by Tom Clancy
“None so far, but you got it. And if you’ve read my report, you know I haven’t met Zúñiga yet, so I can’t tell you if he knows who’s running the cartel. I’ve asked Luis, but he doesn’t know.”
“Okay,” answered Moore.
Since Fitzpatrick had already done an excellent job of penetrating and reconnoitering the Sinaloa Cartel, he took over for a few minutes, describing that cartel’s operation, its assets, and its desire to usurp the Juárez Cartel and its stranglehold on the more desirable border crossing areas. But this was information already contained within his report, and he was embellishing as he went.
“Mr. Moore, we don’t know much about your ops in Pakistan,” said Towers, after Fitzpatrick had taken his seat. “They’ve given us the file on Tito Llamas, the guy who turned up in a trunk in Pakistan.”
“I saw that,” answered Moore. “He’s our first link. The cartel’s buying more opium from Afghanistan, but we’re not sure why Llamas was sent there. His death might’ve put a dent in their relationship.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“I can’t imagine any cartel willing to let terrorists cross the border into the United States,” said Vega. “Why would you let them kill all your best customers and risk massive retaliation from the U.S.?”
“What about Zúñiga?” Moore asked, turning to Fitzpatrick. “You think he might want to help Taliban guys get through, just to hurt the Juárez Cartel?”
“No way. From what Luis has said, this has been discussed at length. I don’t think any member of any cartel would aid or abet known terrorists. It’d have to be an independent coyote group, guys just in it for a quick score. Something like that. But the cartels have a good handle on those guides. They usually don’t make a move without the cartel knowing about it.”
“Well, then, I can go home,” said Moore with a slight grin. “Because the cartels are protecting our borders from terrorist threats so we can keep buying their drugs.”
“Whoa, slow down there, dude,” said Towers, grinning over the irony. “So the cartels might not willingly help, but the Taliban or Al-Qaeda could enter by force.”
Fitzpatrick sighed in frustration. “All I can say is they’d better bring some big guns — because every time the Sinaloas get into it with the Juárez guys, we always lose.”
“Don’t kid yourselves. The terrorists are already here. They’re all around us. Sleeper cells are just waiting to strike,” said Vega.
“She’s right,” said Fitzpatrick.
“Oh, happy day,” said Moore, with a grunt.
“All right, people, we’ll take it one step at a time. I’ve got some big assets to call in if we need them; otherwise, our limited size and scope is what gives us the advantage. Ansara, we’ll start you off in Calexico. See if you can win over some mules for our team. Agents at the checkpoint there confiscated nearly one million dollars’ worth of coke and marijuana just last week. The cartel hid the stuff in a secret compartment built into the dash, probably the most sophisticated thing we’ve seen. You needed a remote and an access code to open the secret panel. Pretty amazing stuff. They even wrapped the drugs in a layer of hot sauce to try to throw off the dogs. That’s the level of sophistication we’re dealing with here. Vega, you’re going in deep. You know the drill. Flexxx, you just get back home to Zúñiga. Whittaker, you’re heading back home to Minnesota. And that just leaves you, Mr. Moore.”
He grinned. “Let’s lock and load. Next stop: Mexico.”
12 ALLIES AND ENEMIES
Aéroport Paris — Charles de Gaulle
Terminal 1
Ahmad Leghari was a member of the Punjabi Taliban, and he was scheduled to meet up with Mullah Abdul Samad in Colombia. Leghari was twenty-six and dressed in conservative slacks, a silk shirt, and a light jacket. He had one carry-on backpack and had already checked through one other suitcase. He carried nothing suspicious in his luggage. His credentials had been in order, and no one had confronted him thus far. The woman at the check-in desk had actually been friendly and had tolerated his rudimentary French, even after he’d been warned about the airport’s reputation for overworked and rude employees. Moreover, there was no reason to believe he was on America’s no-fly list. His confidence in this regard was justified. The list of roughly nine thousand names was publicly criticized as costly, riddled with false positives, and easily defeated. Numerous children, many under five and some under one, appeared on the list. Conversely, the list had failed to detect terrorist Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, the NWA flight 253 bomber, and Faisal Shahzad, the Times Square car bomber, in a timely manner. The most notable false positive was the late Senator Edward “Ted” Kennedy. The listing “T. Kennedy” caused the politician considerable inconvenience and aggravation when flying. The fact that “Ted” was a nickname, not the senator’s real name, didn’t seem to matter. Kennedy finally got relief by going directly to the director of Homeland Security, an option not available to the average citizen, and a fact publicly noted by the senator himself.
