by Rick Mofina
“Batente!”
The figures were moving faster, Gannon’s breathing quickened and he started a fast trot.
“Policia! Batente agora!”
His heart pounding, Gannon ran from the alley.
Don’t let the police get near you.
He cut across a busy street to a large hotel, entered the lobby and rushed through it, finding a rear exit that opened to an ornate gurgling fountain, which led to a plaza.
Sirens echoed through the city.
Were they for him?
Fueled by adrenaline, he kept moving.
Without looking back he hurried around the plaza’s statues. Two or three blocks away, the lights of a theater, nightclubs and restaurants glittered in the dusk. He slipped into the crowds on the sidewalk and made his way toward the restaurants until he saw a taxi.
The driver was in his fifties, wearing a white cap. Gannon neared the cab, pointing at it then himself. The driver nodded, making the small silver cross on the chain around his neck sway a little.
“Hotel de nove palmas,” Gannon said after getting in the back.
The taxi pulled away. No police were in sight.
As Gannon’s breathing settled, he analyzed the situation. All he’d done was gather trash from a public street in an unsealed area near a crime scene.
Still, if Estralla learned of it, it would be disastrous.
Gannon dragged the back of his hand over his moist brow and glimpsed the driver’s eyes studying him in the rearview mirror. Gannon felt a small ache in his right hand. He was still gripping the papers, a sheaf nearly half an inch thick.
As the cab worked its way through Centro, Gannon inserted his earpiece into his digital recorder and played Gabriela’s last message, cuing up the key aspect.
“…I got a call from an anonymous woman who claims to have a big story and documents for us. I set up a meeting at the Cafe Amaldo…”
Gannon replayed “and documents for us,” several times.
If Gabriela met her source, and if that source brought records, then it’s possible the blast scattered some of them to the street.
Those documents could be in his hands now.
A few of the papers were charred. Some had burned edges.
They had to have come from the blast.
Gannon caught his breath when he stopped at one page.
It looked like it was smeared with blood.
As soon as he got to his hotel room he started working.
This wouldn’t be easy. The papers were in Portuguese. He set them out on the desk and switched on his laptop. Some papers had letterheads, some looked like spread sheets, sales records, membership lists, business correspondence.
He typed phrases into free online language services and translated what he could into English. It gave him a sense of what each record was. When he found pages that obviously belonged together, he grouped them. The documents were from computer companies, law firms, banks, churches. It was meticulous work but he kept at it until exhaustion overtook him and he went to bed.
7
Big Cloud, Wyoming
A continent away, Emma Lane was plunging through darkness with her eyes closed, her thinking unclear.
They’re gone, Emma.
Nooooo…
Joe and Tyler are with the angels now.
She was trapped in a nightmare.
There was a flash, a scream on a rushing wind, then her world vanished and she floated out of herself but came back to now.
Emma smelled the antiseptic smell of a hospital. A faint message echoed on the PA and she sensed laundered linen, a pillow under her head. She was thirsty, and her head ached as her mind streaked with images: of a perfect day, of driving to the river for a picnic, of Joe and Tyler laughing.
Let me stay here with them.
She struggled to hold the images but couldn’t.
Joe’s smile disappears…their SUV swerves to miss the car coming at them head-on…their SUV rolls…Emma is thrown… Tyler’s strapped inside…Joe’s hurt…Emma reaches for him, touches him, feels Joe die…then in the chaos someone’s pulling Tyler clear before the inferno…
No!
They’re gone, Emma.
The nurses.
Joe and Tyler are with the angels.
That’s what the nurses had been whispering so that when Emma regained consciousness, she would have absorbed the horror: that her husband and baby boy died in the crash.
“No! No! No!”
Emma’s eyelids fluttered open. She bolted upright, eyes bulging, her face a mask of cuts, bruises, fear, her arms reaching out.
“Tyler!”
A nurse and doctor moved to calm her. The room tensed with concern before it vibrated with a deafening keening.
“Oh, God!”
“Easy, dear, easy,” the nurse said.
“Where is my baby? Give me my baby!”
“Emma, take it easy. Lay back, sweetie,” the nurse soothed her as she and the doctor gently forced her back down on the bed and prepared a hypodermic needle. Emma saw the tubes taped to her arm, the monitor on her finger tip, felt the tube under her nose, saw the IV line. She had no physical pain, just medicated muzziness.
It did not happen.
Yes, it did.
The monstrous truth stared back from the eyes of the people in her room: the nurse, the doctor, another medical person, Emma’s aunt Marsha and uncle Ned from Des Moines?
“Oh, Emma. When the police called, we got on the first plane.” Her aunt bent down and hugged her. “We’re so sorry.”
“We’re going to get through this.” Uncle Ned, the retired Marine, who had Semper Fi tattooed on his forearm and smelled of Old Spice, patted her hand. “We’ll get you through.”
