“They’ll probably do exactly what we don’t want,” said Troy.
“Maybe,” said Storey. “But I’m thinking if we get Mexico all riled up, it might knock them off their timetable. Maybe even make them call off their operation.”
“That I didn’t think of,” Troy conceded.
“Dialing Mexico,” said Lund. “Same number.”
This time they didn’t need Sergeant Sarver and his high school French. Lund had managed to hijack a wireless Internet connection from the van. So everything his equipment was picking up was being sent online, encrypted of course, to a French-language DIA translator at Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Who would be listening and translating in real time, just like TV closed captioning.
The Chechens left another voice mail.
The DIA translated it immediately: Uncle George is still very sick. Please call as soon as you can.
“I guess Mom got better,” said Poett.
“After this long await, Mexico’s going to be stone suspicious and definitely not wanting to make this call,” Storey predicted. “But if the code’s right he’s going to have to.”
At three minutes past eight a call came through to the house, and was answered on the first ring. The operators crowded around Lund’s laptop screen to read the conversation.
Mexico: Hello?
Brazil: I send you greetings from your Uncle Thomas.
Mexico: Is my Aunt Catherine well also?
Brazil: She is well.
“Okay, that’s the identification,” said Storey. “Probably a duress code too, in case someone’s talking with a gun to their head.”
Mexico: Why have you not called?
Brazil: There was no call?
Mexico: No. What happened?
Brazil: He who left to make the call has not returned.
Mexico: Not returned? From this afternoon?
Brazil: Yes.
Mexico: How many have not returned now?
Brazil: Two.
Mexico: Two have not returned? Two have left the
house and not returned? Is that correct?
Brazil: Correct. What shall we do?
Mexico: Do you see anything?
Brazil: We see nothing. But what else can we think?
“No shit,” said Troy. “I’d be thinking my ass was pretty much surrounded right about now, too.”
Mexico: You see nothing?
Brazil: Nothing.
Mexico: Hold the line.
“He’s thinking it over,” said Storey. “Can’t you feel the paranoia? Watch him wrap this call up double quick.”
“Rescue or write-off,” said Troy. “If he’s smart he’ll write them off. I can’t wait to see how he’s going to do it. Wish we had some popcorn.”
Mexico: Are you still there?
Brazil: Yes.
Mexico: Pack quickly. Discard any mementos. Go to the airport and wait. I will fly in to get you. “Bullshit,” said Troy.
Brazil: How should we get to the airport?
Mexico: Take a taxi, you fool. And take precautions on your journey there. Leave immediately. Wait at the airport. Do not call again—I will be flying to you. Or I will call. Do you understand?
Brazil: We understand.
Mexico: Until we meet again.
The connection clicked off.
“You know, it would be poetic justice to leave those assholes sitting at the airport for the next year,” said Troy. “Because sure as shit no one’s going to be flying in from Mexico to get them.”
“If they were a little less desperate, they’d be thinking the same thing,” said Storey. “But what are they going to do, stay in the house and sooner or later starve to death? They’ll go to the airport. Either to wait, or, if they got enough money or a credit card, to catch the next flight leaving to anywhere else.”
Lund was racing away at his computer. “Okay, I’ve got the Mexico network base station ID from the incoming call. Good old Telcel.” He scrolled down, searching all his databases, then said triumphantly, “The cell phone number is Monterrey. But this call was made from Nuevo Laredo. Don’t ask me to narrow that down any more, but the base station it came through was definitely in Nuevo Laredo.”
“Motherfucker,” said Troy. “That’s right on the border.”
Storey rubbed his eyes. “We got to get this done quick.”
“You want to borrow a cab?” said Troy. “Have Gary give them a ride?”
Poett didn’t think that was such a smoking red-hot idea. But before he could say anything Storey came to his rescue.
“These boys are going to be ready to blow themselves up as soon as they step out the door,” he said. “Let’s see if we can all keep from getting taken along on that ride.”
“Hey, I would’ve written you up for a medal,” Troy said to Poett.
“Thanks,” Poett replied.
“Drive by?” Troy said to Storey.
“I reckon that’s best way,” said Storey.
Troy sat down at one of the laptops. “You start scheming, I’ll get this intel off to Washington.”
Lund was counting the thirty dollars he’d won in the pool.
Watching him, Storey said, “Pete, what made you go with them waiting that long to call?”
“I figured the controller checked his voice mail on either a four- or eight-hour window,” said Lund. “And that the Tangos inside the house were afraid of getting in trouble if they called Mexico and a minute later their boy walked back through the door because Mexico sent him off to do something.”
“Good thinking,” said Storey. “Stay on top of them, Pete. I’ll need to know fast if they make another call, like for a cab.”
“I’m always on top of it,” Lund said testily.
Storey was feeling the effects of cramped quarters and twenty-hour days, too. He grabbed Lund’s shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze. “I know you are, Pete.”
An hour later the SOPHIE thermal imager showed three human figures glowing bright white against the cooler sidewalk and parked cars. “They got their bags,” said Troy. He, Storey, and Poett had vacated the surveillance van for one of the pair of emergency getaway rental cars they’d stashed nearby. Except in special circumstances, like Paraguay, a van wasn’t the preferred vehicle for high-speed escapes.
