by Brad Thor
Harvath ignored them both and rattled off a list of instructions to Tom Morgan.
Forty-five minutes later, the Troll posted his list of four names, along with their nationalities and some other info, to the private chat room. The list made no sense at all. The nationalities were all across the board. Harvath had no idea what they could possibly have in common, but it didn’t matter. He was convinced he had his man. It was the third entry on the list—Ronaldo Palmera, Mexico. Mexico was only a short boat ride from San Diego.
Harvath typed the name on his computer and hit send.
While the Troll went to work tracking down anything he could about the target, Parker and Morgan got started on their own research. Finney and Harvath were left alone to talk.
“Any of the names ring a bell with you?” asked Finney.
“No,” he replied.
“Syria, Morocco, Australia, and Mexico? I don’t know about this. I think your pal the Troll is pulling our legs.”
Harvath shook his head. “If he plays us, he’ll be the one who loses. He knows that.”
“But what kind of a list is that? It sounds like a judging panel for an international figure-skating competition. We’re talking about four of the worst of the worst released from Gitmo.”
“So?”
“So, what’s the link? What do these guys have in common that they’d all be released at the same time? And who’d care enough about these assholes to send a plane to pick them up and change out their blood as part of the in-flight entertainment?”
Harvath couldn’t argue with him. “Maybe Ronaldo Palmera will be able to tell us.”
“Maybe,” replied Finney. “But first we’ll have to find him. Mexico is a big place.”
“We’re talking about the guy who attacked my mother and almost killed Tracy,” replied Harvath. “I don’t care if we have to tear the whole country apart. He’s ours.”
Chapter 31
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
S ince interviewing Tom Gosse, Baltimore Sun reporter Mark Sheppard hadn’t slept much. The first thing he had done was verify Gosse’s claims that his friend, State of Maryland Medical Examiner Frank Aposhian, and his girlfriend/investigator, Sally Rutherford, had actually been killed in a traffic accident. They had, but the circumstances around it weren’t as cut and dried as Gosse made them out to be.
According to Gosse, Aposhian said that the night the supposed FBI agents had returned to his home, they had threatened him. They had told him to cease any further inquiries into the John Doe that had been removed from the ME’s office. Aposhian didn’t want any trouble and agreed not to ask any more questions. The problem, as it turned out, wasn’t with Aposhian asking questions, it was with his girlfriend, Rutherford.
The woman smelled something funny and refused to throw in the towel. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing to compel her to obey a pair of fake FBI agents—no matter how convincing they were. What’s more, they had no idea she and Aposhian were an item. All they knew was that she was an investigator in the ME’s office and had run a set of prints for him. As long as she was careful, whoever these clowns were, they’d have no idea what she was up to.
So Rutherford continued to dig. But what she found was far from comforting.
She avoided contacting the police department in Charleston. Rutherford had already reached out to them once and couldn’t help but wonder if they had tipped off the men who had shown up at Frank’s apartment. Instead, she contacted the Charleston coroner’s office.
Based on the backup copy of the ME file she’d made after Aposhian had been visited again by the so-called FBI agents, she had no doubt that her John Doe and the police shootout victim in Charleston were one and the same. What was different, though, was that her stiff had died from a drug overdose—not gunshot wounds.
Deepening the mystery was the fact that an application for exhumation could not be filed for the corpse, as it had already been cremated. When asked who had authorized the cremation, the coroner’s office told her that they didn’t have that information and would have to get back to her.
They never had the chance. Later that night, Rutherford and Aposhian were both killed when they ran a red light and were T-boned by another vehicle.
The fight Gosse had overheard that day sprang from Aposhian’s telling Rutherford to just let the John Doe situation go. Rutherford had uncovered something on the internet, but Aposhian didn’t want to hear about it. He just wanted it all to go away. That was when she had stormed out of her office.
That night at the funeral home, the assistant ME had turned down his friend’s offer of a second tumbler of Maker’s Mark and had called Rutherford on her cell phone. He said he felt terrible about their fight. He agreed to go pick her up, and that was the last time Tom Gosse ever saw him alive.
Gosse was convinced that whoever wanted Aposhian to stop asking questions about the missing John Doe had somehow caused the fatal accident.
Sheppard, though, wasn’t so sure. Using his network of contacts in the Baltimore PD, he spoke to all of the personnel involved in investigating Aposhian’s crash. None of them had any doubt that the accident was anything other than the assistant ME tragically running a red light. There was nothing wrong with the vehicle and Aposhian hadn’t been using his cell phone at the time of impact, but he did have a minor blood alcohol level—something Tom Gosse probably blamed himself for. But at the end of the day, the accident seemed to be Aposhian’s fault. As one of the officers put it, The poor guy simply fucked up.
Be that as it might, Aposhian and Rutherford had both apparently been on to something when they were killed. Throw in a couple of shadowy figures posing as FBI agents and even the biggest cynic would have a hard time ignoring the possibility that some sort of conspiracy might be afoot.
Why use a John Doe from Baltimore to fake a shootout with police in South Carolina?