The doctor shone a flashlight in Emma’s eyes, uncollared his stethoscope and pressed it to her chest. “You were in a terrible car accident but, fortunately, your physical injuries are relatively minor. You’ve got a concussion, bruised ribs and abrasions.” He injected something into Emma’s IV. “You’re undergoing trauma. Your husband and son did not survive the accident. I’m so sorry. We’ve got someone here to help you.”
“No. I saw someone rescue Tyler.”
Silence fell over the room.
“Where are you keeping Tyler? Bring him to me.”
The doctor, the nurse, her aunt Marsha and uncle Ned exchanged glances, then looked to the other medical staff member in the white coat.
“Emma, I’m Dr. Kendrix, I’m a psychiatrist. I’m here to help you with the deaths of your husband and son. You’ve suffered a cataclysmic loss, Emma, and we’re going to help you.”
“Stop!”
Emma held up her palms, and the tubes tethered to her arms trembled. Everyone was taken aback by the unyielding ferocity burning in her eyes.
“I know Joe is dead. I know that. I held his hand. I felt him die. I know he didn’t suffer. Oh, God!” Her voice quavered, but she cupped her hands to her face then removed them and continued. “But my son is not dead!”
“Emma-” Aunt Marsha stepped closer.
“No! Someone rescued him just before the fire. I saw it happen.”
“Emma,” Uncle Ned said. “That’s not how it happened, you have to accept that.”
“No!”
“Emma-” Dr. Kendrix sat on the corner of her bed “-according to the troopers, Tyler remained buckled in his car seat. Now sometimes-”
“You’re wrong!”
“Okay. It’s okay. Your anger is justified,” Kendrix said, “but sometimes, Emma, the mind in shock, facing overwhelming trauma, denies the unthinkable when it happens.”
Emma buried her face in her hands as her aunt took her shoulders and held her.
“I want proof,” Emma said.
“Proof?”
“I want proof that Tyler died in the crash.”
Kendrix searched Emma’s face as he weighed her demand. It was not unreasonable. In fact, it was not uncommon.
“All
right.”
“But, Doctor-” Emma’s aunt was apprehensive “-don’t you think it’s too soon. I mean…” She hesitated. “It’s just too soon.”
“I understand your concern,” Kendrix said to her. “These things are never easy, but in this case, given the circumstances, I think it’s warranted.”
He turned to Emma.
“All right, you’ve had a lot to deal with. We’ll take care of it after you’ve rested.”
8
Fairfax County, Virginia
While Emma Lane rested in Wyoming and Gannon slept in Brazil, Robert Lancer was hard at work in metropolitan Washington, D.C.
He undid his collar button and studied a file while walking down a third-floor corridor of the National Anti-Threat Center. The complex sat amid the wooded suburbs northwest of the capital.
In this building, behind the bullet and blast-proof windows, hundreds of security experts from a spectrum of government branches worked 24/7 analyzing threats to national security.
Lancer re-read his file on his way to the center’s East Africa section, hoping that this latest “urgent” interruption warranted pulling him away from his other duties.
He reached the section’s locked door, swiped his card, then punched the alphanumeric code into the keypad.
Access approval beeped, and he entered.
The room glowed in the light from the screens and computerized GPS maps suspended above a bank of modular desks where several analysts were entering data into computer keyboards.
Martin Weller, the section chief, was updating his staff and paused when he saw Lancer arrive.
“Bob, thanks for coming. I know you’ve got plenty on your plate.”
“What’ve you got, Marty?”
“Not sure. Pull it up, Craig.”
An analyst entered some commands on his keyboard and photos of a man in his late twenties filled one of the large monitors.
An arrest photo.
“This is Said Salelee, a painter who lives near Msasani Bay, one of the poorer sections of Dar es Salaam.”
“Our people in Tanzania called this in?”
“One of the local nationals employed at our embassy reported him acting strangely outside the gate.”
“The sheet says he was taking pictures and making notes?”
“He was doing it for several days. The staffer told her boss, who alerted the Ministry of Home Affairs and the national police picked him up. Turns out he’s linked to the Avenging Lions of Africa.”
“How did they discover that?”
“They threatened to feed him his testicles.”
Staring at Salelee’s face, Lancer, one of the center’s leading senior operational agents, weighed matters. The mission of the Avenging Lions of Africa was to make developed nations suffer for enslaving Africa in poverty. Regionally, the Lions had been linked to bombings, shootings and hostage takings in Kagera, Pemba North, Kigoma and Zanzibar. Lancer had considered them minor league until last year when they attacked the British Embassy in Cairo.
Cairo.
That was a psychological trigger for Lancer.
Ten years earlier, everything in his world went black in Cairo. His wife, his daughter, his life, all changed in Cairo. Since then not a day passed without a word, fragrance or other mundane matter ripping open his wound.
It would never go away.
But Lancer always rode it out, always focused on his work. His determination deepened because he had a personal stake in the job.
Now, everything he did, he did for them.
He flipped through the pages of classified situational reports on Salelee. The CIA and State Department tied the Lions to funding operations through drug networks, human trafficking and Internet fraud.
