“Whether they did or they didn’t,” said Timmins, “it’s out of yours and my hands right now.”
Just then Karen the Spook walked up and said, “Excuse me, Ben, but I need to speak with Beth for a minute.”
“No problem, Karen,” said Timmins. “I was just finished.”
Seeing Karen’s move, Dewberry took the opportunity to join them, saying, “What’s going on?”
“Excuse us for a minute, Sondra,” Karen said pleasantly, taking Beth by the arm.
“What’s up?” Dewberry asked Timmins.
“Nothing,” Timmins replied. “But I recommend you don’t go over to those two until they finish talking.”
“You and your fucking bat ears,” Beth said once they were out of earshot. “Or are you doing this electronically?”
“Just part of my continuing effort to keep you out of trouble,” said Karen.
“Good luck,” said Beth.
“I often feel that way,” said Karen.
Beth gestured angrily at the scene. “It’s like Groundhog Day, it just keeps happening over and over again. Can’t anyone in this organization make a right decision, except by accident?”
“Nobody’s really a bad guy here,” Karen observed. “They all think they’re making the right call. They’re just making it according to a different set of criteria than you.”
“Yeah, as idiots.”
“Not necessarily. No one’s a dummy. Well, most of them anyway.”
“Assholes?”
“That’s not quite ...”
“Idiot assholes?”
“No,” said Karen. “Good street agents like to work the streets—not become supervisors. So management is always going to be a breed apart. You can’t be surprised when bureaucratic politicians make decisions according to the rules of bureaucratic politics.”
“They’re screwing up by the numbers.”
“Not with that particular goal in mind. They’re organization men, and women, who made their rank by acting like the organization men who selected them. They’re thinking about the Beslan school siege in Russia, and they don’t care about anything except making sure something like that doesn’t happen on their watch.”
“Well, that makes all the difference in the world. By the way, are you still working on your thesis?”
“No. Why?”
“It just sounded like it,” said Beth. “I try not to care about what they do, but I can’t help it. And now they’re putting my C.I. in danger.”
“So what?” said Karen.
Beth was taken aback by that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean: so what. He’s not your friend, he’s your Joe.”
“I love it when you use those CIA spy terms.”
Karen was totally serious. “Your C.I. is a scumbag. If he was a decent, law-abiding American he wouldn’t be your confidential informant. Feeling sympathy for the guy helps you run him well, but don’t get carried away. You run an agent to gather good intelligence, not so you can dance at their retirement party. You run them like a professional, but you always have to use them and every now and then you have to risk them. And whatever happens, happens.”
“Sometimes I forget you haven’t always been an analyst.”
“Just remember what happened to those FBI agents in Boston who forgot they were supposed to be running criminals as informants and got run by them instead. Keep your perspective.”
“Okay, I will. Now tell me what kind of intelligence we’re getting off this seizure?”
“I don’t want to extrapolate too much. This could be one piece of a bigger, multipart shipment. Or the Russians might be selling off parts of this to more than one buyer.”
“Jesus, Karen, now you’re starting to sound like the bosses, always equivocating. What do you think?”
“Okay. I think this looks like a complete assault package for twenty men. Sixteen AKs. Two Dragunov SVD sniper rifles with the whole kit: telescopic sight, night scope, and the special Russian 7.62mm sniper ammo. Two PKM machine guns. Two RPG-7 rocket launchers. Ammo and accessories for all the weapons, including RGD-5 hand grenades. And two SA-14 surface-to-air missile launchers, shoulder-fired heat seekers.”
“I thought the next thing they’d try would be suicide bombers,” said Beth.
“Twenty men can do a lot of damage with all that ordnance.”
“Can the weapons mix tell us anything about the mission?”
“No,” said Karen. “You could use that package for anything from ambushing a limousine to raiding a nuclear power plant to shooting down a helicopter or a plane.”
“Super.”
“All the weapons and ammo are Russian manufacture. Probably from the Ukraine, but could just as easily be Belarus or Russia proper. You pay off the right colonel, all you have to do is drive onto the base, stop off at the armory and ammo magazines, and pick out what you want. It’s going to take a while to trace this container back to point of origin and get a picture of their smuggling technique. If we can, that is. Russians haven’t been too helpful lately. What does your guy say?”
“He’s not all the way into the group yet, but he is hosting the meetings and parties. They’re still a little skittish about talking in front of him, but they do talk. The video and microphones caught two of them sitting off by themselves talking about meeting with some Russians, so we followed them to the meeting and found the Russians. Russian mafia, of course. We couldn’t hear what the meeting was about, but it was enough to get a warrant. And those Russians like to talk in their cars. We got lucky and heard about this shipment. The Russians run a bunch of small businesses to launder money, including a trucking company and a metal broker, which is where these ingots were heading to. It’ll be closed and empty by tonight.”
“That electronic surveillance was a nice touch. Is your C.I. still giving you straight reporting?”
“So far.”
“Still, it’s good intelligence work. You FBI gumshoes are learning. It never comes in on a platter. You have to pick out the thread and tease it out bit by bit.”
