jam the house so they can’t get any more incoming calls.”

  “Let me have that,” said Lund, grabbing the PDA and propping it against his laptop screen. “I want to make sure I send it exactly.”

  Everyone except Storey looked over his shoulder. The text was in French.

  Troy knew Storey had called Washington to get the translation made. “What does it say?”

  “For security, move your phone one kilometer and call again,” Storey replied. “To Mexico, it’s: phone problem—stand by.”

  Poett was skeptical. “You really think they’re going to go for text instead of voice?”

  “Yeah, and they used word code to confirm their identities and show they weren’t under duress with the voice call,” said Troy. “Why wouldn’t there be a code for text, too?”

  “I’m sure there is,” said Storey. “But if you were sitting there and the shit was hitting the fan, and a couple of minutes after you made the emergency call a credible text message came in from the right number, you’d think they were just rushed and rattled and forgot about the code, wouldn’t you?”

  “Okay, I see what you mean about him,” Poett said to Troy.

  “You better believe it,” Troy replied. “And after Mexico gets that text message, he’s going to try calling and not be able to connect. Because we’ll be jamming. So he’ll buy that, too.”

  Among his bag of toys Lund had a transmitter that mimicked a cell phone base station and was equipped with a horn antenna to concentrate the signal from a ten-milliwatt power source in a single direction. The signal would trick any phone in the house into thinking it was within range of a new network base station and block it from any genuine stations in the vicinity, allowing Lund exclusive access to send any message he wanted, disconnect a phone, or keep it from receiving any incoming calls.

  “Let’s be ready to improvise,” said Storey. “Whoever steps out to make the call, I want to take him as soon as he’s out of sight of the house.”

  “How do you want to do it this time?” Poett asked.

  “He’s not going to be a Portuguese speaker,” said Storey. “So I think it’ll be me and Lee. We’ll do a front and back,” he said to Troy.

  “Okay,” Troy replied. “Each end of the street? Who’s front and who’s back depending on which way he goes?”

  “That’s it,” said Storey. “But don’t make him nervous until we’re a ways away. I don’t want him running back to the house.”

  “No prob,” said Troy.

  Fifteen minutes later one of the Chechens left the house. He turned to the right, which put Storey in front of him at one end of the block, and Troy behind.

  The Chechen wasn’t unschooled, because when he reached the end of the street he checked his back. The traffic was still buzzing by, but there weren’t many people on the sidewalks in the heat of the afternoon. So the Chechen saw two couples going the other way, and Lee Troy behind him. Instead of continuing straight he turned left and went down the next block, slowing his pace.

  The Chechen stopped halfway down to look in a store window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Troy appear, look both ways, and turn toward him.

  Concerned now, the Chechen started walking faster. So did Troy. The Chechen ducked into a storefront entrance and waited a few moments. When he reappeared Troy was closer. Troy saw him, stopped, and clumsily turned to look into a store window.

  Now the Chechen had no doubt he was being followed.

  Which happened to be exactly what Troy wanted. Once you know someone’s behind you, that’s where your attention is fixed. The Chechen was looking back over his shoulder at Troy, and Troy was driving him right into Storey.

  The Chechen was moving again. Quickly, almost skipping down the sidewalk.

  Troy was pleased. He could practically smell the panic. The Chechen bolted. But he didn’t go in the expected direction. He sprinted across the street. Two cars jamming on their brakes had a nice little fender bender. Horns blew in rebuke.

  Shit. Troy took off after him. He didn’t see Storey. And if Storey hadn’t seen this they were in
trouble.

  The Chechen had stopped the traffic, and Troy made it across the street before it got going again.

  The Chechen was in a flat-out sprint. With the lead he had Troy didn’t think he could take him over the next couple of hundred yards. But if he kept it near the aerobic threshold the Chechen was bound to run out of gas first. Troy didn’t think Chechens were used to running ten miles at a shot the way SEALs were.

  Troy thought they’d be attracting a lot of attention, but that wasn’t happening. Mugging was the national sport, after soccer, and men running after each other in the streets wasn’t all that uncommon. Pedestrians saw them coming and got out of the way, but that was it.

