by Tom Clancy
“Training for what?” Dominic asked at the same time.
“No, not just me, but I’m the one who’ll be here all the time. And the nature of the training will show you what you’re training for,” he answered. “Okay, you want to know about me. I graduated Yale thirty years ago, in political science. I was even a member of Skull and Bones. You know, the boys’ club that conspiracy theorists like to prattle about. Jesus, like people in their late teens can really accomplish anything beyond getting laid, on a good Friday night.” His brown eyes and the look in them hadn’t come from a college, however, even an Ivy League one. “Back in the old days, the Agency liked to recruit people from Yale and Harvard and Dartmouth. The kids there have gotten over it. They all want to be merchant bankers now and make money. I worked twenty-five years in the Clandestine Service, and then I got recruited by The Campus. Been with them ever since.”
“The Campus? What’s that?” the Marine asked. Alexander noticed that Dominic Caruso did not. He was listening and watching very closely. Brian would never stop being a Marine, and Dominic would never stop being FBI. They never did. It was both good and bad, in both cases.
“That is a privately funded intelligence service.”
“Privately funded?” Brian asked. “How the hell—”
“You’ll see how it works later, and when you do, you will be surprised how easily it’s done. What concerns you right here and right now is what they do.”
“They kill people,” Dominic said immediately. The words came out seemingly of their own accord.
“Why do you think that?” Alexander asked innocently.
“The outfit is small. We’re the only people here, judging by the parking pad outside. I’m not experienced enough to be an expert agent. All I did was whack somebody who needed it, and next day I’m up in Headquarters talking to an assistant director, and a couple of days after that I drive to D.C. and get sent down here. This place is very, very special, very, very small, and it has top-level approval for whatever it does. You’re not selling U.S. Savings Bonds here, are you?”
“The book on you is that you have good analytical ability,” Alexander said. “Can you learn to keep your mouth shut?”
“It’s not needed in this particular place, I should think. But, yeah, I know how, when the situation calls for it,” Dominic said.
“Okay, here’s the first speech. You guys know what ‘black’ means, right? It means a program or project that is not acknowledged by the government. People pretend it doesn’t exist. The Campus takes that one step further: We really do not exist. There is not a single written document in the possession of any government employee that has a single word about us. From this moment on, you two young gentlemen do not exist. Oh, sure, you, Captain—or is it Major already?—Caruso, you get a paycheck that’s going to be direct-deposited into whatever bank account you set up this week, but you are no longer a Marine. You are on detached duty, whose nature is unknown. And you, Special Agent Dominic Caruso—”
“I know. Gus Werner told me. They dug a hole and pulled it in after them.”
Alexander nodded. “You will both leave your official identification documents, dog tags, everything, here before you leave. You can keep your names, maybe, but a name is just a couple of words, and nobody believes a name in this business anyway. That’s the funny part about my time in the field with the Agency. Once on a job, I changed names without thinking about it. Damned embarrassing when I realized it. Like an actor: All of a sudden I’m Macbeth when I’m supposed to be Hamlet. No harm came of it, though, and I didn’t croak at the end of the play.”
“What, exactly, will we be doing?” This was Brian.
“Mostly, you’ll be doing investigative work. Tracking money. The Campus is particularly good at that. You’ll find out how and why later. You will probably deploy together. You, Dominic, will do most of the heavy lifting on the investigative side. You, Brian, will back him up on the muscle side, and along the way you’ll learn to do what—what was it you called him a little while ago?”
“Oh, you mean Enzo? I call him that because he had a heavy foot when he got his driver’s license. You know, like Enzo Ferrari.”
Dominic pointed to his brother and laughed. “He’s Aldo because he dresses like a dweeb. Like in that wine commercial, Aldo Cella: ‘He’s not a slave to fashion’? It’s a family joke.”
“Okay, go to Brooks Brothers and dress better,” Pete Alexander told Brian. “Your cover mainly will be as a businessman or a tourist. So, you’ll have to dress neatly, but not like the Prince of Wales. You’ll both let your hair grow out, especially you, Aldo.”
Brian rubbed a hand over his head stubble. It marked him anywhere in the civilized world as a United States Marine. It could have been worse. Army Rangers were even more radical in the hair department. Brian would look like a fairly normal human being in a month or so. “Damn, I’ll have to buy a comb.”
“What’s the plan?”
“For today, just relax and settle in. Tomorrow we wake up early and make sure you two are in decent physical shape. Then there’s weapons proficiency—and the sit-down classwork. You’re both computer-literate, I presume.”
“Why do you ask?” This was Brian.
“The Campus mainly works like a virtual office. You’ll be issued computers with built-in modems, and that’s how you’ll communicate with the home office.”
“What about security?” Dominic asked.
“The machines have pretty good security built in. If there’s a way to crack them, nobody’s found it yet.”
“That’s good to know,” Enzo observed, dubiously. “They use computers in the Corps, Aldo?”
“Yeah, we have all the modern conveniences, even toilet paper.”
