He chose the room closest to the latrine on the right side of the hut and lay down on the cot without undressing. He kept the Beretta 92 he had carried throughout the Middle East, from the time he had first served the Brotherhood, in his right hand alongside his leg. His plan was, when the others were asleep, to slip outside through one of the windows in the latrine. For now, he wanted to appear to be tired and unconcerned for his safety. But he still made sure his gun was loaded.
It was midnight when the other men entered the Quonset hut. He heard them laughing, tequila slurring their words, and then heard doors opening and closing in the rooms down the hallway. He heard three doors close. That left two men or boys still up. They were the ones he would wait for.
16
When Major Castillo returned them to the Tijuana International Airport, Casey watched Drake thank him and Special Agent Cooper for their help. Then they headed straight for the Gulfstream. Once inside, Drake called Liz Strobel at DHS.
“We missed him, Liz. We flew in Black Hawks and killed a lot of cartel soldiers defending the villa, but Barak wasn’t there. He’d been tipped off, and I have no idea where he is now. Unless you have something, I’m heading home.”
Casey took off his vest and sat down across from Drake, who was angrier, in a cold, silent way, than he’d ever seen him.
“So where is he now?” he was asking Liz. “If your satellite tracked the helicopter to the coast, where did it go from there?” Drake stood up. He looked like he was about to hurl his cell phone at the bulkhead in front of him. “With a hundred satellites at your disposal,” he said, “you only had one trained on the villa? Unbelievable! I thought you agreed this guy was top priority.”
Drake walked to the rear of the plane’s cabin and back. When he sat down again, Liz’s voice was loud enough for Casey to hear.
“… ever talk to me that way again! I helped you every step of the way, and I don’t need your whining. You missed him, not me. Maybe if we had used our people, he’d be on his way to Gitmo by now.”
Drake shook his head at the phone. “Fine,” he said. “Go find someone to drop everything and chase Barak like I did. By the time you guys got your act together, he could be on the moon!” He slammed the phone shut.
Casey waited for him to calm down. Finally, Drake took a deep breath and turned.
“DHS used a satellite to monitor the villa all right,” he told Casey, “but when the helicopter left and flew west, it reached the coast and then went out of range. They don’t have a clue where he is now.”
“You really want to go home?” Casey asked. “We’re closer than we were three days ago, you know. Maybe we’ll catch another break while he’s still around here somewhere.”
Drake shook his head. “No, I don’t want to go home. But I don’t want to waste your time down here, either. I know you want to get back to Megan and the kids and get your guys back on the job.”
“Another day won’t hurt,” Casey said. “Why don’t we find a place in San Diego, give Liz a day, and if nothing turns up, then head home. Megan will understand.” He paused. “Besides, you owe me that dinner I didn’t get to finish in Cancun.”
Drake had to laugh. “All right, one more day. And we’ll find someplace with an all-you-can-eat buffet so you won’t go hungry.”
Not that Mike Casey had ever really gone hungry. He’d grown up on a ranch in Montana and had always been able to eat steak and potatoes or anything else he wanted without gaining weight. When he ran track at the University of Montana, the training table also ensured that he was well nourished. The only times he could recall being somewhat hungry were on missions in Afghanistan with Drake that involved weeks of following a target, days spent in a hideout waiting for a shot with his 50 caliber Barrett rifle, and then carefully exfiltrating with nothing to eat except what he’d carried in weeks before.
As for his business, Casey knew it was in good hands and could run without him for another few days. He had enlisted in the army after his father’s death and wound up fighting beside Drake to save the world. When he’d returned home and met and married Megan, they had moved to Seattle, where he’d found a job with Puget Sound Security. After five years doing threat assessments, risk analysis, and personnel protection for high tech firms he’d bought the small company when its founder retired. Now PSS, Inc. was a smooth running company. He had surrounded himself with the best talent available and was comfortable letting them do their jobs.
He hadn’t been completely honest with Drake, though, when he said he only missed chasing bad guys some of the time. Although his work provided some of the old excitement, it wasn’t the same. The danger was still there some of the time, sure, but he wasn’t at the front line anymore. He was stuck in an office, meeting and greeting clients and running the business. The money was fantastic, and he’d been blessed far beyond any dream he’d had growing up in Montana, but he knew he belonged back in the fight. If DHS came through and picked up the tab for their little outsourced adventure, that just made it all the better.
“Drake,” he said, breaking out of his reverie, “I was just thinking…if you don’t have a place in mind, there’s a little inn north of the San Diego airport I stayed at once for a conference. You might like it. I can call them and see if there’s room for us.”
Drake was still staring out the jet’s small window. “Sure,” he replied. “Give them a call. And tell Steve to get us out of here. I’m beginning to hate this place.”
Wait until you see where I’m taking us, partner, because if it doesn’t cheer you up, you can’t be cheered up, Casey thought, as he rapped on the cockpit door to get his pilot started on the short junket across the border. Then he pulled out his iPhone to search for the Rancho Bernardo Inn, one of the coolest places he had ever stayed. A great golf course, world-class dining, and two beautiful pools, one adult only, Drake was going to love it.