  Troy had now closed the gap to less than twenty yards, and the Chechen could feel as well as hear him behind.

  Troy knew he’d have him before the next intersection. The Chechen knew it too, and made a hard turn into an alley.

  Troy yelled, “Halto! Polizia!” but the Chechen wasn’t having any of it.

  There was a gate across the alley. The Chechen went over it. Shit, this wasn’t the right situation to go flying over gates. Troy pulled up short and quickly ducked his head over. No Chechen in sight. The alley was over a hundred yards long—no way he could have made it to the end. Troy looked up—no one going up the fire escapes. He reached inside his shirt, got ahold of the Glock, and gave the pistol a sharp twist to release it from the shoulder holster. He was all ears now, listening for the sound of a door along the alley. Those steel doors were going to make noise if opened. Or knocked on to be opened. It was Rio—alley doors weren’t left unlocked.

  This wasn’t a one-man job, unless you were suicidal. Keeping one eye over the gate, Troy dialed Storey on his cell phone.

  “What?” Storey’s voice told Troy he was running.

  “Did you see which way I went?” Troy whispered.

  Storey had stopped. “I’m paralleling you on the next street over.”

  “Two intersections up,” Troy whispered. “There’s an alley before you get to the third intersection. We’re both inside—he’s playing possum. I’m behind the gate. You need to close off the other end.”

  Storey was running again. “I think I’m past it. Hang on.”

  With the tall buildings and afternoon sun in descent it was almost as if the alley was in twilight. Troy realized that Storey might not be able to see an arm waved over the gate. But he could easily see the bright alley exit onto the street.

  A half minute later a head cautiously poked around the corner. “You’re there,” Troy whispered.

  “Okay,” Storey whispered back. “You sure he’s still around?”

  The fuck. “No, I’m not. I’m going over the gate, and off the net.”

  “Okay.”

  Troy tucked his phone away. He breathed to settle himself. Go over left or right? The alley was an ambusher’s paradise. Some of the doorways had columns holding up metal rain roofs. Some had stairs going down to basement doorways. And there were trash cans and bigger metal Dumpsters lined up all along both walls. If the Chechen was right-handed like the majority of the population, he’d probably stopped along the right wall so he could shoot with his body behind cover. A crossing shot would be easier for him, so Troy decided to stick to the right side, too.

  He took a few steps back for a running start and then went over, one hand atop the gate and the other holding the pistol. As soon as he touched ground he ducked behind the nearest Dumpster.

  No shots fired. That wasn’t good. If the Chechen was still in the alley, it meant he’d kept his cool and was waiting for a sure hit.

  Troy couldn’t just dash from cover to cover. He had to come up on the opposite side of the alley from the nearest obstacle, carefully, trying to see what might be behind it before he committed himself.

  The low light and shadows didn’t make it any easier.

  Troy halted all his inner decision-making dialogue and shifted every last bit of concentration toward his senses. This was hunting, except between two predators who could both be prey. Whoever heard the sound or saw the movement first was going to live.

  Troy made sure his footfalls were silent. The first Dumpster loomed up. Was he waiting behind it? Troy had his pistol out in front, locked in his hands, front sight following his eyes. He inched forward, and bit by bit the far side of the Dumpster was revealed. Nothing. He grabbed the side door and threw it open. No other sound. He bobbed his head into the opening. Nothing but trash.

  Shit, this was going to take forever. Or if he moved faster he was going to get killed. Or after he went by, the Chechen was going to come popping up out of one of the Dumpsters and shoot him in the back. Or if he kept sticking his head inside them he was going to get it blown off. Shit.

  A row of small metal trash cans next. From the cover of the Dumpster, Troy fired a round into each one. The sound of bullet hitting metal was louder than the hissing pfft of the suppressor and the snap of the slide cycling back and forth.

  Maybe he could flush the game. Moving now, Troy snatched the lid off the last can and hurled it like a Frisbee at the next Dumpster. It sounded like a gong being struck. The sound echoed away to nothing. No sound from inside the Dumpster. Troy took a step forward and was engulfed in a wall of black, deafening sound and a gale-force wind.