“AND YOUR name is Mohammed?” Ernesto asked.
“That is correct, but for now, call me Miguel.” Unlike with Nigel, it was a name he’d be able to remember. He had not begun by invoking Allah’s blessing on this meeting. These unbelievers would not have understood.
“Your English is—well, you sound English.”
“I was educated there,” Mohammed explained. “My mother was English. My father was Saudi.”
“Was?”
“Both are dead.”
“My sympathies,” Ernesto offered with questionable sincerity. “So, what can we do for each other?”
“I told Pablo here about the idea. Has he filled you in?”
“Sí, he has, but I wish to hear it directly from you. You understand that I represent six others who share my business interests.”
“I see. Do you have the power to negotiate for all of them?”
“Not entirely, but I will present what you say to them—you need not meet with them all—and they have never rejected my suggestions. If we come to an agreement here, it can be fully ratified by the end of the week.”
“Very well. You know the interests I myself represent. I am empowered to make an agreement, as well. Like you, we have a major enemy nation to the north. They are putting ever-greater pressure on my friends. We wish to retaliate, and to deflect their pressure in other directions.”
“It is much the same with us,” Ernesto observed.
“Therefore, it is in our mutual interests to cause unrest and chaos within America. The new American president is a weak man. But for that reason he can be a dangerous one. The weak are quicker to use force than the strong. Even though they use it inefficiently, it can be an annoyance.”
“Their methods of intelligence-gathering concern us. You also?”
“We have learned caution,” Mohammed replied. “What we do not have is a good infrastructure in America. For this we need assistance.”
“You don’t? That’s surprising. Their news media is full of reports about the FBI and other agencies busily tracking your people within their borders.”
“At the moment, they are chasing shadows—and sowing discord in their own land by doing so. It complicates the task of building a proper network s
o that we can conduct offensive operations.”
“The nature of those operations does not concern us?” Pablo asked.
“That is correct. It is nothing you have not done yourselves, of course.” But not in America, he did not add. Here in Colombia the gloves were all the way off, but they’d been careful to limit themselves in the U.S., their “customer” nation. So much the better. It would be entirely out of character with anything they’d done. Operational security was a concept both sides fully understood.
“I see,” the senior Cartel man noted. He was no fool. Mohammed could see that in his eyes. The Arab was not going to underestimate these men or their capabilities . . .
Nor would he mistake them for friends. They could be as ruthless as his own men, he knew that. Those who denied God could be every bit as dangerous as those who worked in His Name.
“So what can you offer us?”
“We have conducted operations in Europe for a long time,” said Mohammed. “You wish to expand your marketing efforts there. We’ve had a highly secure network in place for over twenty years. The changes in European commerce—the diminution of the importance of borders, and so forth—works in your favor, as it has worked in ours. We have a cell in the port city of Piraeus that can easily accommodate your needs, and contacts within the transnational trucking companies. If they can transport weapons and people for us, they can surely transport your products easily enough.”
“We will need a list of names, the people with whom we can discuss the technical aspects of this business,” Ernesto told his guest.
“I have it with me.” Mohammed held up his personal laptop computer. “They are accustomed to doing business in return for monetary considerations.” He saw his hosts nod without asking about how much money. Clearly, this was not a matter of great concern for them.
Ernesto and Pablo were thinking: There were over three hundred million people in Europe, and many of them would doubtless enjoy the Colombians’ cocaine. Some European countries even allowed the use of drugs in discreet, controlled—and taxed—settings. The money involved was insufficient to make a decent profit, but it did have the advantage of setting the proper atmosphere. And nothing, not even medicinal-quality heroin, was as good as Andean coca. For that they would pay their Euros, and this time it would be enough to make this venture profitable. The danger, of course, was in the distribution side. Some careless street dealers would undoubtedly be arrested, and some of them would talk. So, there had to be ample insulation between the wholesale distribution and retail sides, but that was something they knew how to do—no matter how professional the European policemen were, they could not be all that different from the Americans. Some of them would even happily take the Cartel’s Euros, and grease the skids. Business was business. And if this Arab could help with that—for free, which was truly remarkable—so much the better. Ernesto and Pablo did not react physically to the business offer on the table. An outsider might have taken their demeanor for boredom. It was anything but that, of course. This offer was heaven-sent. A whole new market was going to open up, and with the new revenue stream it brought, maybe they could buy their country entirely. They’d have to learn a new way of doing business, but they’d have the money to experiment, and they were adaptable creatures: fish, as it were, swimming in a sea of peasants and capitalists.
“How do we contact these people?” Pablo inquired.
“My people will make the necessary introductions.”
Better and better, Ernesto thought.
“And what services will you require of us?” he finally asked.
“We will need your help to transport people into America. How would we go about this?”