As he studied Salelee, Lancer thought back to 1998 when terrorists bombed the U.S. embassies in Nairobi, Kenya and Dar es Salaam, foreshadowing September 11, 2001.
Never underestimate any piece of intelligence.
“All right, Marty,” Lancer said, “where are we at with Salelee?”
“The Tanzanians have been going at him for two days-nothing to eat but bread and water, no sleep, not to mention a few other methods that are not pretty.”
“They’re compensating for moving too quickly in picking him up,” Lancer said. “They should have put surveillance on him.”
“They were eager to help. Today, our people in Dar es Salaam set up a satellite link in the interview room. Since the original complaint involves U.S. property, Tanzanian officials have invited us to ask Salelee questions. They think he could be ready to talk. Craig, are they set?”
An analyst talking on a landline nodded.
“Bob, as you know, Craig is fluent in Kiswahili. Ask your questions, and he’ll repeat them to the police in Dar es Salaam.”
“Fine,” Lancer said, “but I don’t expect much. Besides, when you’re aggressive, a prisoner will most likely give you bullshit intelligence.”
Within minutes a clear satellite link was activated. In a stark room, a number of men stood around a seated figure whose hands and ankles were bound to the chair. Salelee’s face was a stew of swollen cuts that forced his eyes shut. His body sagged with exhaustion.
For nearly forty minutes, the local police questioned Salelee.
There was the drone of Kiswahili with Craig translating quickly and softly. Watching and listening, Lancer noticed two landline phones on the table in the room in Dar es Salaam; one in use that was connected to Craig’s line, and a second one not in use.
Lancer thought of strategy, mulling it over as the questioning went on.
“What is your interest in the embassy, Salelee?”
“I told you it is painting. I am a poor painter working hard to support my wife and children. I had learned the Americans want to paint the building. I was sizing up the job to offer-”
“Tell us the truth.”
“I am.”
“We know you are with the Lions.”
“No, I attended a meeting, that is it.”
“Do not lie to us, Salelee, you’re a leader.”
“No, I am a poor painter from Msasani. I have a family-”
Lancer waved Weller over, pointed at the screen and asked about the second phone in the room.
“Can we call into the room and make that phone ring?”
Weller whispered to Craig, who checked his computer, then nodded.
“Call in,” Lancer said. “When it’s answered, explain who we are, then tell the man to say aloud for Salelee’s benefit, ‘hold everything, something has happened.’”
Craig dialed and within ten seconds the line rang.
On the screen one of the interrogators moved to answer in Kiswahili, and Craig spoke Lancer’s words. The man in the room repeated them aloud in Kiswahili.
“Now tell him to say to Salelee that police have arrested the others and they’re revealing everything about the plan. You, Salelee, are implicated. They fear you have exposed them already.”
The man came back to the phone.
“Tell him to say ‘This is bad for you, Salelee, very bad. Your friends have moved quickly to implicate you. You’ll suffer the most.’”
Salelee’s head bowed.
“Tell the man on the line to keep the line open. Tell Salelee now is the time to save himself. We will send people to his house to get his wife and children, for their safety, because the others think Salelee’s betrayed them.”
A moment passed before Salelee began nodding.
“He says, ‘I will give you some information on a different plan, but you must protect my family,’” Craig translated.
Lancer crossed his arms and stepped closer to the screen.
“Tell Salelee to tell them now, for the safety of his family.”
The Tanzanian cop repeated the words.
“He says, ‘First, let me talk to my wife on the telephone.’”
The Tanzanian cops, on the earlier advice of the Americans, had already placed Salelee’s
wife in custody in another office within the building where she sat now with two police officers. The cops with Salelee telephoned her, allowing Salelee to hear her plea for him to cooperate for the sake of their children.
Salelee was prepared to cooperate.
“What was he really doing at the embassy?” Lancer wanted to know. The Tanzanian police asked him.
“The Lions wanted information to target it for a bombing operation on the Independence Day as declared by the Lions.”
“That is not the full plan, what is the operation?”
“It is a separate operation.”
“What is it?” Lancer asked Craig, who conveyed the question.
“An attack,” Salelee said.
“How do the Lions know of this attack?”
“We have a small role.”
“What is that role?”
“We passed coded e-mails, spam, lottery announcements and appeals for large cash transfers. Information relating to the operation is hidden in a few of the millions of spam we send out around the world.”
“What is the nature of the operation?”
“An attack.”
“An attack against the United States?”
“Yes.”
“Any other countries?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Many, most countries.”
“And the weapon is through computers-cyber?”
“No, some of the communication from one group to another is through the spam. We know nothing of the weapon.”
“Who is behind it?”
“We don’t know. We were paid great sums through gobetweens.”
“Who are they?”
“We don’t know.”
“What is the weapon-is it planes?”
“No.”
“Bombs? Suicide bombings?”
“No.”
“Hostage takings?”
“No.”
“Nuclear or chemical, what is the weapon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is behind it?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will the attack take place?”
“Soon.”
“When? Days? Weeks? Months?”
“They told us that it is too far along for anyone to stop them.”
