“You might have more success with him than you imagine,” said Nimri. “But I have something else I wish to discuss with you.”
Rafael raised his beer. “This house is yours.”
“I would like to purchase arms from you before we cross the border.”
Rafael eyed him carefully. “This was not your plan originally?”
Now Nimri realized that Rafael was smelling a last-minute renegotiation after all the hard bargaining on the price for the crossing. “No, it was not. My plans have changed, and I was hoping you could accommodate me. I realize it is short notice.”
Rafael looked a little less suspicious. But only a little less. “This can most likely be arranged. What arms do you wish to buy?”
Nimri knew he would have to be almost as careful with this one as Temiraev. “Thirteen pistols, 9 millimeter. Glock, SiG, Heckler and Koch, it does not matter. But they must be new, and they must have the large magazines. Holsters, like you wear under your shirt. Two magazines each. Magazine pouches. Ammunition enough for two magazines, and to refill them again.”
“That is no problem. Anything else?”
“Ten Kalashnikovs. Six magazines each, magazine pouches, slings, cleaning kit. Six hundred rounds per rifle.”
“Easy.”
“Two machine guns. Three thousand rounds per gun. Cleaning equipment.”
“What kind?”
“What do you have available?” Nimri asked.
“The Spanish Ameli in 5.56 millimeter. The MAG in 7.62 millimeter. Mexican army issue. Anything else will take time.”
“The MAG will be fine. Armor-piercing ammunition if possible.”
“Perhaps. Spare barrels? Tripods?”
“Not necessary. One sniper rifle, with telescope. Not bolt action, if possible.”
“Then it must be the German G-3 sniper rifle, the G -3 SG/1.”
Nimri guessed that was Mexican army issue also. “Very well, with two hundred rounds. Magazines, pouches, cleaning kit, sling. Also, four pairs of binoculars. Thirteen handheld radios—good ones. And thirteen pairs of the night glasses.” After using them on the last trip across the border, he had to have them now.
Rafael had to think about that for a moment. “We can do thirteen.”
“What about an RPG?”
“The Russian?” said Rafael.
“Yes, the RPG -7.”
“It would have to come up from Nicaragua. Can you wait at least two weeks?”
“No. Do you have anything like it?”
“The American LAAW. Very light. Shoot the rocket and throw away the fiberglass tube.”
“Are they difficult to learn?” Nimri asked.
“Very easy.”
“Range?”
“Two hundred meters.”
Much less than the RPG. “I will want twenty-five.”
“That many?”
“I will want to practice with them. As a matter of fact, I will want to practice and test fire everything before we leave. Is that a problem?”
Rafael aimed his thumb. “The desert is out there. No problem.”
“Hand grenades. Fifty.”
“American okay?”
A grenade was a grenade, as long as it worked. “Fine.”
“We have smoke and gas too, if you like.”
Nimri’s ears perked up. “Gas?”
“Tear gas.”
Now that was an interesting idea. “Fifteen of each. And thirteen gas masks.”
By now Rafael was writing the whole shopping list down. “Anything else?”
“Antiaircraft missiles?”
“Madonna, my friend, you are ambitious.”
“Do you have them?”
“Not for you, I regret. It would have to be Nicaragua again. And I warn you, they will be very expensive.”
“The same two weeks?”
“If not more.”
“Never mind then,” said Nimri. “What about explosives?”
“What do you want?”
“I prefer plastic.”
“Plastic is available, but expensive.”
Nimri did not want to fool with civilian dynamite or gelatin if he could help it. Too sensitive. One stray bullet strike at the wrong time meant disaster. “I want plastic.”
“It is your money. How much?”
“Ten kilos. Bags to carry it. Two dozen time detonators, two dozen electric. A roll of time fuse, two dozen igniters, two crimping pliers. A roll of wire and two blasting machines—small ones. I think that will be all. How quickly can you have everything?”
“How quickly do you want everything?”
“Two days.”
Rafael chuckled grimly. “Two days can perhaps be done, my friend. But for two days there will be no bargaining.”
The quick reply told Nimri that Los Zetas would be taking the weapons and explosives out of their own stores. With a hefty commission for Rafael, no doubt. “You tell me the price, and I will tell you if I will bargain or not.”
“The price I will perhaps have for you this evening.”
“And delivery in two days,” said Nimri.
“And delivery in two days.”
“Then we will test fire and practice with the weapons on the third day, and cross the border on the fourth.”
“That soon?” said Rafael.
“And I wish to make a small change to the crossing arrangement.”
“You are filled with changes. Tell me and I will give you my answer.”
“A small change. Instead of dropping us off in America, add two vehicles to your convoy. With Texas licenses, as before. Your men will drive them across the border. Then you leave, and leave the vehicles with us—we will continue on our way.”
“I wondered why you did not ask for that at first,” said Rafael. “Bulletproof vehicles?”
Nimri thought about the cost. “Not necessary. Can it be done?”
Rafael closed his little leather notebook. “It can be done. But you must share some information with me.”
“I will not discuss what I will do after I cross the border,” Nimri warned.
“This I have no desire to learn. But you are now twelve men plus yourself. You buy weapons for twelve men plus yourself. I was told to expect at least another eight men.”
Nimri had been right. He would have to be careful. “My plans have changed. No more will arrive.”
“Very well. Your plans have changed. Now, when it seemed you had plenty of time, you wish to buy weapons and leave in four days. Your plans have changed, and this is your business. But something seems to be pushing you across the border. You have hired Los Zetas to do this thing, so it concerns Los Zetas. Los Zetas have guaranteed your safety, which is my responsibility. But the safety of Los Zetas is also my responsibility. So I ask you to share this information with me. And I beg you, for your own sake, to tell me only the truth.”
