The Hunters

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Get word to Big Eye that Don Juan is with me and will be coming to see him—with English—later today. ETA to follow. Acknowledge delivery.”

  “Got it. Will do.”

  Swanson turned to Castillo and said, “Done.”

  “Thanks,” Castillo said. “Although I feel like I’ve just made an appointment with my dentist.”

  Swanson smiled, then asked, “You think this threat is credible, Colonel?”

  “No,” Castillo said. “I’ve been talking to some people who know about bombs like this and know about the Russians and they don’t think so, and if I had to bet, I’d go with them.”

  “Why?” Swanson asked, simply. “There’s supposed to be a hundred of these briefcase-sized nukes hidden around the country. There was even some KGB defector who testified before Congress that he’d scouted places to hide them.”

  “The defector’s name was Colonel Pyotr Sunev,” Castillo said. “And after the CIA set up a new identity for him as a professor at Grinnell College, he disappeared one day, then turned up in Europe, once again in the KGB.”

  “Disinformation?” Swanson asked.

  Castillo nodded.

  “And a lot of egg on the CIA’s face?”

  Castillo nodded again.

  “And from everything I’ve learned about these bombs,” Castillo said, “which I admit isn’t much, they’re the size of a suitcase, not a briefcase. And the firing mechanisms are coded. I can’t imagine the Russians giving a bomb, much less that code, to a bunch of lunatics.”

  “What about our friends in the Muslim world?”

  “I think if they had a bomb, and the code to detonate it, they would have already used it. The Russians have their own trouble with the Muslims. I just can’t see them handing a nuke to any of them; they’d be liable to set it off in Moscow.”

  “So what’s going on with these nuts in Durham?”

  “I wish I knew. The first thing I’d like to know is where they got the money to buy the farm in the first place. Jack tells me the Aari-Teg mosque had trouble paying their rent.”

  “They paid for it with a cashier’s check for $1,550,000 drawn against the account of the Aari-Teg mosque, Clyde J. Matthews, Financial Officer, in the Merchants National Bank of Easton, Colonel,” Special Agent Harry Larsen said.

  “Clyde, aka Abdul Khatami, is one great big mean sonofabitch,” Britton added. “He’s the head mullah of the Aari-Teg mosque. Before he found Muhammad, ol’ Clyde was in and out of the slam from the time he was fifteen. Mostly drugs, but some heavier stuff, too—armed robbery, attempted murder, etcetera. He was doing five-to-ten in a federal slam—for cashing Social Security checks that weren’t his—when he was converted to Islam.”

  “Mr. Matthews’s account was opened six weeks before with six hundred in cash,” Larsen went on. “It was essentially dormant—two small checks to pay for gas, signed by Matthews, but the payee—same one, a gas station in Riegelsville—amounts and dates filled in by somebody else…”

  “I think one might describe Mr. Matthews as being some what literacy handicapped,” Britton interrupted, in an effeminate voice, causing the others to chuckle.

  “…until two days before the cashier’s check for the farm was drawn,” Larsen went on. “There had been a wire deposit of $1,950,000 from a numbered account in the Caledonian Bank and Trust Limited in the Cayman Islands.” He paused and looked at Castillo. “I don’t know if you know this or not, Colonel, but the Cayman Islands have stricter banking secrecy laws than Switzerland.”

  “I did. Not because I’m smart, but because Special Agent Yung told me. He’s our resident expert in foreign banking and dirty money.”

  “Our reluctant expert,” Britton said.

  “He’s seen the light, Jack,” Castillo said.

  “Did he see it before or after they popped him?”

  “So,” Larsen went on, a touch of impatience in his voice, “our chances of finding out who owns that account are practically nonexistent. On the day the check to pay for the farm was issued, there was a second cashier’s check, for $59,805 .42, payable to Fred Beans Cadillac Buick Pontiac GMC. Inc., 835 North Easton Road in Doylestown, as payment in full for a Cadillac Escalade, a white one.” “Well, I’ve always said,” Britton said, in his effeminate voice, “if you don’t want to attract attention, get a white Cadillac Escalade.”

