“What does that mean?” Rich asked.
“Sometimes I lose a grip on where I am. I flashback to Somalia.”
Moyer watched the man’s eyes glaze.
“Other times I just feel irritable and depressed. I can’t control it.”
“Have you seen the Army shrinks?” Rich asked.
“Yeah, but not specifically for this. Before I could return to service, I had to go through a battery of psych tests.”
“And you passed?” Moyer glanced at Rich.
Zinsser shrugged. “I’m a pretty good liar.”
“You’re pretty good at understatement too.”
Moyer eyed his second-in-command. “Ease off, Rich.”
But the comment didn’t seem to faze Zinsser. He raised his head and took a moment to look each man in the eye. “Okay, here’s the deal, Boss. I’m smart. Real smart. I cruised through school, and if I had any discipline as a teenager, I could have made MIT, but I was sick of school. So I joined up and have never regretted it. Not even now that my brain has been branded with images that don’t fade. Fooling the head-docs was easy. I even had you guys fooled for awhile.” He looked at the opposite wall as if he could see the open air and clouds on the other side. “You know how I sleep at night? Want to know how I drive the demons away? I drown them in booze. Sometimes that doesn’t work. Most of the time I’m the Zinsser I remember; other times I don’t know who I am.”
Moyer digested this new information. “Have you been drinking while on this mission?”
“No, Boss, and I would never do that—not that it’s not tempting. The Army is what keeps me going, keeps me grounded. It’s why I worked so hard to heal and get back on a team. The Army is the only medicine that works.”
“It doesn’t seem to be working.”
“But it is, Shaq. Sure, I lost my senses in the field, but I’ve been able to keep it together otherwise. I’ve had bouts of confusion and depression, but those are less frequent.”
“The field incident was less than two days ago,” Moyer said.
“That’s true.” He sighed. “Look, I know what this is about, and I can’t blame you.”
Moyer’s leaned forward. “If you know so much, then tell me what this is about.”
“We’re going to stop to refuel in England. Then you and the team are going on with the mission. You’ll bounce me, and I’ll be relieved of duty when I return to the states.”
Moyer narrowed his gaze. “Are you suicidal? Is that why you went in to help J. J.?”
“No . . . yes . . . partly. I knew I could help, but if I failed, then the bomb would end it all for me.”
Moyer sprang to his feet and began to pace, his mind racing like an Indy car. No one spoke for several minutes. As a leader he knew exactly what he should do: send Zinsser home, where he could get the help he needed. As a soldier on mission, he knew how valuable Zinsser had been. As a warrior he knew sudden dismissal would wound the man even more. Zinsser had shown himself to be a hero multiple times.
He shook his head. If only he could foist the decision off to a superior, but this was his call to make. “Rich.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” He turned to face his friend and saw confusion.
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“About what?”
“Rich, just do it.”
“Okay, Boss, um, you’re wrong.”
“Tell me to change my mind.”
“Boss, I have no idea what you’re getting at.”
“Rich!”
“Okay, okay. Boss, I’m telling you you’re wrong, and I advise against this course of action . . . whatever it is.”
“You strongly advise me against it.”
“Um, sure, if you say so. I strongly advise you against . . . Are you trying to keep me off the hook?”
Moyer ignored Rich and stepped to Zinsser. “On your feet, soldier.”
Zinsser shot up and came to attention. “I’m keeping you on the team. You will have no more breaks with reality—”
“Boss, I can’t promise—”
He ground his teeth. “I did not give you permission to speak! You will have no more breaks with reality, and to make certain you don’t, you will be accompanied by either Rich or myself. Is that clear?”
“Boss—”
“I asked you a question. Do you have a problem with my question?”
“No, Boss. I understand.”
“Dismissed.”
Shaq stood. “Boss, I strongly advise against this, and this time I mean it.”
“Dismissed, Rich.”
Rich’s face hardened. On several occasions he had challenged Moyer’s decisions, but he never failed to obey them.
“Yes, Boss.” He pressed the words between clenched teeth.
“I CANNOT KNOW,” EL-SAYYED said into the cell phone. He was in a luxury boat sailing up the Nile. “I was not there.”
“You failed in your mission.” Even over the distance from Mexico to Egypt, El-Sayyed could hear the man’s anger. “My employer is unhappy.”
“As am I.”
“You have our money, but we do not have the results we paid for.”
El-Sayyed spoke in an even tone. “You knew there was a risk of failure. This was not a simple operation, and complexity always increases the danger of a misstep.”
“My employer wants to know what went wrong.”
“Tell him what I have told you: I don’t know. I wasn’t there. You follow the news as I do. You know we created great destruction and death, proving that no security is foolproof.”
“But the primary goal was not achieved, you stinkin’ Arab.”
“Careful, my friend,” El-Sayyed said. “I have a limited capacity for insults. Think about that next time you or your boss start your cars.”
“Are you threatening us?”
“I’m just warning a friend about the unwanted consequences that can come from hasty words.”