How people got on the list was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, with only pieces of information revealed during American congressional hearings. However, the Taliban had pieced together a working analysis of how some of their people wound up on that list. A first step might be having law enforcement or an intelligence agent glean information and submit it to the National Counterterrorism Center in Virginia, nicknamed Liberty Crossing, where it was entered into a classified database known as the Terrorist Identities Datamart Environment (TIDE). That information was then data-mined to connect dots and hunt for names and identities. If that process yielded more results, then the intelligence would be passed on to the Terrorist Screening Center, also in Virginia, for more analysis. Each day more than three hundred names were sent to the center. If, at that point, a suspect’s information caused a “reasonable suspicion,” he might wind up on the FBI’s terrorist watchlist used by airport security personnel to add extra screening for some travelers, but yes, he could still fly. The Taliban had discovered that in order for someone to get on the actual no-fly list, authorities had to have their full names, their ages, and information that they were a threat to aviation or national security. While the Taliban couldn’t confirm it, they’d heard that the final decision for adding a name to the list rested with six administrators from the Transportation Safety Administration (TSA). Even if placed on the no-fly list, some suspects were still permitted to travel with escorts, and unless wanted for a specific crime, many on the list who attempted to fly were simply stopped at the gate, quarantined, questioned, and ultimately released.
Suspects might also be placed on the “selectee list,” which automatically had them passing through extra screening measures if they met certain criteria that might include booking a one-way flight, paying cash for tickets, making reservations on the same day as their flight, and flying without an ID.
Leghari had been training for this trip for nearly nine months, memorizing the layout of the terminal, considering what people would say to him and how he would react. He’d spent the better part of his life in Dera Ghazi Khan, a poverty-stricken frontier town in the Punjab Province with a growing phalanx of hard-line religious schools.
His parents were veterans of Pakistan’s state-sponsored insurgency against Indian forces in Kashmir until pressure from the United States forced then-president Pervez Musharraf to withdraw support for the Punjabi group. His parents were forced to flee to the tribal areas, where they deepened their ties with the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. Leghari was left behind with relatives.
This, more than anything else, drove the embittered boy to the local madrassa led by Muhammad Ismail Gul, a recruiting center for the banned Punjabi Lashkar-i-Jhangvi Taliban group.
Leghari took a deep breath and stepped into the hexagonal-shaped millimeter wave full-body scanner. The airport had been testing the controversial technology for months on all passengers of United States — bound flights but had more recently broadened its scope of use. Leghari was i
nstructed to raise his arms, then moving plates simultaneously beamed extremely high-frequency (EHF) radio waves at the front and back of his body. The reflected energy produced an image interpreted by security. He was, of course, not carrying liquids, sharp objects, or anything that would trigger an alarm.
However, as he was shifting down a corridor of polished steel and glass and following large yellow signs, he was accosted by two men in dark blue uniforms, along with the friendly check-in agent from the desk.
“Is that him?” they asked her in English.
“Oui.”
The taller man said something to him that Ahmad did not fully understand, but a few words chilled him: U.S. Customs and Border Protection Immigration Advisory. One of the patches on the man’s uniform displayed the American flag.
He took a step back and swallowed. American security here? His trainers had not anticipated this.
Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
They spoke to him again, more slowly, and the woman told him in French that he would have to go with the men.
Ahmad gasped. And then, without thinking, without any forewarning at all, he ran. Straight ahead. Down the corridor. The men shouted after him. He didn’t look back.
As he wove his way past travelers dragging suitcases on rollers or carefully balancing their coffee cups, he sloughed off his own backpack, which was weighing him down. He left the pack in his wake and broke into a full-on sprint.
The men shouted again.
He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. He reached an intersection, ducked around the right corner, and an alarm began to blare inside the terminal and voices rattled through loudspeakers.
A male French voice finally ordered all passengers to remain at their gates.
Ahead lay a bank of glass doors, but beyond was a maintenance area with baggage trucks lined up in neat rows. The sign said something about restricted access. He didn’t care.
Outside. He needed to get outside.
But then he nearly ran head-on into an airport security officer. He tried to shift around the portly man, but the guy tackled him, and Ahmad dropped to the ground, his hands fumbling for and finding the man’s pistol. He got it, wrenched himself away, and fired two shots into the man’s chest. He sprang to his feet, and people screamed around him and cleared away, the shots still echoing, the Americans behind him hollering — and then a crackling like fireworks …
Sharp, stabbing pain woke in his back and drove him down to the tile once more. Suddenly, he was choking — on his own blood, he knew. He dropped, rolled onto his back, and envisioned himself dropping into the open arms of thousands of virgins. Allahu Akbar!
They reached him and kept screaming, the Americans’ faces twisted into ugly masks, their weapons pointed at him, as the world grew dark around the edges.
Jungle House
Northwest of Bogotá, Colombia
Samad wiped the sweat from his brow and turned away from the laptop computer screen, where he’d just watched an Al Jazeera video news report of the shooting at Paris — Charles de Gaulle.
Of the fifteen Taliban who were coming to Colombia, each using a different route, only one had been caught — of course the youngest and most inexperienced. Ahmad Leghari had failed to realize that the Americans had no authority to arrest him in Paris. They were there only in an advisory capacity. His paperwork and passport were flawless. He would have been detained, questioned, and most likely released. Instead, he’d panicked. Still, the question remained of how he was identified. Again, the Americans were paying handsomely for tribesmen to spy on Taliban operations, and Samad had to assume that was what had happened. He could only sigh deeply and shake his head at Niazi and Talwar, both seated across from him and sipping on small bottles of Pepsi, since their barbaric host had no tea.