“We live for the CIA’s approval,” said Beth. “But it just raises a bunch of new questions. Are the twenty guys already in the country and ready to go? Are they from outside, or are they part of this California group that went to Pakistan for training? And do these Russian mobsters have enough guns already salted away somewhere so they can fill this order anyway?”
“All great questions,” said Karen. “And all ones I can’t answer. At least now.”
“Hope we have time.”
“We’re already past the 9/11 anniversary.”
“And I don’t think Halloween is a significant event,” said Beth. “But we all know what happens the first Tuesday in November.”
“Election Day. God forgive me, but let’s hope it’s the Inauguration, if only to give us more time.”
“Seems like only the worst-case scenario ever comes to pass.”
The events of the day had Beth seriously dejected, and Karen hated to see her that way. “Speaking of worst case. We’re getting into the playoffs and you haven’t put your World Series bet down yet. What’s it going to be?”
Karen loved making her bet on sporting events. Not money, just something evil and humiliating for the loser. When Karen’s Redskins beat Beth’s Patriots in a regular season game the past year, Beth had to dress up in a red cowboy hat and boots and ride the mechanical bull at a cowboy bar. And almost lost her handgun when she got bucked off.
But revenge had been sweet when the Patriots won the Super Bowl. A Redskins season ticket holder, Karen was going to have to attend this year’s home game against the Cowboys wearing a white leather cowgirl skirt, vest, boots, and gloves, all trimmed in blue fringe. And a white cowboy hat. And a large blue star painted on each cheek. And give up her husband’s ticket so Beth could watch.
“I think it’s the Cardinals this year,” said Beth.
“The Bostonian isn’t betting on the Red Sox?”
“That you would ask such a question only reveals the depth of your ignorance. We might live and die with the Sox. We might bleed Red Sox red. But no New Englander is going to bet on them to win the World Series. You just can’t do that. Killing the Yankees was miracle enough. So I have to pick the Cards.”
“In that case I have to pick the Red Sox.”
“You’re picking the Red Sox to win the World Series?”
“Why not?”
“Okay,” Beth said quickly. “It’s a bet.”
“What exactly is the bet?”
“Let’s say next season we go to New York for a weekend when there’s a Yankees-Sox series. You have to buy the tickets. Bleacher tickets will be fine. And you have to sit in the bleachers wearing a Red Sox hat and jersey.”
“That can’t be any worse than dressing up as a Cowboy fan in Washington.”
“Of course it can’t,” said Beth, fighting to be convincing. “And your bet?”
“I’ll let you know. I’ve got to think about it.”
“Bitch. The CIA picked you for that evil mind, didn’t they?”
“You better believe it. And if the FBI had known about yours, they wouldn’t have picked you. Bitch.”
Chapter Fifteen
After the call from Rio, Abdallah Karim Nimri sat on the wooden bench twirling the cell phone between his fingers.
God, all praise to Him, never ceased testing His servants. It was maddening. Everything was an irritant. A disaster in the making in Brazil. Another in America. Sitting in this park, under almost leafless palms, surrounded by huge fiberglass sculptures of pagan Mexican gods that seemed to be poking their heads up from the grass between the brick walkways. Idolatry and graven images, as if God felt he needed to be reminded of being surrounded by evil in these infidel lands. He almost felt as if the Los Zetas driver had brought him here intentionally. Even the furnace heat, which did not irritate him but instead made him homesick for Egypt, a feeling he had not had for a long time.
And the United States was just over the international bridge, one street away, almost close enough to touch.
Nimri stared at his phone, thinking. Then he dialed a number in Monterrey. Acmed, the Mexico coordinator, picked up after one ring.
“There is a compromise in Brazil,” said Nimri. “I will not discuss how I know, but it has happened. Is there anything there that can link to here? No? I told the brother in Brazil nothing but his mission—if he somehow learned more tell me now. You are sure? Good.”
Then something occurred to him. “Was there any connection between Brazil and the brother in Paraguay?” Listening, Nimri’s anger flared up. “Why was I not told of this? Enough excuses. Notify the last four in Europe and tell them they will not be needed. No. And cut all links to Brazil—no contact at all. What? Do you wish to go there? I did not think so. In any case, no one who has any knowledge of this task is to travel to Brazil, even to change planes. What? Call them if you wish, they will not answer. If they do? Then send tickets for the soonest flight back to Europe. Then change your location and never use that phone again. Yes, not where you are now, and not Mexico City. Yes, the next number. I will call you if I need you. You are ordered not to call me again. Yes, computer only. Go to a place of safety and take precautions. Very good. God be with you, brother.”
Nimri turned off the phone and smashed it down on top of the bench, startling a little old lady who had been shuffling by. The fool. Not to tell him about the connection between the coordinators of Brazil and Paraguay. If he had known, then after the incident in Paraguay he would have brought all new people into Brazil to run the operation. Especially after what had happened in Thailand the previous year.
He had first thought that Paraguay had been the work of the Iranians. Or that the brothers there had somehow run afoul of one of the criminal or narcotics gangs while doing business.