The line went silent for a moment, and El-Sayyed let his gaze trace the farmland that bordered the Nile. Peasants worked the fields; sun-weathered men and children drew water from the ancient river and poured it into irrigation channels. Despite its great achievements, his country was still backwards in so many ways.
“My employer wants his money returned.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but a deal is a deal. We all took risks and knew that things might go wrong. It is the way in modern business. And please don’t threaten me again. It will do you no good.”
El-Sayyed rose from the lounge chair and paced the deck of the thirty-five-foot pleasure craft. In his free hand he held a small cup of strong coffee. Dahabeeyahs plied the Nile, the small boats crammed with tourists as they traveled up and down the famous river. Several other pleasure craft and commercial boats worked the waters. The roar of engines skipped along the surface. El-Sayyed saw a power boat racing faster than was wise. It approached quickly. “Stupid rich tourists.”
“Did you say something, El-Sayyed?”
“Nothing to concern you, Michael.”
The powerboat slowed as it approached El-Sayyed’s craft. The man who stood behind the wheel held a phone to his ear. He waved. A second man sat at the stern.
“El-Sayyed?”
“Yes.”
“Two can play your game.”
“What does that mean?”
The second man stood and shouldered a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Before El-Sayyed could shout a warning, the grenade struck.
Burning, sharp debris pierced the side of El-Sayyed’s head and torso. He stumbled to the side and started to fall.
A second RPG hit the boat.
The last thing El-Sayyed’s brain registered was the sound of the speedboat’s engine piercing the air.
CHAPTER 30
TESS RAND HAD BARELY hung up from her brief courtesy call with J. J. when a man in uniform appeared at her door.
“I take it you’re not sell
ing cookies.”
“No, ma’am. Colonel MacGregor has requested a few moments of your time.”
“A few moments? Is he here? In Pennsylvania?”
“No, ma’am. He’s at his office.” The man looked to be thirty, had brown hair, and looked as if he hadn’t smiled anytime in the last two years.
“Since his office is in South Carolina, this is going to take more than a few minutes.”
“Arrangements have been made, Dr. Rand. If you’ll follow me.”
“Not until I get a few things I need.”
“The Army will provide anything you need.”
She glanced at the rank insignia on his khaki uniform. There was a pin affixed to a spot directly over his sternum. “Lieutenant, do you really want to go shopping for things a woman needs?”
He paused but showed no emotion. “I suppose five minutes wouldn’t hurt, ma’am.”
Four minutes later Tess was out the door. Ten minutes later she was the lone passenger on a Beechcraft C-12 Huron. The twin-engine prop plane wasted no time climbing to its cruising altitude. Early morning clouds gave way to a bright blue sky. The Pratt & Whitney turboprops made the aircraft vibrate as it climbed.
The army lieutenant who retrieved her from her apartment offered no information. Tess had tested the waters with a few probing questions, but if the man knew anything—which she doubted—he wasn’t talking. All she could do was wait.
The craft touched down fewer than two hours later, and Tess exited to find another army lieutenant waiting by a car. He smiled, opened the door for her, waited until she was seated in the back, then closed the door. A few minutes later she passed through the gates to Fort Jackson and was driven straight to the Concrete Palace, where she’d briefed J. J.’s team.
Colonel Mac waited at the entry door and escorted her through the stages of security as he had done before. This time she was not led to the conference room but to a different space, one that required passing through two levels of biometric security. She stopped two steps into the room. Monitors hung on the walls, and a large table dominated the floor. Smaller desks lined one room. Tess had never been in the Situation Room in the White House, but she imagined it looked much like this.
“Is it unprofessional to say, ‘Wow’?”
Colonel Mac chuckled. “I hope not. I said the same thing—basically.”
“But with more, um, flair?”
“Flair. I like that.”
“Is . . .”
“J. J. and the others are fine. That’s not why you’re here.”
She felt the tension melt away. Someone to her right moved. He had been standing in the back corner of the room. He had a billiard build, and a head to match. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that made her think of John Denver.
“Dr. Tess Rand, meet Dr. Smith.”
“Dr. Smith?” She held out her hand.
“It will do for now.”
“Let me guess: The badge you wear at work has a different name.”
He had a pleasant smile. “It might.”
“Billions of dollars of taxpayers’ money are spent each year on foreign intelligence, and the best pseudonym we can come up with is Smith.”
“My wife’s maiden name was Smith,” Mac said.
Tess’s cheeks warmed. “Sorry—not about your wife’s name being Smith, but about . . . I’m going to quit while I’m ahead.” She looked back at Smith. “Which branch of . . . Never mind. Why am I here?”
“First, we want to bring you into the loop,” Smith said. His voice seemed a half-octave too high.
“Have a seat.” Mac motioned to a chair at the table. Tess did as he suggested. Both men continued to stand, which made her nervous.
“We received this a few hours ago.” Smith nodded at a man seated behind one of the monitors. Sound poured from overhead speakers.
“My employer wants his money returned.”
“I’m sorry, my friend, but a deal is a deal. We all took risks and knew that things might go wrong. It is the way in modern business. And please don’t threaten me again. It will do you no good.”