Troy was in the passenger seat and pointing the imager, like a large bulbous pair of binoculars, through the windshield. The light rain that was falling didn’t affect the thermal image the way it would a night vision scope.
“They must’ve taken that no calls order literally,” said Storey, in the backseat. “I guess they’re planning on hailing a cab on the street.”
“After all this, I’d think if I called one, the cops would be driving it,” said Troy. “Shit, the way they’re moving, we’re pointed in the wrong direction.”
“I don’t want to drive past them and have to turn around and come back,” Storey told Poett, who was behind the wheel. “Get us around the block before a cab shows up for them.”
Driving like a Rio native, Poett popped a U-turn in the middle of the street. He stepped on the gas to get up to the next intersection, made a hard left against traffic, sped down the cross street, then another hard left. Now they were racing parallel to their original street. Another left and they had almost completed the square. Except this was a main street, and much busier. Poett stood on his brakes as he almost got broadsided by oncoming traffic. Someone was yelling out his window, but Poett bulled his way into the line of cars.
Storey gave the thirty-round magazine of the MP-5K submachine gun a slap to make sure it was seated properly, and drew the bolt back a half inch so he could see the gleaming brass 9mm round in the chamber. Finally a little twist to make sure the sound suppressor tube was attached tight to the barrel.
Poett was getting frantic, because they were stuck trying to make a left back onto that first street. Traffic wasn’t stopping, and there were no gaps in it for him to make the turn. Goddammit, it wouldn’t be long before
the three of them made it out to the intersection or a cab came along.
Poett was pouring sweat; the back of his shirt was stuck to the car seat. He was not going to be the reason the Chechens got away.
“C’mon, go for it,” Troy said between gritted teeth. His MP-5K was resting on his lap.
Spying the slightest of gaps between cars, Poett gave it the gas and leaned on the horn. He made the turn, hearing skidding tires and horns behind him but no sounds of a crash.
Now they were driving on the same side of the street the three Chechens were walking on. The wipers were beating against the windshield. Poett nearly had his nose against the glass so he could see. There they were. Seemed to be in their twenties. No beards.
As Poett came up on them, Troy said, “Normal speed, not too slow.” A metal click as he flicked off the submachine gun’s safety.
The Chechens’ hands were in their jackets. Their faces were grim, as if they were waiting to be halted by lights and bullhorns.
Troy shifted slightly in his seat, left foot braced on the floorboard for the stop. “Now!”
Poett drove his foot onto the brake. Troy and Storey leaned out their respective windows.
Storey’s field of fire was blocked by the roof of a parked car. He grabbed for the door handle.
Troy picked up the nearest one on his front sight and slapped the trigger down. With the suppressor on it was just the metal clacking of the action cycling back and forth. Three-round burst, shift to the next target, three-round burst.
The Chechens had turned sharply at the squeal of tires on wet pavement, but by then it was too late. Two spun and went down, obviously hit. The third? The third had also disappeared from sight.
Storey was out on the street, cutting between two of the cars parked in a tight row along the curb. Trying to stay at least fifteen yards away, the effective casualty radius of the average hand grenade.
He ducked his head underneath the nearest parked car, looking for the telltale sight of legs to point their location out to him. Dammit, the raised curb didn’t let him see anything.
Storey crouch-walked around the back of the car. A flash of movement off to his right. Someone was running for the nearest house. Away from the streetlight it was too dark for Storey to see his sights; he swung his body and the weapon at his shoulder came along like an extension of himself. When his eyes and the barrel caught up with the running figure he fired two fast bursts. The figure stumbled, went down on the grass. Storey fired again. Then he swung back down along the line of the sidewalk. Looked like two of them huddled up behind the car. Storey fired a longer burst into both of them.
Then he heard something metal hit the concrete sidewalk right beside him.
Storey pushed himself up, lunged into the gap between the two parked cars, and dove over the hood of one out into the road, twisting his body in midair to land lengthwise behind the front tire.
The whap and shock wave of a grenade explosion. Dark smoke bloomed up; the blast rocked the car back and forth on its tires.
Storey loved using grenades because they knocked the other guy out of his game plan. He hated being on the receiving end for the same reason. Angry, he jumped back to his feet. He cut back between the two parked cars, changing magazines. Leaning out, he fired another long burst into the two bodies down on the sidewalk, then finished off the magazine on the figure lying on the lawn. Houselights were popping on all along the street. That settled it—no searching bodies and taking fingerprints tonight. Storey jogged back to the car. “Let’s get out of here.”
Poett burned rubber obeying him.
As soon as Storey made his move Troy had automatically stayed in the car to cover the street. Of course he’d noticed that his partner hadn’t given the Chechens the usual final two in the head. “What if someone’s still alive?”
“They can explain everything to the cops,” Storey replied tersely.
Troy leaned over the front seat. “I can’t believe you saw that frag coming in in the dark.”
“I didn’t,” Storey replied. “I heard it. I was just lucky it landed on the sidewalk instead of the dirt.”