  Even Larsen laughed.

  “Is this guy intellectually challenged, Jack?” Larsen asked.

  “He’s street smart, with a five-year postgraduate course in crime at Lewisburg behind him. He’s ignorant but not stupid. Dangerous.”

  “And Matthews withdrew ten thousand dollars in cash,” Larsen said.

  “I don’t know anything about this sort of thing,” Castillo said. “Doesn’t the IRS get involved in this some how?”

  “Believe it or not, Colonel, there are a few nice IRS agents. I got most of what I have from one of them who’s a friend of mine.”

  “Can he keep his mouth shut?” Castillo asked.

  Larsen nodded. “They get notified whenever there’s a cash transaction of ten thousand or better. When Matthews took the ten thousand in cash, that gave my guy the in to go into the bank records.

  “When I asked him if I suddenly had a deposit of nearly two million from an offshore bank, wouldn’t I have to answer some questions? He said I would. But I’m not a mosque. The Aari-Teg mosque, so far as the IRS is concerned, is a religious institution. Religious institutions do not have to identify their members or their donors. Or pay taxes.”

  “Shit,” Castillo said.

  “I’d say this whole suitcase nuke thing is absurd,” Larsen said. “Except for all that money…”

  “And except for the fact that Abdul Khatami and his loyal Muslims helped the Holy Legion of Muhammad steal that 727,” Britton said. He turned to Larsen. “You know that story?”

  “Joel told me,” Larsen said, smiled, and pointed at Torine and Castillo. “And that these two stole it back. You think this money came from terrorists, Colonel?”

  “I have no goddamned idea where it came from,” Castillo said, bitterly, “but the terrorists are not stupid. Would they hand this clown two million dollars just because they like him or maybe to pull our chain when we heard about it? I don’t think so. But I don’t know.”

  Swanson said, “Follow the money, I say, based on my wealth of experience and not having a clue how you’d actually do that. Larsen’s right about bank secrecy in the Cayman Islands.”

  “What we have is a coded list of what we think are names and addresses we took from Lorimer’s safe,” Castillo said. “By now, the whiz kids at Fort Meade should have that decoded. And I have all of Eric Kocian’s notes about European involvement in the oil-for-food scam. There’s a CIA guy in Paris who knows a lot about these SADMs—”

  “These what?” Larsen interrupted.

  “Nuclear suitcases,” Castillo said. “The Russians call them ‘Special Atomic Demolition Munitions.’ This guy is already on his way to Washington. He may already be there. There’re two other CIA types in Buenos Aires who know something about them. We know now that one of the Ninjas was a senior Cuban spook.” He paused. “In all, a lot of disconnected information. All we can do is try to put it together.” He exhaled audibly. “Can we go get some breakfast?”

  [TWO]

  State Route 212

  Near Durham, Bucks County, Pennsylvania

  1155 10 August 2005

  The Secret Service radio went off in the black Yukon XL as they were going down a winding road through the countryside.

  “Cheesecake?”

  “Go.”

  “Big Eye asks for Don Juan’s present location, destination, and ETA as soon as possible. He will send a taxi.”

  Swanson looked at Castillo.

  “Don’t tell him where we are,” Castillo said. “Jake, we’re going into Baltimore, right?”

  “Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport,” Torine correcte
d.

  “And ETA will be furnished when available,” Castillo said.

  “Don Juan going to BWI. ETA will be furnished when available,” Swanson said into his lapel microphone. “Cheesecake off.”

  Castillo saw the questions in Swanson’s eyes.

  “I don’t care if he knows where I am,” Castillo said. “But I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

  Swanson nodded.

  “The entrance to the farm is about half a mile on the right,” Swanson said five minutes later. “You can’t see much—nothing but an unpaved road—from the highway. I’ve got some people, really good at what they do, in a house directly across the highway taking pictures of everyone going into and out of the farm road. We told the guy who owns the house that we’re investigating a drug operation.”

  “So far, I’ve recognized all of them,” Britton said. “They’re all from the Aari-Teg mosque.”

