The Enemy Inside

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The Enemy Inside Page 10

by William Christie


  “You got it,” said Moneymaker. “Anything else?”

  “Not right off the top of my head, sir.”

  “Well, if you think of anything, let me know. When you’ve got a plan put together, I’ll hear the brief-back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moneymaker gathered up his papers and left, shutting the door behind him.

  “Okay,” said Troy. “I can tell just by looking at you. Let me have it.”

  Storey hadn’t looked angry, just a little exasperated. “I’ve told you time and time again,” he said. “Never put officers in a position where they’re tempted to tell you how to do something. Especially when they don’t have a clue themselves. Because not having a clue never stops them.”

  “That’s all well and fucking good,” Troy replied. “But the bottom line, as usual, is we’re getting sent somewhere to try and find someone. With nothing to go on. Zip. Not that it bothers anyone but me.”

  “People are creatures of habit,” said Storey.

  “Ed, what the fuck are you talking about?” said Troy. Storey always did that. Always laying some statement into the conversation that had nothing to do with anything that had come before.

  “People are creatures of habit,” Storey repeated. “Just like they always ask the same questions, even when they know they’re not going to get a good answer, they fall into routines and patterns and stick to them. It’s natural behavior. Look how hard we have to train ourselves to analyze everything we do and always vary our times, routes, and procedures. It’s like tactics. You have to spend a hell of a lot of time teaching troops to attack. Running away don’t take any training at all.”

  Troy was a sniper by trade. On operations he could lie in the weeds for days at a time, moving nothing but his eyelids. But outside the operational environment he was like a different person. Like someone with attention deficit disorder. Storey found that dichotomy fascinating, though he was always trying to change it.

  “Okay,” said Troy. “What did I miss?”

  “Check the credit card receipts. Is there a restaurant in Rio de Janeiro listed more than once?”

  Troy flipped through the folder, knowing of course something was going to get stuck up his ass. “Yeah, there is.”

  “You have a good time, a nice meal,” said Storey. “You go back.”

  “But he ain’t going back there anymore.”

  “You ever work in a restaurant?” Storey asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Restaurant owner doesn’t survive on people coming in one time for dinner. You live and die by your regular customers. Someone comes in regular, you take care of them. More important, you remember them. Restaurant owner’d forget the names of his kids before he forgot a regular customer.”

  “Pretty damn thin,” said Troy, trying to salvage a little pride.

  “Big things come from small things,” said Storey. “Especially in intelligence. We had nothing—now we have a little something. We’ve had less before and made something happen.”

  They flew into Rio on three separate flights. Following Storey’s rules, they registered at three separate hotels. That way if one of the hotels was compromised, the other two became ready-made safe houses for all of them.

  They outfitted themselves in Brazilian clothing and the usual large number of cell phones. All prepaid, because those were the hardest to trace.

  Neither Storey nor Troy had ever operated in or even visited Brazil before. So they were dependent on Sergeant First Class Gary Poett, an Army counterintelligence specialist who was used to traveling around the world and operating undercover in small teams.

  Poett was black, about 6’3”, and built like he sprinkled steroids on his Wheaties every morning. And like a lot of guys with the early male-pattern baldness thing going on, he shaved his head.

  All in all, not the visually inconspicuous look Storey usually preferred, but he had a few ideas about using Poett’s appearance to his advantage. Besides, he liked him. And when you had to live in close quarters with someone for indefinite stretches of time, that had a way of becoming a prime consideration.

  The first thing Poett had said, at their first meeting, was, “Okay, let’s get all the shit about my name over with right now.”

  Storey had only lifted his eyebrows quizzically.

  “What do you mean?” Troy asked innocently.

  “Motherfuckers,” said Poett.

  And a couple of beats later they’d all had a good laugh.

  Storey had insisted on spending a week training with Poett before they went operational. And Storey’s training days, as Troy had warned Poett, usually lasted around eighteen hours.