But it was now clear that it had been the Americans all along. They had been clever in their methods to buy themselves more time to track him down. After his last operation he had sworn off the use of satellite telephones. And now they had used the brothers in Rio to trick him into revealing himself again. Devils.
And now the seizure of the weapons in Los Angeles. Another compromise? He had never been happy with relying on American brothers. That had always been the weak link in the plan. Perhaps they were communicating to him under American control? He could not take the chance. Fortunately, they knew nothing of the objective.
His choices were also clear: cancel the operation or alter his plan.
To be so close and cancel? Unthinkable. Every day, every setback was a sign of God testing the worthiness of His believers. All praise to God. To show fear, to show doubt, was to tempt His judgment.
Then the plan must be changed. They no longer had the luxury of time. Or of complication. Fortunately, he had learned from the past and built that flexibility into his plan.
Nimri sat on the bench and planned it all out. He wrote nothing down. He never wrote anything down. The Americans had captured too many brothers with their diaries and their computers.
As the day’s heat rose shimmering into the air the park and surrounding streets emptied of people. It was time for Zuhr, the noon prayer, but Nimri knew he could not pray in public. God would forgive whoever marched to war in the earth in His name for neglecting his prayers. God was ever merciful.
Hovering nearby were Nimri’s driver and bodyguard, both young Los Zetas. Hungry for their lunch, longing for siesta, anxious with responsibility for their charge. They had been told what would happen to them if anything happened to the Arab.
Finally Nimri rose and walked to the car. The driver and bodyguard fell in with him front and back. “La casa,” Nimri said.
Returning to the safe house, he sought out Temiraev. He found him in front of the television surrounded by his men and the Los Zetas guards. Every day they had to watch a Mexican soap opera that, Temiraev had explained to him, was also incredibly popular in Russia. Bizarre. Through enormous effort the Chechens had surmounted the language barrier in order to get updates on the current condition of their favorite characters from the Mexicans.
Nimri could care less, as long as it kept them occupied. But now he could do with a little less devotion. He caught Temiraev’s eye and motioned him out of the room. Temiraev pointed to the screen. Nimri signaled the urgency.
Temiraev shook his head and snapped out an order to the Chechen sitting beside him. Probably to keep him updated on the plot.
Picking his way through the bodies, Temiraev met Nimri at the doorway. “Is this important, my brother?” he said crossly in Arabic.
Nimri motioned for him to follow. They went upstairs to one of the bedrooms, which was currently unoccupied for the duration of the soap opera but carpeted with inflatable mattresses and piles of clothing. Nimri made a mental note to get them to clean up the room.
They sat cross-legged side by side on an air mattress. Literally mouth to ear, since Nimri did not want to be overheard. “A problem in Brazil,” he whispered.
“What has happened?” Temiraev asked calmly.
Nimri had to think of the future before giving his answer, weighing what words might come back to haunt him. “The coordinator has not returned to the house for two days. The brothers called the emergency number.”
“Defected, captured, or run away?” Temiraev asked.
“Only God knows,” Nimri replied.
“What will you do?”
“I have given the order for the four brothers still in Europe not to come.”
“And the four in Brazil now?”
Nimri had given careful thought to what to tell him. “They have been ordered to the airport. Tickets have been purchased for them to return to Europe.”
Now Temiraev surprised him. “If they have been discovered, they will lead the Americans back to my family in Antwerp. And then perhaps Russia also. All could be lost.”
“I could not give that order on my own, my brother. If you des
ire it, I will do so now.”
Temiraev might as well have been discussing the characters on the soap opera. “We have no choice.”
“Very well.”
“What of our operation?”
Nimri was on firmer ground now. “We will still go. But I will step up the timetable and make a few changes.”
“What changes, my brother?”
It was less of a question than a statement, and Nimri recognized the unspoken threat in his voice. Handling Chechens was like making your own nitroglycerine. “Speaking to you frankly, I desire to cut the American operatives completely out of the operation. All except the one in Texas.”
“Can you do that?”
“It depends on the Mexicans. If they agree, and give me the answers I hope for, we will leave here very soon. We may even be able to do a rehearsal or two before.”
“Good.” Temiraev grabbed Nimri’s arm in that iron grip. “Very good. Is there anything else?”
“Not now.”
The words had barely left his mouth when Temiraev rushed off to return to his program. Nimri shook his head. All was on his shoulders alone, as it ever had been.
The Los Zeta responsible for the safe house was Rafael, who had taken Nimri across the border previously. Nimri found him sitting in the shade of the back portico, sipping from a brown bottle of beer that was sweating much more than he.
“Have you eaten?” he asked Nimri. Los Zetas had imported several women to do the cooking and cleaning for the house. The women told him they had never seen anything like these Muslims, who did much praying but no flirting.
Nimri shook his head.
“You should have something,” said Rafael. “I thought these men of yours would find our food strange, but they each have the appetite of four.”
“They have been hungry enough times to appreciate any food,” said Nimri.
“The mark of a soldier,” said Rafael. “A pity I cannot speak the language of the leader among them. He seems a man of much experience and many stories. I think I would enjoy sharing a bottle with him. Except you Muslims do not drink, of course.”
The Enemy Inside Page 20