“If you mean physically moving people from your part of the world into America, the best thing is to fly them into Colombia—right here to Cartagena, in fact. Then we will arrange for them to be flown into other Spanish-speaking countries to the north. Costa Rica, for example. From there, if they have reliable travel documents, they can fly there directly, via an American airline, or through Mexico. If they appear Latin and speak Spanish, they can be smuggled across the Mexican-American border—it is a physical challenge, and some of them might be apprehended, but if so, they’d simply be returned to Mexico, for another attempt. Or, again with proper documents, they could just walk across the border into San Diego, California. Once in America, it’s a question of maintaining your cover. If money is not an issue—”
“It isn’t,” Mohammed assured him.
“Then you retain a local attorney—few of them have much in the way of scruples—and arrange the purchase of a suitable safe house to serve as a base of operations. Forgive me—I know we agreed that such operations need not concern us—but if you gave me some idea of what you have in mind, I could advise you.”
Mohammed thought for a few moments, and then explained.
“I see. Your people must be properly motivated to do such things,” Ernesto observed.
“They are.” Could this man have any doubt of that? Mohammed wondered.
“And with good planning and nerve, they can even survive. But you must never underestimate the American police agencies. In our business we can make financial arrangements with some of them, but that is very unlikely in your case.”
“We understand that. Ideally, we would want our people to survive, but sadly we know that some will be lost. They understand the risk.” He didn’t talk about Paradise. These people would not understand. The God they worshipped folded into their wallets.
What sort of fanatic throws his people away like that? Pablo asked himself. His men freely took their risks, measuring the money to be gained against the consequences of failure, and made decisions out of their own free will. Not these people. Well, one couldn’t always choose one’s business associates.
“Very well. We have a number of blank American passports. It is your job to be certain that the people you send us can speak proper English or Spanish, and can present themselves properly. I trust none of them will partake in flying lessons?” Ernesto meant it as a joke.
Mohammed did not take it as one.
“The time for that is past. Success rarely succeeds twice in my field of endeavor.”
“Fortunately, we have a different field,” Ernesto responded. And it was true. He could send shipments in cargo container boxes via commercial vessels and trucks all over America. If one of them was lost, and the programmed destination discovered, America had many legal protections for his downstream employees. Only the foolish ones went to prison. Over the years, they’d learned to defeat sniffer dogs and all the other means of discovery. The most important thing was that they used people who were willing to take risks, and most of them survived to retire back to Colombia and join the upper middle class, their prosperity the result of something in the distant, fading past, never to be repeated or spoken of.
“So,” Mohammed said. “When can we commence operations?”
This man is anxious, Ernesto noted. But he would accommodate him. Whatever he managed to accomplish would draw manpower away from America’s counter-smuggling operations, and that was good. The relatively minor cross-border losses he had learned to endure would shrink to even more trivial levels. The street price of cocaine would drop, but demand would increase somewhat, and so there would be no net loss in sales revenue. That would be the tactical profit. More to the point, America would become less interested in Colombia, and shift her focus of intelligence operations elsewhere. That would be his strategic advantage from this endeavor . . .
. . . and he always had the option of sending information to the CIA. Terrorists had appeared unexpectedly in his backyard, he could say, and their operations would be understood to be beyond the pale even for the Cartel. While that would not gain him the affection of America, it would not hurt him, either. And any of his own people who’d provided assistance to the terrorists could be dealt with internally, as it were. The Americans would actually respect that.
So, there
was a real upside, and a controllable downside. On the whole, he decided, this had the makings of a valuable and profitable operation.
“Señor Miguel, I will propose this alliance to my colleagues, with my recommendation that we undertake it. You can expect a final decision by the end of this week. Will you remain in Cartagena, or will you be traveling?”
“I prefer not to remain in one place too long. I fly out tomorrow. Pablo can reach me via the Internet with your decision. For the moment, I thank you for a cordial business meeting.”
Ernesto stood and took his guest’s hand. He decided then and there to consider Miguel as a businessman in a similar but not competitive field of endeavor. Not a friend, certainly, but an ally of convenience.
“HOW THE hell did you manage this?” Jack asked.
“Ever hear of a company called INFOSEC?” Rick Bell asked in return.
“Encryption stuff, right?”
“Correct. Information Systems Security Company. The company’s domiciled outside of Seattle. They have the best information-security program there is. Headed by a former deputy head of the Z-Division over at Fort Meade. He and three colleagues set the company up about nine years ago. I’m not sure NSA can crack it, short of brute-forcing it with their new Sun Workstations. Just about every bank in the world uses it, especially the ones in Liechtenstein and the rest of Europe. But there’s a trapdoor in the program.”
“And nobody’s found it?” Buyers of computer programs had learned over the years to have outside experts go over such programs line by line, as a defense against playful software engineers, of which there were far too many.
“Those NSA guys do good code,” Bell responded. “I have no idea what’s in there, but these guys still have their old NSA school ties hanging in the closet, y’know?”
“And Fort Meade listens in, and we get what they dig up when they fax it to Langley,” Jack said. “Anybody at CIA good at tracking money?”
“Not as good as our people.”
“Takes a thief to catch a thief, eh?”