  At the end of one of them, Poett had grabbed Troy and said, “Goddamn. He works you like a mule, don’t he?”

  “That he does,” said Troy, hoping he wasn’t going to have to hear any whining. He hated whining. Complaining was a military necessity. But only pussies whined.

  But that wasn’t what he heard. Poett said, “I learned more in the last week that I did in ten years doing counterintelligence.”

  “That’s Storey,” said Troy. “He was learning how you move, too. This is how he works. Once everyone’s singing off the same sheet of music, he can do his planning on the fly and not worry about you. And Storey improvises like Miles Davis.”

  “He’s that good?” said Poett. “I heard a lot about him, but he’s really that good?”

  “He’s that good,” Troy confirmed. “Started out in the Rangers when he was eighteen. Then Special Forces. Then Delta Force. Assault troop, then reconnaissance and surveillance troop. There’s only one in each Delta squadron, and they’re the best operators. Then the operational support troop, the ones trained to infiltrate cities and do recon undercover. Advanced Force Operations. When it comes to low visibility, he’s the best. Three Purple Hearts, and even I don’t know how he got them.”

  “He’s kind of ... remote.”

  “If you need a lot of maintenance, he’s not your guy,” said Troy.

  “Okay, I can handle that. If half the stories about him are true ...”

  “Half of them are,” said Troy. “The ballsiest half. Problem with Storey is, he’ll throw your shit out in the breeze. He’s so good he’ll take chances nobody else would. Someone else’d look at the mission, say forget it. He’ll figure out a way, then pull it off.”

  “Well, you been working with him for a while.” Which was a way of saying he couldn’t be that reckless.

  “He’s so good, after he throws your shit out in the breeze he’ll bring your ass back home, too.”

  “Couldn’t ask for more than that, I guess,” said Poett.

  “No,” said Troy. “You couldn’t.”

  The restaurant was in the Centro, or central zone of Rio. Near the Avenida Rio Branco. One of Rio’s prime walking and shopping areas. Narrow streets, two-story shops, and small squares. Storey had looked it up in the guidebook. A neighborhood place. Brazilian home cooking. Good food, very popular, but not fussy or expensive enough for more than two stars.

  In the rental car nearby, Storey asked everyone, “Are we all clear? No matter what happens, I’m not saying a word. He might think I’m an American, but I’m not going to confirm it for him.”

  Poett glanced at his watch. “We’re early for a Rio restaurant.”

  “That’s what I want,” said Storey. “I want the kitchen busy doing prep, and the owner’s complete attention. Now, we’ve got to lay out the cover story exactly.”

  Troy let out a barely audible groan. Storey had put it together like the headshrinker he was, fussing over every word and detail, making Poett rehearse it until both the brothers were ready to start screaming.

  “I’m ready to go,” said Poett.

  Storey gave no indication that he’d heard Troy’s groan.

  Troy dropped them off down the street, and they walked up, ignoring the valet.

  Storey was wearing eyeglasses and a mustache. He was willing to let Poett start out
with the bare scalp, but had brought along a collection of wigs for later.

  It was just after 6:00 P.M., by Brazilian standards too early for even the senior citizen’s early bird dinner.

  At the door the maitre d’ tried to tell them the restaurant wasn’t open, but Storey hit him with $20 in Brazilian reals and Poett said they wanted to discuss a business matter with the owner.

  The maitre d’ eyed them both, but especially Poett, with more than a little alarm. “Do you gentlemen have a card?”

  “Yes,” said Poett, without making any move to hand him one.

  After a prolonged silence that made the maitre d’ begin to fidget, he managed to get out, “How shall I announce you?”

  “As the impatient men who wish to speak with the owner. Now.”

  The maitre d’ dashed off. Storey gave Poett a little approving nod. He had no idea what had been said, but he liked the tone.

  No more than a couple of minutes later, the maitre d’ reappeared and ushered them to an office in the back. It was the kind of place Storey liked. Nothing too loud, from the décor to the music. Comfortable.