  “And we’ve got a Cessna 172 that flies over the farm every couple of hours taking pictures,” Swanson said. “All that’s produced is that they’ve got three house trailers parked near the farmhouse…”

  “New ones,” Britton interrupted, “which makes me wonder where they got the money for them.”

  “…and a Ford pickup, one of those with two rows of seats, also new, registered to the mosque in Philadelphia.”

  “Same question about how did they pay for that,” Britton said.

  “Okay,” Swanson said, pointing out his deeply tinted passenger’s window. “Here we are. The road winds around that hill to the farm. The iron mines are in that hill. On the back side.”

  Castillo saw the steep, tree-covered hill, but almost missed the road as the Yukon rolled past it.

  “Not much to see, is there?” Britton said.

  Castillo didn’t reply directly.

  “Maybe you better get me a set of those pictures,” he said.

  “I’m way ahead of you, Colonel,” Britton said. “The ones taken from the house are on their way—ain’t e-mail and digital photography wonderful?—to Dutch Kramer and Tom McGuire five minutes after they’re taken. The aerials go the same way ten minutes after the Cessna lands at Allentown. So far nobody we don’t know.”

  “Is that about all there is to see here?” Castillo said.

  “Yep,” Swanson said, then asked, “Where do you want to go now? To the hotel?”

  “Christ, we forgot to eat!” Torine said.

  “Is there some place, a McDonald’s or something—better yet, a Wendy’s—on the way to the airport?” Castillo asked.

  “I suppose a shave and a shower is out of the question?” Torine said, drily.

  “I want to get to Washington and a secure telephone as quickly as I can, Jake,” Castillo said. “I need to talk to Yung and see what’s going on before Jack and I go see the dragon.”

  “The last thing I had to eat was a stringy, cold Ecuadorian chicken leg somewhere over the Pacific Ocean,” Torine said. “And that was so long ago, I forget when.”

  “Well, that’s the Air Force for you,” Castillo said. “Unless they’re being fed a steak by some long-legged blond stewardess with a dazzling smile, they think they’re suffering.”

  “The Air Force teaches that an officer should never be rude to an officer junior to them in rank,” Torine said. “In your case, I’m going to make an exception: Fuck you, Colonel. I want more for breakfast than a goddamned hamburger.”

  Castillo laughed.

  “You’re right, Jake,” he said. “So do I. And since Montvale is sending a taxi for us, we’d better have that shave and a shower.”

  “My sole remaining clean shirt and fresh undies are on the airplane,” Torine said.

  “We can change on the way to Baltimore,” Castillo said.

  “If you have to talk to your guy, Yung, in New Orleans,” Swanson said, “and we’re sitting on him there, then once we get to the hotel I can get the number of a pay phone to our guys and Yung can call you on it. It won’t be a secure line, but that’s how the bad guys communicate and it works for them.”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Swanson.”

  “So they tell me,” Swanson said.

  [THREE]

  Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport

  Baltimore, Maryland

  1350 10 August 2005

  There was a Secret Service Yukon XL waiting for them at the Signature Flight Support building.

  True to the traditions of the Secret Service, there was no change of expression on the agent’s face when he came onto the Gulfstream and saw Castillo on his knees in the passenger compartment removing an Uzi, a Micro Uzi, and a suppressed Ruger .22 caliber pistol from the compartment under one of the couches and then carefully handing them one at a time to Torine and Britton.

  When Castillo climbed into the front seat of the truck, beside the agent, he was just about to ask “Where are we headed?” when the Secret Service agent spoke into his lapel microphone.

  “Leaving Thurgood for the OEOB,” he said, “with Don Juan, Lindbergh, and English aboard. Advise Big Eye ETA 1515.”

  “Charley,” Torine said, “why do I think there is something derisive in your code name but that English really fits Britton and Lindbergh is absolutely appropriate for me?”

  “Because you are modesty-impaired, Jake. I understand that’s fairly common in the Air Force.”

  “What do you want me to do when you and Jack are with Montvale?”

  “Pay close attention, you might learn something.”