17
When the snoring in the three occupied rooms down the hallway was steady for an hour, Barak made his way to the latrine and used the stiletto switchblade in his pocket to unscrew the base plates of the chains on one of the windows. Then he slipped outside. It was dark along the rear of the hut, but light from the windows of the office and lab next door allowed him to make his way across an open area behind the buildings to a grove of junipers at the base of a small ridge that circled the cove. The wind was steady from the north and whispered through the needles of the junipers. Even though there were lights still on in the lab, he couldn’t tell if there was anyone in there. But he knew only three men had entered their rooms in the Quonset hut to sleep.
It was almost four o’clock in the morning. He expected the helicopter to return from the oil tanker within the next hour. Apart from the waves pounding the hard gray sand of the beach, nothing moved and the research station remained quiet.
Most people believe the best time to attack another person is just before dawn, when they are sleeping most soundly. That is why Barak wanted to be out of the Quonset hut, just in case they chose that time to come for him. He knew, however, the common belief is wrong, that the deepest sleep occurs in the first two non-REM cycles and diminishes as the night wears on. If he had been sleeping, their chances would have been better earlier in the night.
Now he waited patiently behind one of the junipers, and when the sky to the east started to lighten, he heard the first faint sound of an approaching helicopter. At the same time, he saw light from the front door of the office building splash the ground as two figures darted toward the Quonset hut.
Covered by the sounds of the helicopter and ocean waves, Barak ran to the far side of the Quonset hut and looked around the front door, which was now partly open. Inside, he saw the two students from the lab standing in front of the door to the sleeping area, apparently building up courage to move in for the kill. He waited until they had opened the door, then moved in behind them, as they tried to silently cover the distance to his room.
Before the second student got halfway do
wn the hallway, Barak moved like a jungle cat, grabbing him from behind and covering his mouth with one hand as he drew his stiletto and cut the boy’s throat. A small gurgling sound was all the noise the boy made. Lowering him to the floor, Barak took three quick steps and caught up with the other student, who was standing with one ear pressed against his door. He was holding a large revolver. Barak silently cut his throat and dropped him to the floor, then backed down the hallway until he was through the door to the sleeping area.
In the stillness of the predawn, Barak sat on top of the old dining table with his Beretta drawn and waited for the sleeping men to get up. Before anyone came into the dining area, however, the helicopter pilot rushed in, leaving the helicopter idling outside. As soon as he was aware of the gun pointed at his head, he froze, then raised both hands above his shoulders.
“Go to the door,” Barak told him. “Tell the others to slide their weapons out and walk out slowly. Or they will not leave here alive.”
The pilot did as he was told. Then he addressed the leader. “Señor Verdugo, he says to slide your weapons out on the floor and walk out slowly or—”
“I heard him,” Verdugo said. “Señor Barak, why did you kill my researchers? They were just coming to tell you the helicopter was coming.”
“For the same reason I want to kill you,” Barak said, not moving from the table. “Betrayal is an unpardonable sin. Someone had to die for that sin, especially the ones you sent to kill me. Atonement for that betrayal is another matter.”
A shot rang out and a body fell behind the door.
“Would my dead bodyguard atone for the sin?” Verdugo asked. “I believe he was responsible for your betrayal.”
Barak despised the cowardice of a man so willing to kill his own devoted servant to save his life.
“It will for now,” he growled. “Know that if you ever betray me again, in any way, at any time, I will personally chop your children into little pieces and feed them to dogs. I will hang every member of your family before your eyes and then make you beg before I cut off your head. That is the way we guarantee loyalty where I come from. Now, before I change my mind, walk out here and get on the helicopter.”
Two revolvers and an Uzi slid into the dining area, and a smiling Verdugo and a solemn Saleem, the Hezbollah commander, stepped out. Without a word, they followed the pilot to the helicopter. Barak walked behind them with the Uzi and his pistol aimed at their backs.
The pilot took his seat and checked his instruments. He looked only straight ahead.
“Verdugo,” Barak gestured with the Uzi, “you sit beside the pilot. Saleem, take the seat behind Verdugo. I’ll sit in the back next to my merchandise where I can see all of you.”
His merchandise, as they had been calling it, was strapped to the floor of the helicopter where a passenger seat had been removed. It was contained in a wooden shipping crate, thirty-six inches high and thirty inches wide, with yellow and black warning symbols for dangerous chemicals stamped on all four sides. The nuclear device was itself housed in a canvas transport container that weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. It had been originally configured to allow troops to carry it as they parachuted behind enemy lines to destroy power plants, bridges, and dams. The demolition nuke that he had purchased from Ryan and the Alliance was a Russian weapon that had been in Iran, then Venezuela, before being sold to the highest bidder. The only requirement beyond the steep purchase price had been a promise that it would be used against the West.
With help from his Hezbollah friends, the next phase of his plan would begin as soon as they landed. This phase would include a short trip in one of the smugglers’ tunnels under the border, a careful drive north to his target, and then a few days to train the four men Saleem had selected to plant the nuke. The most difficult part of the trip, he knew, would be the hundred yards or so under the U.S. border.