  The owner was a small, fat man. The kind of small, fat man who just couldn’t get his suits to fit right, not matter how much money he spent on them. He was sweating, and seemed afraid to offer to shake hands, so he gave them both awkward little bows.

  Where the restaurant’s décor was just right, his office paneling was too bright and plastic looking, the desk too big for the room.

  “Gentlemen, I am Luis Franzini, the owner of this establishment. How may I assist you?”

  Storey immediately realized the guy thought he was about to get strong-armed. Asked to pay protection or something. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Without waiting to be asked, he moved a chair up to the desk and sat down.

  Poett followed his lead.

  Flustered to find himself the only one standing, Senhor Franzini dashed around his desk and sat down. His chair squeaked badly.

  Storey noticed the adjoining door open a crack. As Poett began, “Senhor Franzini,” Storey shot from his chair and yanked the door open. He came back into the room dragging a man in a tuxedo by the hair and holding the revolver he’d taken away from him. Storey guided the man over his outstretched leg and onto the floor, placing a shoe on his throat to cut down on the noise.

  Poett improvised beautifully. He actually started laughing, a deep bass laugh that startled Storey momentarily, and the owner for much longer. “Senhor Franzini, you are in no danger. We have a business proposal, one that could be very advantageous to you. An opportunity for you to realize a considerable sum of money. But we do wish to discuss it with you privately.” He nodded, and Storey removed his foot from what he assumed was the restaurant manager’s throat.

  Being a restaurant owner, Senhor Franzini did mad very well. “A thousand apologies, gentlemen. You,” he shouted at the manager on the floor, “what are you doing eavesdropping on me? Get out! Get out this instant!”

  The manager looked up at Storey for permission. Storey casually gestured toward the door. With the pistol. The manger sprang up and left rapidly. Storey made sure the door was closed and regained his seat, smoothing his trousers. He placed the pistol in his lap.

  “My younger brother,” said Senhor Franzini, as if that explained everything.

  Now that things had quieted down, Poett began anew. “We are representing a party in a legal matter. And we are looking for a man whose testimony could be very important to the case. All we know about this man is that he is a regular customer of yours, and he has dined here several times with this man.”

  Following another nod, Storey passed a photo they’d taken of the Arab in Paraguay across the desk. And from the eyes it was clear the owner knew exactly who they were talking about.

  Storey knew the cover story sounded thin, bordering on fake. This was intentional. He wanted the owner to start thinking about Arabs and come to the conclusion that he was in the middle of something serious. So serious that he’d be too scared to notify either the police or the target.

  He nodded to Poett.

  Poett said, “You know who we are talking about.” He did not put it in the form of a question.

  Senhor Franzini thought it over, sweated some more, and eventually nodded.

  “Do you know his name?” Poett asked pleasantly.

  “Ijaz Wazir,” Senhor Franzini muttered.

  Pakistani, Storey thought. For a moment there he was frozen by indecision, unsure of his next move. There couldn’t be many Ijaz Wazirs in Rio. So this might be a good time to walk right out the door, put the intelligence community on to the name, and let them track the guy down. But if was just another nom de guerre, and he didn’t have a credit card, car, or apartment in that name, they were screwed. And if they didn’t take care of Franzini, of course he’d either tell Wazir or, more probably, sell him the information that people were looking for him. No, better to stick with the original plan, no matter how risky.

  “Do you know his address?” Poett asked.

  Senhor Franzini shook his head.

  “How often does he eat here?” said Poett.

  Senhor Franzini really did not want to say anything. But he most certainly did not want to say nothing at all. “Once a week, sometimes twice.”

  “Describe him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean describe him,” Poett said curtly. “Height, weight, hair color.”

  “Perhaps a meter and three quarters, seventy-two kilos, dark brown hair, brown eyes.”