  It threw him to the ground. But the adrenaline was pumping, and he drove himself back up to his feet. Whoa, there was smoke everywhere and the alley was wobbling around. A hand grabbed his arm.

  Storey knew you never asked someone if they were all right. They always said they were even if they were missing an arm. Instead he looked for blood. Finding none, he guided a woozy Troy back to the alley gate he’d jumped over. “Okay, up and over,” he said.

  All Troy needed was a little guidance, and instinct took over. He pulled himself over and dropped to the other side. His head was clearing, and he looked back over the gate. The smoke was wafting away. The top of the Dumpster was gone; the metal sides were bulged out and split down along the seams like a peeled banana.

  Storey grabbed Troy’s pistol, stuck it back into his holster, and led him out of the alley. People were running up to see what had happened, and Storey picked up the pace to get them clear.

  Four blocks away Troy’s wits had returned, and Storey sat him down at a bus stop bench.

  “A grenade?” Troy asked. His hearing was still a little tinny. He opened and closed his jaw to see if that would improve things.

  “In this particular case impatience served you well,” said Storey. “He must have jumped into that Dumpster. And if you didn’t pass him by he was waiting to take you with him. I reckon that trash can lid sounded like you opening the door, and he let go of the spoon.”

  So he had flushed the game. But like most things in this business, the final result didn’t much resemble the plan. Troy looked himself over. Other than his clothes being messed up, and stinking of burned explosives, he was okay. “Dumpster must have absorbed most of the shot.”

  “That wasn’t exactly the outcome I was hoping for,” Storey observed. “But no blood, no foul.”

  “You mean none of our blood.”

  “That’s always my aim.”

  “I’d rather have taken him alive.”

  “My fault,” said Storey. “Every time I go light on the planning something like this happens.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.” Troy knew Storey was genuinely annoyed with himself, though as far as he was concerned he’d been the one who screwed up the snatch. “We had to get them to do something before Mexico called back.”

  “We can’t risk anything like this for those last three,” said Storey. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Okay. I don’t want to retrace the route of our little chase. I see a bus coming. Let’s take it and clear the area. Then I’ll call Poett to come get us.” He bent over to check Troy’s ears and nose. No blood, so hopefully no concussion. “How many fingers am I holding up?”


  “One,” Troy groaned. It was the middle finger. “And fuck you, too.”

  “You seem normal to me,” said Storey.

  There was a crash of nearby thunder, and dark clouds were building up overhead.

  “I needed to cool off anyway,” said Troy.

  “I expect I do, too,” said Storey.

  There was a pool on how long it would take before the three remaining Chechens picked up the phone and called Mexico again.

  Troy had chosen the soonest time. One hour. And was seriously ticked off when that passed. “Don’t these assholes watch the news?”

  Storey said, “If you don’t speak the language, what’s an explosion in an alley going to tell you?” He’d guessed three hours, and was proved wrong.

  Poett took three and a half. No dice.

  The technicians chose increments between four and five, and were disappointed.

  Lund had picked seven hours and forty-five minutes. And at seven hours and fifty-five minutes after the Chechen left the house to make his phone call, he announced, “Cell phone just came on.”

  “Son of a bitch,” said Troy, looking at his watch.

  “If they try to dial out, let it go through,” said Storey.

  “Why don’t we send them some more text?” Troy suggested. “Tell them to do exactly what we want instead of sitting around with our thumb up our ass?”

  “I thought about that,” said Storey. “But they’re going to be mighty paranoid right about now, and I don’t think they’d go for it. Instead of us telling them what to do, we should step back and let the guy in Mexico try and manage the situation.”

  “We could harvest some good intelligence off that,” said Lund.

  “Suppose the guy in Mexico tells them to split up and run?” said Troy. “We’ll either have to cowboy up or risk losing one or two of them.”

  “I’ll take that chance,” said Storey. “The way this thing has been set up, these guys are not experienced operators. If they run, they’ll run together. Either that or Mexico’s going to send someone to get them out. I’d like that. The more the merrier. We’ll let them do the work.”