Not that the tunnel itself would be a problem. His friends had perfected their tunneling skills long ago as they had engineered massive tunnels into Israel, tunnels from Gaza that were large enough for trucks to pass through.
The problem was avoiding detection by the WMD border sensors. Although the tunnel the Alliance had sponsored was supposed to be fifteen feet below the surface and deep enough to prevent detection, Barak knew that America was always creating new technologies he and his friends hadn’t heard about. Even with lead shielding, his people couldn’t guarantee that the nuke wouldn’t raise an alarm. For that reason, the railroad tracks in the tunnel had been built to accommodate a mine locomotive towing a convey rail car that had been purchased in China. With a speed of thirty kilometers an hour, the nuke would be across the border before the border guards could respond to any alarm.
As the cartel’s helicopter approached the Mexican coastline, Barak used his cell phone to alert his men to be prepared for the cartel to make another attempt to steal his nuke. All the careful planning in the world couldn’t prevent human error or greed from screwing things up.
18
The small inn Casey had chosen for their R&R turned out to be a five-star resort thirty minutes north of the San Diego International Airport. Drake had been too tired to argue with his friend when they’d checked in a little after midnight. After a restless night and being awakened at four o’clock by the sprinklers on the golf course, he was still in no mood to spend a day lounging around a swimming pool or playing golf.
What he needed was some evidence they hadn’t lost track of Barak, that the last three days hadn’t been a waste of time. He knew that someone smart enough to build an international security firm and train a cadre of assassins, someone bold enough to try to assassinate a cabinet member, could be anywhere in the world. But Drake didn’t think Barak was anywhere in the world. He would not run away and hide. He was here someplace.
With the drug cartel helping him, Drake reasoned, the terrorist was probably just across the border laughing at them. Drake’s imagination saw Barak taunting them like a matador waving his red cape in front of the bull’s nose. Like a mad fighting bull, Drake was feeling his anger crowding out the icy control that had kept him alive in Afghanistan and Africa. Maybe Mike was right, he told himself, maybe he did need to step back a bit and think things through. Barak had been one step ahead of them all along. As long, as they were chasing from behind, he would stay ahead.
Drake put on a pair of workout shorts and started through the morning exercise routine he used whenever he was away from home. Ten minutes of stretching were followed by twenty-two minutes of body weight exercises that included explosion pushups, squat jumps, reverse crunches, and shadow boxing until he was ready for a hot shower. After shaving and dressing, he called Casey’s room.
“What?” his buddy said. “I’m sleeping.”
“No, you’re not. We need to talk.”
“You need to talk. I need to sleep. Go back to bed.”
“It’s oh five hundred. Meet me in the restaurant and we’ll have an early breakfast.”
“They don’t serve breakfast until six. I checked. I’ll meet you then.” Casey hung up.
Drake knew nothing he could do or say would get his friend out of bed until six o’clock, so he called Liz Strobel in Washington, D.C. With any luck, she would be in her office with something new on Barak.
“Good morning Liz,” he said in his best cheerful voice. “Long night or an early morning?”
“Both. Thanks for asking.” Her voice was marginally less angry than in their last conversation. “You’re up early.”
“I didn’t sleep very well. We parked Mike’s plane here in San Diego and decided to hang around for another day in case you turn up anything on Barak.”
“Well, if that’s the only reason you stayed, you may as well go home,” she replied. “We have nada, zip, nothing on the man. Once he got beyond the focus of our satellite out over the ocean, we lost him. DEA’s reaching out to all of their sources in Mexico, but so far nothing has turned up. We’re still monitoring the phone of his friend from
Cancun. That friend, by the way, made his roundabout way to South America and the Tri-Border Area via Stockholm, Berlin, Rome and Sao Paulo, Brazil.”
“Did he have business in all those places?”
“Might have, but he never stayed long enough for us to find out. He never left the airports, just moved from one plane to the next.”
“Liz, we need to know more about this guy. Whatever connects him to Barak, he sure went out of his way not to lead us back to the Tri-Border Area. There’s a big Muslim population down there. You think this guy’s involved in terrorism or drug smuggling?”
She gave a short laugh. “They’re one and the same today. That’s what’s going on in Mexico. Hezbollah is working with the cartels to fund their efforts. Helping them build tunnels under the border so they can use the cartel’s smuggling routes into the U.S. for human trafficking and getting Other Than Mexicans—that’s OTM’s—and other illegals across the border.”
“Do we know if Barak has any ties to Hezbollah?”
“Good question. But you know as much about Barak as we do at this point. Other than what we turned up from his offices in Las Vegas, we don’t know anything about him. Mexico did arrest the head Hezbollah guy in Tijuana not long ago. Maybe they can get someone to ‘talk’ with him and see if he’ll give us anything about Barak. Mexico is not real good at treating their prisoners well. He might want to trade information for a nicer cell.”
“It’s probably worth a try. I wonder if they’ll let me talk to the guy.”
“I don’t think the Secretary would approve that,” she said. “We let you go after Barak in Cancun so we didn’t have to ask permission to operate in their country. Asking permission to get you in to talk with their Hezbollah prisoner, well, that might get them curious about that dead body that turned up in Cancun while you were there.”
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