  Poett realized that wasn’t getting them anywhere. “How old is he?”

  “Perhaps thirty years.”

  “Is he a native Brazilian with an Arab name, or is he an Arab?”

  “An Arab. Definitely.”

  “Does he pay his bill by credit card?”

  “No, cash always.”

  “What we require, then,” said Poett, “is that the next time this gentleman comes in, you notify us. We will return and you will point him out. Nothing more. This will not be done in public, of course, but perhaps from the kitchen. We will not speak to him in your establishment, or disturb your business in anyway. And for your time and trouble in this matter we are prepared to pay you twelve thousand reals.” A whisker over five thousand dollars, U.S.

  At another glance, Storey removed an envelope from his suit jacket and fanned out the cash before replacing the money in the envelope and the envelope in his jacket. The sum had been arrived at after much debate. Too small and he’d blow off the job. Too big and he’d think they wouldn’t deliver. It had to be just enough to tickle his greed.

  Senhor Franzini gave the matter some more thought, then, looking directly at Storey, said, “Twenty-four thousand.”

  Storey, having absolutely no idea what was being discussed, stared back stonily.

  This caused Senhor Franzini to panic. “My apologies, gentlemen. I misspoke. Twelve thousand is more than generous for such a small service.”

  “Then you accept?” said Poett.

  “I accept.” And then the timid request. “Half in advance?”

  “All upon completion,” Poett said firmly.

  “Of course, of course.”

  Using Senhor Franzini’s desk pen and pad, Poett wrote down two of their cell phone numbers. “Do not misplace these.”

  “Never! Never!”

  “You may now write down your mobile phone number, for us.”

  Franzini scribbled it on the back of one of his business cards.

  “We will await your call,” said Poett. He rose from his chair, and Storey followed suit.

  As Senhor Franzini ushered them out, Storey turned suddenly and clapped a hand on his shoulder, gathering up a bundle of muscle and skin and giving the man his best platoon sergeant stare, one that had terrified more than its share of Army privates.

  Which was Poett’s cue to say, “Upon reflection, you may feel the urge to tell us that Senhor Wazir has ceased to frequent your establishme
nt. Or become tempted to act as an intermediary and notify Senhor Wazir that we wish to speak to him. Or tell anyone else about our arrangement, other than your maitre d’ that you wish to be notified when Senhor Wazir arrives, for confidential reasons of your own. Giving in to any of these impulses would break our agreement. And since it might affect our case, we would look very unfavorably on it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes of course. We are in agreement, gentlemen. You may rely on me.”

  Poett signaled Storey to release him. “We certainly hope so,” he said. “We will pay in cash, at the moment you identify Senhor Wazir to us. And then we will not trouble you again.”

  “Of course, gentlemen, of course. Are you sure you would not wish to stay and dine? As my guests, of course.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Poett, almost laughing again at the insincerity of the invitation.

  “Then a drink, perhaps, before you go.”

  “We regret having to decline your generosity. We have further business this evening.”

  Before they left the office, Storey flicked open the revolver cylinder and emptied the cartridges into his palm. He tossed the empty pistol onto a chair.

  As soon as Senhor Franzini ushered his two guests out the door, he went right to the bar for a large whiskey that he did not linger over.

  The manager rushed up. “What was all that about?”

  “Nothing,” Franzini snapped. “Get back to work!”

  The manger fled yet again.

  Franzini impatiently gestured to the bartender to refill his glass. For half an instant he thought about calling the police, who he of course paid off every week. Then he called himself a fool. The police? If those two strangers, who he was certain were Israeli secret agents, were arrested, their associates would toss a bomb through his window one night and blow his restaurant into matchsticks. Probably after tying him to a chair inside. Wazir was a dead man, no matter what. If they got what they wanted, and his prayers to the Virgin were answered, no one would know he had helped them and he would be left in peace. With the money. That cheered him for a moment, then thinking about what might go wrong had him loudly calling for another drink.

 

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