A pause.
“Stupid rich tourists.”
“Did you say something, El-Sayyed?”
“Nothing to concern you, Michael.”
“El-Sayyed?”
“Yes.”
“Two can play your game.”
“What does that mean?”
Tess heard an ear-pounding noise and nothing more.
“You’re kidding.” As soon as she uttered the words, Tess felt stupid. “I mean . . . Where did this come from? Where’s the rest of the conversation? What about—”
Smith raised a hand. “The conversation ended abruptly. You heard the thud?”
“Yes.”
“It was the sound of a rocket propelled grenade hitting El-Sayyed’s boat.”
“Someone attacked him?”
Smith nodded.
“They did more than attack him, Dr. Rand. They put an end to his sorry, worthless existence.”
“Killed? Someone killed El-Sayyed?”
“The Egyptian authorities have his body—well, most of it—enough of it.” Smith put his hands behind his back. “There were eyewitnesses.”
“Who is responsible for the assassination? And how did you record the phone call? It was a phone call, right?”
Smith smiled politely but said nothing.
Tess thought for a moment. She would never get a straight answer out of the portly spook, but she could make some guesses. The attack on world leaders may have opened a door of international cooperation—at least for one purpose.
“Where was El-Sayyed when this little mishap occurred?”
“On the Nile,” Mac said.
“They killed him in his own backyard?” Tess couldn’t believe her ears.
“Apparently, he crossed the wrong man,” Smith said.
“Who?”
“We’re still working on that. We do know the other end of the call came from Mexico.”
“You’ve been receiving briefings from my office,” Mac said. “You see the connection?”
“The woman . . . the hesitant bomber. She said her parents were being held in Mexico.”
“And?”
“And the team found evidence of video sent from somewhere in Mexico to a villa outside of Rome.”
“True. What you don’t know is the Internet routing from Mexico to Rome was nearly impossible to trace. The Italian intelligence agencies are working on narrowing it down, but there’s a good chance they’ll fail.”
“Mexico is a huge country, Colonel.”
“Yup, 760,000 square miles, more than 105 million people, and has the fifteenth largest economy in the world. I’ve done my homework.”
“I’m not getting the connection,” Tess admitted. “Mexico has been a supporter of the war on terrorism. Why would someone in Mexico want to kill or maim twenty . . . of . . . the world’s . . . Oh.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve should have known. Narco-terroism.”
Saying the word made Tess feel ill.
Mac stared at her. “What do you know about narco-terrorism?”
“It’s not my primary field, but I know some things. I know they are far worse than most people in this country know. If memory serves, they smuggle forty billion dollars worth of drugs across the border and smuggle U.S. weapons back across the border. Close to fifteen thousand people have been killed in Mexico during the drug war over the last few years.”
Unable to sit any longer, Tess stood and began to pace. “The attack on the world leaders in Naples had nothing to do with ideology. It had to do with money made on drugs. If that woman had been successful, she might have killed our president, the president of Mexico, maybe the Canadian leader as well.”
“It’s no secret that President Huffington is giving serious consideration to increasing our efforts along the border: fences, National Guard, and a few billion dollars into Mexico.”
“I recently read about a th
irteen-year-old who was forced to kill a man. Later he told a reporter he enjoyed it and that he knew he could get away with it.” The details of the article burned in her brain. “But which drug lord could be responsible?”
“We may know that,” Smith said. “We’ve analyzed the voice of the man El-Sayyed called Michael. He’s a bad one. Rotten to the core. Killed his own parents when he was fifteen to prove he could be trusted by one drug lord.”
“Who?”
“We don’t have a name. For years there have been rumors about a man named Lobito—Little Wolf.”
“There’s nothing little about him,” Mac said. “I’ve been talking to the DEA and others. They tell me Lobito is well armed and doesn’t mind leaving bodies in his wake.”
Tess thought for a moment. “Why am I here? I know a little about this problem, but my field is—”
“There is someone I want you to talk to.”
The colonel’s words drew her up short. “Who?”
“The woman who tried to kill the world’s most important leaders.”
HERNANDO SOTO SAT BENEATH the shade of a large umbrella and sipped beer from a bottle. Spread across a concrete outdoor table decorated with hand-painted Mexican tiles lay several newspapers, three from the United States and two from Mexico. Ancient, handcrafted Mayan figurines held the papers in place against the gentle breeze that pushed through shade trees and over the lush lawn. Overhead, a blue sky created a backdrop for the one thousand species of birds who called Mexico home. Hernando could only name a handful of birds and had no desire to learn more. His had been a study of human nature—especially the human need for addiction.
He set down the New York Times and gazed over the panorama before him. He owned everything his eye could see, including the two towns, each fifteen miles from his compound. He provided each town with protection and employment the citizens could find nowhere else. Less than two thousand people occupied the villages, but each person was dedicated to him. They had to be. Most worked in growing and processing the heroin, cocaine, and marijuana that had made him the wealthiest man, not only in Mexico, but Central America as well.
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