“I wish people would stop selling grenades to terrorists.”
“This whole day has been a little less professional than I would have liked,” Storey commented mildly.
Troy just smiled, knowing his partner would keep playing it out in his head until he’d identified every wrong move.
Lund and the other surveillance pair that had been watching the back of the house were already checking out of their hotel rooms. They’d head right to the airport, turn in their rented vehicles, and fly out under diplomatic passports.
Storey, Troy, and Poett dumped the car a mile away, leaving it unlocked and the keys in the ignition to ensure it would be stolen. They transferred to the very last rental car.
“Where to?” Poett asked.
“Just head north,” said Storey. “We’ve got to get rid of some stuff.”
While Poett drove north Storey and Troy broke down the submachine guns. Whenever they saw a sidewalk trash receptacle Troy got out and threw some parts in—a bolt here, a trigger group or magazine there. Since they were a ballistic match with the bullets in the Chechens the MP-5Ks had to go, but Storey didn’t want to make anyone a gift of any intact automatic weapons.
Passing the Praça XV square, Poett turned left onto a side street near the Ordem Terceirao do Carmo church and Troy got rid of the last of the parts.
Poett had been ready for it. He’d been watching it. But it had still jarred the shit out of him. He was glad to be driving, because his hands had been shaking ever since leaving the van. He’d been in the Army for fifteen years and had never seen a weapon fired outside a range or someone killed in front of him. Storey had been out of the car before he’d even processed what was going on.
And he and Troy had already calmed down like nothing had happened. Storey was checking the car floor with a flashlight for anything they might have missed. They didn’t leave anything to chance, and didn’t trust anyone with the crucial details except each other. It pissed Poett off, but it also made him yearn for their respect. Of course, Storey’s compliments were always perfunctory, like he was just making them for the sake of your morale.
The rain had stopped, and clouds had begun to break. As Poett turned the wipers off he chanced to glance up. Christ the Redeemer was looking down on him from atop Hunchback Mountain, the statue lit up like ivory in the night sky.
Troy got back in the car. “That’s it.”
“Good work,” Storey told Poett.
Poett had to chuckle. Yeah, it did sound perfunctory.
“What?” Troy asked him.
That made Poett chuckle even harder. Storey never would have asked that question. If you didn’t want to tell him why you were laughing, and he couldn’t figure it out, then it was none of his business. “Nothing,” he told Troy.
Troy shook his head, and said to Storey, “I’m still tempted to check out that house.”
“And get caught in there when the cops start swarming all over the neighborhood? No thank you. The CIA can go over the house to their heart’s content. If they want to.”
“Ah, the CIA,” said Troy. “What comes next is Ed’s favorite part of every op. Right, Ed?”
“I was thinking of having you do it this time,” said Storey.
“No way,” Troy said happily. “Senior man’s job. Gotta be the senior man.”
Troy’s unconcealed joy had Poett smiling, even though he was in the dark. “What’s he talking about?”
“Happens every time we have to send back a prisoner or some shit in the diplomatic bag,” said Troy. “Didn’t happen in ... our last job, but that was a special case. Happens everywhere else. And it’s going to happen this morning.”
“What?” Poett demanded.
“Ed gets his ass reamed by the CIA Chief of Station,” said Troy. “If you could bet it in Vegas, we’d all be retired now.”
“The
Chief of Station’s at the main embassy in Brasília,” Storey lectured. “This one’s just a lower-ranking guy who runs their shop at the consulate here.”
“Is that better, or worse?” Poett asked.
“Worse,” said Storey. “The Chief of Station pisses on your leg just to get it out of his system. Lower level pisses on your leg thinking you’re actually going to do what they say.”
“And since you ain’t going to do what he tells you,” Troy added, “you might as well wear your wet-suit bottoms.”
“Can I come along?” Poett asked. It sounded like something to see.
“He’s already met me,” said Storey. “I don’t want him getting a look at anyone else.”
Troy said, “If he had a shit fit when you dropped Jan Mohammad in his lap, this is going to be a thousand times worse.”
“He weren’t too pleased then,” Storey confirmed. “And he won’t be now.”
The head case officer in the Rio Consulate was posing as one of the commercial attachés. The name on his office door was Crozier. In such circumstances that was usually the truth.
Storey got to the embassy at 8:00 A.M. The CIA guy rolled in around 9:30. And kept Storey cooling his heels until 10:30.
Crozier was in his mid-thirties. Mustache. Soft. The kind that looked like he smoked a pipe, whether he did or not. Just the sight of Storey back at the consulate was enough to get him going. Because his Chief of Station had been, to put it mildly, very upset to hear that the military had dropped off his al-Qaeda counterpart in a basket on his doorstep, with everything except a note pinned to it saying he needed a good home. That had not been a happy call over the secure phone.
Then he had to tell his Chief of Station that this Army Sergeant, who seemed to be making a career out of embarrassing Chiefs of Station all around the world, had lost his CIA surveillance ten minutes after leaving the consulate by the simple expedient of turning in his rental car with the CIA-installed tracker and disappearing into the streets. That was an even worse phone call.
The Enemy Inside Page 18