Sheppard found the beginning of an answer to the question in less than two minutes. Charleston was a small town, especially by metropolitan Baltimore standards, and even more helpful was the fact that their citizens didn’t often get into police shootouts.
He was only halfway through the first newspaper article he’d pulled up on Google when he knew what his next move would be. Mark Sheppard was going to have to go to South Carolina.
Chapter 32
MEXICO
I t was a crappy little café in a crappy little Mexican town, but it had halfway decent sandwiches, cold beer, and, unbelievably, a high-speed internet connection.
“Progress,” Philippe Roussard mumbled to himself as he wiped the lip of his bottle of Negro Modelo with his shirt and entered his password.
The setup was quite simple and had been around for quite some time, but with all their technology the Americans had yet to find a way to crack it. Which was why it was perfect.
Roussard and his handler shared a free, web-based email account. Instead of posting cryptic messages on an electronic bulletin board, or risking being undone by sending emails back and forth, they simply left brief notes for each other in the account’s draft folder. As soon as the other read the message, it was deleted. No trail, no trace, and no chance of anyone monitoring their conversations.
Roussard did what he had to do, logged off, and then dragged the cold bottle of beer across his forehead. What a country, he thought to himself. High-speed internet, but no air-conditioning.
The bottle felt good across his face and along the back of his neck. Earlier this morning he had stopped for gas, found the men’s room, and shaved. It was one habit he practiced religiously each day. He could thank his mother for his dark features. Stubble only made it worse. While some had told him over the years he looked Italian, that wasn’t how the majority of the world saw him. Roussard couldn’t escape his breeding. He looked like what he was—a Palestinian.
For all diplomatic intents and purposes, he was French. He spoke the language and carried a French passport. He even harbored a strong dislike of Americans, wh
ich meant he fit in perfectly when he was in France. But the reality of the situation was that he hadn’t been there for years. The war in Iraq had kept him quite busy.
Being Juba, being everywhere and nowhere, striking down Western imperialist soldiers one by one with a crack from his rifle was an all-consuming affair. Then he had gotten caught.
Between intensive interrogations, Roussard had had time to think—lots of it. And in that time, certain things had become clear to him. America’s time was drawing near.
It wouldn’t happen in months or even years, but in a matter of decades, America would fall. It was already happening. It was happening right before the eyes of each and every American, yet they were too fat and happy with their Big Gulps and satellite television to see it.
Roussard was amazed at how a nation once so proud could fall so far so quickly. The fabric of American society was in tatters. All one had to do was to pull at any one of the threads and it disintegrated even faster. If it wasn’t so arrogant, America might have been worth pitying. It had achieved much, but like Rome, its gluttony for power and world domination was already hastening its drumbeat to the grave.
Roussard was anxious to get back to work. The plagues were a brilliant idea. It added an extra element of torment to what Scot Harvath would be made to suffer. And after he was finally done with Harvath, Roussard planned to return to his work in Iraq. Though the Islamic Army of Iraq had trained and deployed excellent sniper teams, the fear they struck into the hearts and minds of their enemies was not as profound as that which Juba had been able to create.
Juba was a nightmare. Juba the sniper who struck without warning kept American troops awake in their beds at night wondering if they would be next. Juba was the angel of death who decided who would live and who would die. As soon as this assignment is complete, he told himself, I can return to my brothers in Iraq. Then once more I will be home.
Chapter 33
SARGASSO INTELLIGENCE PROGRAM
ELK MOUNTAIN RESORT
MONTROSE, COLORADO
I t was late afternoon when Scot Harvath reconvened in the Sargasso conference room with Tim Finney, Ron Parker, and Tom Morgan. The resort’s chef had prepared a late lunch and the men made small talk as they ate.
Once the meal was finished, Morgan began the presentation. “I want to do a brief overall primer and then get to specifics. Agent Harvath, I am assuming you may know a lot of this, but I think Mr. Finney and Mr. Parker will benefit.”
Harvath politely signaled for Morgan to proceed.
“In the wake of 9/11, a lot of people got rolled up in Afghanistan, Iraq, and elsewhere. According to my sources, detainees come from more than fifty countries, only forty-one of which have actually been released to the press.
“The largest number of detainees come from Saudi Arabia, followed by Afghanistan and then Yemen.”
“No surprise there,” responded Finney.
“Indeed,” agreed Morgan as he activated his laptop and the screens throughout the room glowed to life with the first slide of a hastily assembled PowerPoint presentation.
“How does Mexico tie in?”
“For some time, both American and Mexican intelligence agencies have been aware of highly specialized, paramilitary training camps throughout Mexico, a number of which are located within a day’s drive of our southern border.
“The camps are operated by a group of former Mexican military special forces troops, known as the Zetas, who deserted in the mid-1990s to work as enforcers for high-paying drug cartels.”
Morgan advanced to the next slide—a collage of surveillance photos. “The camps are frequented by a variety of Arab as well as Asian nationals, including Thais, Indonesians, and Filipinos.”
“Representatives of all the world’s Islamic radical hotspots,” remarked Finney. “It’s a regular terrorist Disneyland down there.”