As he took a pull on his own soda, Samad once more heard Mullah Omar Rahmani’s words ring in his head: “You will lead them. You will bring the jihad back to the United States — and you must use the contacts you’ve made with the Mexicans to do that. Do you understand?”
Samad could only glare at the fat pig who entered the house with the unlit cigar dangling from his lips. If Juan Ramón Ballesteros had bathed in the last week, he would still need an attorney to prove it. He removed the cigar, stroked his silver beard, and said in Spanish, “I’ll help get you to Mexico, but the submarine will not be available.”
“What?” cried Samad, practicing his own Spanish. “We were promised, and you’ve been well paid for this.”
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to make other arrangements. The sub will be overloaded with my product — and yours — and the other two are being serviced right now. When we agreed on this arrangement, I was very careful to tell Rahmani that once the opium reaches Colombia, I am in charge of shipment. You have a much better chance of success this way. Do you understand?”
Samad gritted his teeth. Their collaboration was unprecedented but a work of genius, according to members of the Juárez Cartel. Instead of having Ballesteros and his cocaine compete with the opium being smuggled in, why not partner up to streamline and expedite the shipping process? Bonuses would be paid by the Juárez Cartel to both organizations for playing nice and getting along. It was a unique relationship, and they hoped it was unforeseen by the Americans. Ballesteros had already established a dozen separate smuggling routes via land, sea, and air, and Rahmani had seen the wisdom in this and been willing to pay for access to those routes and for couriers.
“The rest of my group will be here soon,” Samad told Ballesteros. “How do you expect us to get to Mexico? Walk?”
“I’m looking into a plane that will get you as far as Costa Rica. But don’t worry about that now. We’ll need to go to Bogotá soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Look, let’s agree that we do not like one another, but our employer has paid handsomely for this, and so we will be tolerant.”
“Agreed.”
“You must also promise never to tell anyone about how I’ve helped you with, shall we say, your travel plans. Not our employer. Not anyone.”
“I have no reason to discuss this with anyone but you,” Samad lied. He already knew that the head of the Juárez Cartel could help him and his men gain safe passage into the United States, and he had every intention of seeking out that man’s help. Sure, Ballesteros the pig could help him get to Mexico, but once he was there, it would be difficult to cross the border without help.
Ballesteros turned toward the door and cursed over the heat.
That’s when gunfire suddenly ripped through the walls and windows, glass shattering, men outside screaming, more gunfire echoing the first wave.
Samad hit the floor, along with his lieutenants, and Ballesteros was there as well, unhurt but grimacing as another salvo of gunfire stitched through the walls, splintering wood and sending dust motes swirling up toward the ceiling.
“What is this?” cried Samad.
“We all have enemies,” Ballesteros said with a grunt.
Islamabad Serena Hotel
Islamabad, Pakistan
Israr Rana had not been very receptive to being recruited by the CIA. It had taken Moore nearly three months to finally persuade Rana that not only could this work be thrilling and lucrative, but Rana could be doing something for the greater good and helping to keep his own nation safe. Going to college was supposed to be his priority, but as Rana had been trained by Moore and sent off to gather information, he found the work very exciting. He’d seen every James Bond film and had even memorized some of the dialogue, which he’d used during conversations with Moore, much to the man’s chagrin. In fact, Rana had perfected his English through American cinema. Unfortunately, his wealthy parents would never, ever approve of him doing this kind of work, and so he thought he’d have some fun — at least for a little while — until he grew bored. It was true that Moore could have resorted to other means to recruit him — less-than-ethical means, such as blackmail, and Moore had even described how that worked — but he’d said that he wanted to
create a real apprenticeship founded on trust, and Rana respected that so much that it made him work even harder at gathering information for his friend and mentor.
At the moment, he was tucked tightly into a ditch along the foothills overlooking the hotel, and his pulse rose as he thumbed a text message to Moore:
LOCATED GALLAGHER. SERENA HOTEL.
ISLAMABAD.
Rana was about to tell Moore that their dear colleague was as dirty as they came. Gallagher was working with known Taliban lieutenants now and had been meeting with several of them at the hotel. Rana thought that he may very well have killed Khodai’s family — when in fact he’d been charged with protecting them. Every man had a price, and the Taliban had met Gallagher’s.
Rana did not hear them come up from behind. A hand suddenly wrenched the phone out of his hands, and as he turned back, a club came down as an echoing blow knocked him into unconsciousness.
Rana’s head hung toward his chest, and a deep throbbing emanated from the back of his neck and across the side of his face.
He opened his eyes to find only curtains of grainy blue and green — and then suddenly a bright light was in his eyes.
“You are the traitor who is working for the Americans, are you not?”
The man who’d posed that question was nearby, although Rana still could not see him. The blurriness persisted, and it felt as though he had little control over his head.
Judging from the sound of his voice, the man was young, no older than thirty, and probably one of the lieutenants Rana had already observed.
“I’m sorry, poor boy,” came another voice, and this one he knew. Gallagher. His accent was unmistakable.
And now Rana couldn’t help but try to talk, his lips feeling strangely numb. “What are you doing with them?”
“Moore sent you after me, huh? He couldn’t leave well enough alone. You’re a good boy.”
