He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. “Excuse me. I need to make some phone calls.”
As I watched the DDO walk away with a smile on his face, I realized I would have to find a way to thank Gabriel for supplying me with the means to put that smile on the deputy’s face.
I thought about eating a mango in Gabriel’s honor, but then I decided a chocolate chip cookie would do just fine.
Chapter 28
Before Carlton escorted the Senator and the DDO back upstairs, he handed me the keys to my Range Rover and told me he’d meet me in the driveway.
“So our quarantine is over?” Juliana asked, as we took the elevator up to the first floor together.
I nodded. “It was over the minute Douglas logged us out of the debrief. Thanks to the deputy’s arrival, it was mercifully short.”
She pointed at the keys in my hand. “Are you going somewhere?”
“I’m dropping Douglas off at his townhouse in Langley, and then I’m driving out to Fairfax to check on my dog. Douglas bought a house in Fairfax when his wife was alive, and he’s letting me board Stormy there while I’m on assignment.”
“Carlton doesn’t live there himself?”
“No, after Gladys died, he invited a couple who worked for the Agency to live out at The Meadows and run the place for him. The Meadows is what Gladys always called the property.”
“With a name like that it must be a beautiful place.”
“Gladys said they bought the house because it was perfect for entertaining, but I know she loved the grounds as well. Douglas still has dinner parties out there occasionally, and every year he hosts a big Thanksgiving dinner and invites the whole division.”
“It’s very generous of Douglas to let you board your dog there.”
“Isn’t it? I think he must have a soft spot for animals.”
As we got off the elevator, she smiled and said, “Can I also assume you’ll be taking a side trip to Quantico before you drive out to Fairfax?”
I laughed. “That’s a very astute assumption.”
“I was hoping to get a chance to meet Nikki while I’m here, but the deputy didn’t sound as if he expected us to be here very long.”
“The deputy is a lot more optimistic about Phase II than I am. Personally, I still think there’s a chance our analysts are going to locate that farmhouse in El Cobre, and the DDO will send us back to Santiago in the next couple of days.”
She squeezed my arm and said, “Now who’s being optimistic?”
* * * *
After I dropped Carlton off at his townhouse, I headed south on I-95. Approximately forty-five minutes later, I took the Russell Road exit and arrived at the guardhouse outside the FBI Academy.
When I told the security guard I was here to see Nikki Saxon, he asked to see my driver’s license, and then he went inside the glass enclosed booth and looked up my name on his computer.
The last time I’d seen Nikki, she’d told me my name was the only one she’d listed on her approved list of visitors. Of course, I knew she hadn’t written down Titus Ray, CIA covert intelligence officer. My public identity—something the Agency referred to as my Career Legend—was much more innocuous.
To everyone outside the Agency, including my family back in Michigan, I was a long-time employee of the Consortium for International Studies (CIS), a think tank in College Park, Maryland. My business card read, Titus Ray, Senior Fellow, Middle Eastern Programs, CIS.
When the guard returned, he handed me back my license, along with a map of the area, and said, “Welcome to the FBI Academy, Mr. Ray.”
Using a red-tipped pen, he drew a circle in the center of the map. “All visitors are restricted to this area here.” He pointed to a blue rectangle situated inside the red circle. “You’ll find Ms. Saxon in The Jefferson dormitory here.”
As he stepped away from the car, he gave me a big grin. “Enjoy your visit with Ms. Saxon.”
“Thanks. I’m sure I will.”
When I pulled away from the guardhouse, I tossed the map in the passenger seat. I didn’t need the map to tell me how to get to the dormitory where the trainees in the FBI’s Law Enforcement Training School were housed.
Several years ago, I’d been a resident of The Jefferson myself.
Following the 9/11 terrorist attacks in the United States, a group of CIA covert operatives had held joint training exercises with some of the other intelligence gathering agencies, and during the six weeks we’d trained together, I’d lived in The Jefferson with about fifty other men and women.
That information was classified, so if Nikki offered to show me around the Academy, I reminded myself I shouldn’t appear too familiar with the place.
On the drive down to Quantico, I’d tried to call Nikki, but my call had gone to voice mail every time. After the third try, I remembered Nikki saying she was planning to spend some time down at the gun range, so I figured that might be the reason she wasn’t answering her phone.
As I drove along the perimeter parkway, I considered going over to the gun range myself—even though it was several miles outside the approved area for visitors—but first, I decided to stop off at The Jefferson to see if Nikki might be in her room. The receptionist in the lobby of the dormitory told me Nikki Saxon was registered in Room 524.
As I stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor, I suddenly realized I was feeling a little lightheaded. While the vertigo might have been caused by my lack of sleep, I suspected it had more to do with my excitement at seeing Nikki again than any lost slumber.
Unfortunately, when I knocked on the door to Room 524, no one answered.
When I returned to my car, I sat there for several minutes as I tried to decide whether to drive out to the gun range or not.
What gave me pause was the security guard’s instructions that I was to remain within the red circle and not venture into the restricted area.