Morgan nodded and advanced to his next slide. “I have a colleague in D. C. who has said for years that via the Zetas, terrorists are exploiting the ability of the drug cartels to smuggle men, weapons, and explosives across our porous border with Mexico. As investigations continue, I think someday in the future we will be able to prove that men and materials involved in the attacks on Manhattan over the Fourth of July weekend came into this country via our southern border.”
“If we knew about all of this before, why didn’t we do anything? Build a fence, take out the camps, anything but just sit here while we were being invaded?”
Morgan grimaced and said, “For that kind of question you need a political analyst. As far as American intel people and a few enlightened members of Congress are concerned, the barbarians aren’t at the gates, they’ve already blasted their way through. In addition to Al Qaeda cells in northern Mexico, we’ve seen activity by Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad, among others. They’re all down there.”
The former NSA man advanced to his next slide. “Not only are they down there, but they have absolutely no fear of anyone moving against them. Their balls are so big they’ve actually begun building mosques like this one outside Matamoros, Mexico—only a few miles across the Rio Grande from Brownsville, Texas.”
Harvath had heard all of this before and had seen the evidence. The congenitally corrupt Mexican government had neither the desire nor the guts to take a stand against the Zetas and the drug cartels. They couldn’t care less about the clear and present danger the two groups posed to American security.
Finney was aghast. “What the fuck, Scot? Is this for real?”
It was one of the few things about his country Harvath was ashamed of, and his failure to respond spoke volumes.
“Why doesn’t the president or Congress do anything about this?”
“It’s complicated,” replied Harvath.
“So is prostate surgery, but you do it regardless of how much of a pain in the ass it is. The alternative is unacceptable.”
“Listen, I agree. The terrorists, the drugs, the tidal wave of illegal immigrants. I’ve got friends on the Border Patrol. This is criminal, and we’ve only got ourselves to blame. As far as I’m concerned, how can we call America the most powerful nation on earth when we can’t even secure our own borders? We’re being overrun, and if we don’t get a handle on it immediately, we’re going to wake up real soon to a very different America—one that even the most liberal among us isn’t going to enjoy very much.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
Harvath loved Finney, but now wasn’t exactly the time to be solving this particular problem. “Short of loading up your Hummer with cinder blocks, mortar, and gas money to get to the border,” he said, “there isn’t much we can do.”
“Actually,” said Morgan, focusing his attention on Harvath, “that’s not exactly true.”
Chapter 34
S o now we get to the specifics of the presentation,” replied Harvath.
“Precisely,” replied Morgan as he advanced to the next slide—a grainy surveillance photo. “Ronaldo Palmera, forty-three, born two hours outside Mexico City in Querétaro.
“A Zeta and visiting instructor at several of the camps, Palmera was known for his expertise in paramilitary warfare and exotic explosives. According to Mexican law enforcement officials, he was also known as one of the most ruthless of the cartel enforcers. In particular, he was known for the horrific ways he invented to torture and kill his victims.”
The more Harvath listened, the more he was certain that this was the right guy.
“At some point, Al Qaeda was impressed enough with Palmera to offer him a boatload of money to come to Afghanistan and work in their training camps. He was already somewhat conversational in Arabic, but added Dari and Pashto as well. Soon after, he converted to Islam.”
“The Troll said that all of the men on the list had multiple confirmed kills against American soldiers, intelligence operatives, and private contractors, so I’m guessing Palmera wasn’t brought to Gitmo just for his involvement with the Al Qaeda camps,” said Ha
rvath.
“No,” replied Morgan as he advanced to another slide, “he wasn’t. After 9/11 the United States launched Operation Enduring Freedom. In advance of putting ground forces into Afghanistan, highly specialized CIA and Special Operations teams were sent in to collect intelligence, help form alliances, and so forth. Without question, it was one of the most dangerous and important missions immediately after 9/11. It was also one of the most successful. It would have been even more successful if it hadn’t been for Palmera.
“With bin Laden’s blessing, Palmera assembled his own teams to track down the Americans that Al Qaeda knew were going to be slipped in in advance of the ground campaign. The five U. S. teams you see in this photo were taken out by Palmera, many in ways that are so gruesome, they don’t even bear mentioning.
“Suffice it to say that Palmera did most of the wet work himself—torturing and killing his American captives after they had been disarmed and could no longer fight or defend themselves. It’s said that he liked to keep trophies from his kills. In the case of the American advance teams, it was their tongues. He cut them out while the soldiers and CIA operatives were still alive and then had a shoemaker in Kandahar cobble a pair of boots from them.”
Harvath thought of his friend Bob Herrington, who had been wounded in Afghanistan while helping another wounded Delta Force operative and had seen his career come to an end because of it. Although he had been forced out of a job he loved, he hadn’t hesitated to step up once again when his country needed him. Harvath knew what kind of men those soldiers and CIA operatives Palmera had killed were. They were incredibly brave, incredibly capable, and put their love for their country above all—just as Bob had.
Harvath knew that when he located Ronaldo Palmera, he was going to make him pay for a lot more than what he had done to his mother and Tracy Hastings.