  “I have to be there?”

  “You have to be there,” Castillo said.

  [FOUR]

  The Office of the Director of National Intelligence

  The Old Executive Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  1515 10 August 2005

  Ambassador Charles W. Montvale’s office in the OEOB was not very impressive for the very powerful man the press had dubbed the “New Intelligence Czar.” It consisted of two small, sparsely furnished rooms and the first thing Castillo thought when he saw it was that it was even smaller than the OEOB offices of Secretary of Homeland Security Matthew Hall.

  There was a reason for this. Both Montvale and Hall had far larger and more ornately furnished offices elsewhere. The primary purpose of their OEOB offices was to provide them with a place to wait and take calls until time was found for them in the President’s schedule.

  Cabinet members such as himself, Secretary Hall had once only half jokingly told Castillo, could not afford to be seen sitting twiddling their thumbs on chairs outside the Oval Office, like schoolboys having been sent to the principal’s office for disciplining. It was bad for their public image.

  Castillo was surprised when Montvale didn’t keep them waiting. His secretary—or executive assistant, whatever she was—went directly to Montvale’s door and opened it the moment she saw them walking into the outer office.

  “Colonel Castillo and two other gentlemen are here,” the secretary said.

  Castillo didn’t hear a reply, but a moment later, the secretary said, “Go right in, please, gentlemen.”

  Castillo went in first, aware that a Pavlovian reflex had kicked in, trying—and almost succeeding—to make him march in, salute, stand at attention, and bark: “Lieutenant Colonel Castillo reporting as ordered, sir!”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador,” Castillo said.

  “Hello, Charley,” Montvale said.

  He acknowledged Torine by saying, “Colonel,” then looked at Britton.

  “I like that,” Montvale announced with a smile. “Pink and yellow and blue go well together. But you don’t bring up what usually comes to mind when someone says, ‘Secret Service.’”

  “I try to put the emphasis on the ‘secret’ in Secret Service, Mr. Ambassador,” Britton said.

  “On a scale of one to ten, Britton,” Montvale said, his tone suddenly serious, “what’s your take on the chances of a nuclear weapon being detonated in Philadelphia anytime soo
n?”

  “Point-zero-zero-one, Mr. Ambassador,” Britton responded immediately.

  “That answer sounded rehearsed.”

  “Your question was expected, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Colonel Castillo told you to expect it?”

  “No. But I didn’t think you were calling me down here to discuss my wardrobe.”

  “Now I know why Colonel Castillo likes you,” Montvale said. “You’re about as much of a self-confident wiseass as he is. Now you and Colonel Torine please step out for a moment—actually, it’s probably going to be a bit longer than that—while I have a private word with the colonel. Tell Jo-Anne no calls except from the President personally, and to get you some coffee.”

  “Yes, sir,” Britton said. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Torine said and turned and followed Britton out.

  Montvale waited until the door had closed.

  “You understand, I hope, Charley, how much rides on Britton’s—and thus your—assessment of the threat that there is a SADM somewhere around Philadelphia?”

  “I’ve talked to some other people, sir. It—”

  Montvale shut him off by raising his hand like a traffic cop.

  “Hold that until the briefing,” he said.

  “I thought this was the briefing,” Castillo said. It was more of a question.

  “Right now we have to talk about your eleven-hundred-dollar-a-day love nest in the Mayflower Hotel,” Montvale said.

  “Sir?”

  “That’s how Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter C. Harry Whelan, Jr., of The Washington Post described it. No. What Harry actually said when he called Secretary Hall and told him he intended to make certain allegations in a story and wanted, in fairness, to get his version before it was published, he was in ‘Motel Monica Lewinsky.’” He paused, then added with a thin smile, “He has a flair for colorful phrases.”

  “What sort of allegations?”

  “That an Army officer by the name of Castillo who is an agent of the Defense Intelligence Agency is whooping it up on the taxpayer’s dollar in the Mayflower and elsewhere all over the world.”

  Oh, shit!

  “Where’d that come from? I never was assigned to the DIA.”