If I’d been sitting in my car in Damascus, Syria, and I’d been told not to enter a restricted area, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. I would have cut through a fence, bribed a soldier, or hidden away in a delivery truck in order to get inside and accomplish my mission.
Now, though, I wasn’t in a foreign country, and I wasn’t engaged in a mission—other than my own personal mission—and I felt conflicted about breaking the rules under such circumstances.
In the end, I decided to stay where I was and wait for Nikki to return to the dormitory.
I suspected my decision was partly the result of my transformed conscience, and partly the realization that if Titus Ray, a Senior Fellow at the Consortium for International Studies, happened to get himself arrested at the FBI Academy, then Titus Ray, the covert intelligence officer at the Central Intelligence Agency, would be in big trouble.
I was rewarded for my good behavior a few minutes later when I saw Nikki pull her Buick Enclave into a parking spot in front of The Jefferson.
As she got out of her car, I felt an unexpected surge of happiness at seeing her again. Then, just as suddenly, my emotions turned to anger when I noticed a man getting out of the passenger side of the Enclave.
When he walked around to the front of her vehicle, I recognized him immediately.
It was Frank Benson.
* * * *
For a split second, I thought about staying inside my Range Rover. Then, I felt foolish—childish even—and got out of my vehicle and walked over to where Nikki and Benson were standing.
Nikki was facing the opposite direction, so it was Benson who spotted me first. “Hey, look who’s back in town,” he said.
“Hi, Frank. What are you doing out here? Don’t you get enough of this place during the week?”
He mumbled something about needing to put in some time at the gun range, but I wasn’t listening to him. I was looking at Nikki and the way her face lit up when she turned around and saw me.
“Titus,” she said with a big smile, “I can’t believe you drove all the way out here. I thought you wer
e going to call me and tell me where to meet you.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
As we hugged each other, she said, “If you’re taking me out to dinner, I better go change my clothes.”
“I’m definitely taking you out to dinner.”
“Don’t worry,” Frank said, “I’ll keep Titus entertained while you’re gone.”
Nikki grabbed her purse out of the Enclave. “I’m sure the two of you have plenty to talk about; just make sure it’s not about me.”
When she walked away, Frank pointed to a building across the street. “Let’s walk over to my office so we can talk.”
“You have an office out here?”
Frank Benson was an FBI Special Agent in the counterterrorism division at the Bureau’s headquarters in Washington, D.C. He’d been hired by the Bureau after spending several years as a Level 1 intelligence officer at the CIA.
When I’d heard he’d gone to work for the Bureau after the DDO had fired him, I’d told Carlton it was probably the best thing that could have happened to him. Of course, I might have wanted to believe that since I’d been partially responsible for the DDO firing him in the first place.
Benson was a man who liked to ferret out the minutiae of an operation. While his obsession with details had sometimes been helpful, more often than not, when it was crunch time and he needed to make a decision, he’d had too many details floating around in his head to act quickly.
Several years ago, when Benson was the primary on an operation into Yemen to rescue a bunch of hostages, his indecisiveness had led to the death of all of the hostages. In the end, that debacle had brought about his dismissal from the Agency.
Benson and I had been on the outs with each other until a few weeks ago when the two of us had joined forces to locate a deep cover operative working with an Iranian general who had plans to attack the capital with chemical weapons.
When the Iranian agent had tried to kill Benson, I’d arrived in time to save his life, but my efforts hadn’t prevented Benson from being shot.
“Yeah, I’ve got an office out here now, such as it is,” Benson said. “The Bureau’s got me teaching the counterterrorism classes at the Academy for a few weeks while I recuperate from my surgery.”
When Benson ushered me into his office, it was obvious it was a temporary setup. The room contained nothing more than a desk and a couple of chairs. There were no pictures on the wall, no file cabinets, and no phone system. The only thing on top of his desk was a laptop computer.
As I sat down in one of the chairs, I asked, “So how’s your shoulder, Frank?”
He walked over and sat down behind his desk. “It’s healed up pretty good. I still have two days of therapy left, and then, I’ll be back in my office in Washington.”
I looked around the room. “I’m sure you’ll find it hard to leave such luxurious accommodations behind.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, right.”
As often occurred in social situations, I’d run out of senseless things to say to keep the banter going.
Since I couldn’t think of a single inane sentence that might serve to hold up my end of the conversation, an awkward silence hung in the air between us for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time.
Finally, when Benson spoke up, I realized he thought I had some ulterior motive for my reticence.
“Look, Titus,” he said, “I know we need to talk about how much I owe you for saving my life. If you hadn’t come through that door when you did, then I wouldn’t—”
“Are you kidding, Frank? You don’t owe me anything. If the situation had been reversed, you would have done the same thing.”
“I hope so, but I’m not sure about that.”
“Well, I am.”
* * * *
After we talked about Operation Citadel Protection for a few minutes, he changed the subject and brought up the missing chemical weapons.
Although he didn’t ask me where I’d been the last few weeks, it was obvious he thought the DDO had given me the assignment of locating the canisters.
“Since you’re back in the States,” he said, “I guess you must have found the canisters.”
“Finding the weapons wasn’t my assignment.”
He looked surprised. “When you didn’t show up for the Joint Task Force meeting, I just assumed you’d been given that assignment.”
I shook my head. “No, a couple of days after you got shot, the DDO selected me for a special operation. It’s classified as Top Secret, so I can’t talk about it.”
“Sure, I understand,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Did Douglas tell you everyone on the Joint Task Force believes those missing canisters are somewhere in Tijuana?”
I nodded. “I believe he mentioned that.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“Why not?”
He lifted the lid on his computer and said, “Because I believe the cartel plans to sell those weapons to the highest bidder, probably ISIS or Al-Qaeda, and to do that, they need to have those canisters in a more accessible location, say somewhere in the Caribbean.”
“Sounds like you’ve been giving this some thought.”
He nodded. “Teaching a couple of classes out here at the Academy doesn’t take up much of my day, so I’ve had plenty of time to do some research on the Los Zetas organization. I believe that’s the key to finding those canisters.”
“How will researching the cartel’s organization help you find the canisters?”
Benson turned his computer around and pointed to a diagram on the screen. “See this organizational flowchart I’ve put together on Los Zetas?”
I leaned forward and took a look at his computer. “Yeah, Frank, that’s impressive.”
“Do you see this?” He pointed to two horizontal boxes. “Notice how these two cartel lieutenants have overlapping responsibilities in the organization. I believe understanding the connections between these two men is crucial to locating the canisters.”
Benson’s flowchart of the cartel’s organization reminded me of a similar diagram he’d made during Operation Citadel Protection. Admittedly, in the beginning, I’d questioned its usefulness; however, in the end, Benson’s interconnecting boxes had been beneficial.
I read off the names of the two men he believed held the key to locating the canisters. “Franco Cabello and Rafael Lorenzo.”
Benson nodded. “That’s right.”
“There’s no doubt Franco is connected to the chemical weapons. He was the point man when Hezbollah used the cartel’s network to bring the canisters across the border.”
“Correct. Cabello is the head of the cartel’s smuggling operations, but it’s Rafael Lorenzo who manages the cartel’s warehouses. So, what I’m saying is that if the cartel plans to auction off the canisters to the highest bidder, then, more than likely, Lorenzo is warehousing the canisters somewhere, while Cabello is negotiating with any potential buyers. That’s how they’re connected.”
“You could be right, but I don’t see how that helps us locate them.”
“It’s the connections, Titus,” he said, turning the laptop around so it was facing him again. “I began by looking for the connections. Once I saw the connection between Lorenzo and Cabello, I looked for other connections between the two men.”
He tapped on his keyboard for a few seconds, and then he showed me the screen once again. This time, it was a map of the Caribbean dominated by Cuba, The Bahamas, and Hispaniola.
“Here’s what I found. Both Lorenzo and Cabello no longer live in Mexico. Each of them has a residence in the Caribbean. Lorenzo’s base of operations is centered around Santiago de Cuba over here, and Franco Cabello lives in The Bahamas on San Andros Island here.”
I gazed at Benson’s map as if I hadn’t just spent a month in the area. “So you think the missing canisters are either in Santiago de Cuba or in The Bahamas?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t believe they could be in Santiago de C
uba.”
“Why not?”
“Because, as far as I can tell, the connections between Lorenzo and Cabello don’t intersect in that location. It’s where the connections intersect that I would expect to find the weapons. More than likely, the missing canisters are somewhere in The Bahamas, perhaps even on San Andros island.”
“How do the connections intersect on San Andros?”
“Lorenzo maintains several warehouses in The Bahamas, and that’s also where Cabello lives. I believe that’s where Lorenzo is storing the canisters while Cabello is making arrangements to sell them.”
“That’s an interesting theory, Frank.”
He closed the lid on his computer. “I plan to share it with the DDO when the Joint Task Force meets tomorrow.”
While there was an obvious flaw in Benson’s reasoning—namely, the missing canisters were indeed in Santiago de Cuba—he had come very close to figuring out the location of the weapons just by looking at the data and asking questions.
It made me wonder if I could use that same method to locate Mitchell.
“So you say you arrived at your conclusion by looking at the connections between the people in the organization. Is that right?”
“It’s not just the connections. While the connections were my starting point, it’s where those connections intersect that’s important.”
“X marks the spot?”
“Right. It was just a matter of doing some good detective work.”
Fortunately, I knew a good detective.
Chapter 29
When I walked back over to The Jefferson, I found Nikki waiting for me in the lobby. She was standing by the elevator talking to another woman, and the moment I saw her, I’m sure my heart rate clicked up a couple of notches.
Her long brown hair was piled on top of her head, and she was wearing a short-sleeved blue dress and a pair of black high heels. Silver earrings shaped like feathers dangled from her ears.
“You look fabulous,” I said. “In fact, I think you look so gorgeous I can’t even take you to a fancy restaurant. We’d be mobbed as soon as we walked in.”
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