Nimri knew it would be madness to underestimate this man. Or his organization. He also knew that the entire operation was resting on his answer. “It is possible that our travel route has been compromised by the Americans. I do not know this for certain, but I cannot take the chance. I intended to move across the border without arms, but now I feel that is another chance I cannot take. The faster I move, the less risk for me. And for you.”
Now Rafael’s expression was frightening in its intensity. “How much do your travelers know about us?”
“They did not even know they were going to Mexico until they stepped on the plane to Mexico City. They did not know they were going to Monterrey until they stepped on that plane. And they did not know about Nuevo Laredo until you drove them here from Monterrey.”
Rafael had watched Nimri’s face with that same unnatural focus the entire time. “I believe you. Not because I think you cannot lie, but because I have watched you and think you are a professional. You will not discuss who was to have met you in the United States. Fine. But we will use a different route and I will leave you in a different place than we discusse
d before. This we will not negotiate.”
“It is acceptable to me,” said Nimri. He knew it would useless to try and convince Rafael that his American operatives had not been told of the crossing location.
“For everything else, I will have to speak with my leaders before you have my answer on the arms and the border.”
Nimri knew that if the answer was no they would all be killed. Only half the agreed-upon money had been paid. He had to gamble that Los Zetas would want the other half. Without torturing him for the bank wire codes, he reminded himself. Yet another trap to plan a way out of. “I understand. I have not led the Americans here.”
“Perhaps. But you still think they may appear, looking for you.”
“They may,” Nimri admitted.
“This is our city,” said Rafael. “It would be their misfortune.”
Chapter Sixteen
When Nasser Saleh heard the message inviting him to lunch, at first he thought it was something his parents had gotten him into. The North American Islamic Friendship Society sounded just right for them. And how else would the guy have gotten his number? So he’d ignored the message on his machine. But the guy kept calling.
Which gave Nasser the idea that maybe his resume had found its way around town, and he was calling about a job. So he returned the call. The guy was pretty vague, but he did invite him to lunch. Nasser could always blow him off—after the free lunch.
Nasser didn’t know the place, but a deli on K Street north of the White House was going to be packed at lunchtime. The things you did for a free meal.
At lunchtime FBI Headquarters spilled out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, and Nasser joined the throng heading north.
The deli was mobbed. One look inside and he almost turned around and walked out, except a waving arm attracted his attention. A guy in a booth by himself, who was the only other Arab in the place. With any luck no one would call the police. That had happened to Nasser before. He made his way over.
“Nasser?” He was a few years older, closer to thirty, taller and with a thick shock of straight black hair that fell down onto his forehead.
“I’m Nasser.”
“Samir Bakri. Call me Sam. Thanks for meeting me.”
He wasn’t a native-born American. Nasser had gotten pretty good with accents, and this sounded Algerian. The fast-talking lobbyist type. The free lunch might not be worth it. Nasser grabbed a menu and started looking for something expensive.
“You know, I did the same thing you do now,” said Bakri.
A harried waitress, who had obviously been waiting for someone to arrive to justify the booth, arrived to take their order. Nasser had hot pastrami on a roll, and a Diet Coke. Bakri kind of creeped him out by ordering the exact same thing.
After she left, Bakri repeated, “Yes, I did the exact same thing you do. Translation.”
“Really?” said Nasser, just to make conversation. “For who?”
“I applied to the FBI, but you know how long that takes. I got a better offer.”
Nasser was getting all kinds of strange vibes. “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but if you don’t mind, what did you want to see me about?”
“Dr. al-Hakam suggested I talk to you.”
Nasser’s stomach began to clench up. “Are you a lawyer?”
“No. The North American Islamic Friendship Society is investigating what’s going on at Guantánamo.”
The fear hit Nasser like a cold chill all the way through his body. He wanted to get up and run, but his legs were frozen and it was like he was bolted to the bench. “I can’t help you.”
“Dr. al-Hakam thought you could.”
“He was wrong.”
“Don’t you want to help your people?”
“I have to go. You’re going to have to excuse me. I have to go.”
As he rose up, Bakri laid some papers down on the table. “Are these yours?”
Halfway up, Nasser looked down and saw his FBI Guantanamo e-mails. He felt like he was going to throw up. The professor hadn’t been walking around thinking. He’d been at the copy machine.
“Why don’t you sit back down and hear me out?” Bakri suggested.
As if he’d been rocked by a blow to the head, Nasser obeyed.
“The problem is, Nasser, that in order to receive your security clearance you signed a Classified Information Nondisclosure Agreement. You agreed not to improperly divulge classified information. The agreement also described the penalties, if you remember. They’re very harsh. I’m sure you know that when you took those e-mails out of your office you violated that agreement.”
Nasser couldn’t remember many times when he had absolutely no idea what to say.
“I think you’ve got me all wrong,” Bakri said smoothly. “No one wants to get you in trouble. Especially with the FBI.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you, the NAIFS investigates the mistreatment of our people by the government. Any violations of their civil rights. That is why the last thing we want is to see you mistreated by the government. If you didn’t feel the same way, you wouldn’t have shown those e-mails to your professor.”
Everything stopped as the waitress set two plates down in front of them. “Thank you,” Bakri said to her. Then when she was gone, “We would really like you to help us out. Nothing formal like a consulting agreement, of course, that would make the FBI angry. But we would pay your expenses.”
The smell of the hot pastrami rising up from the plate, which Nasser ordinarily would have loved, was making him sick. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Sure,” said Bakri. He handed Nasser a thick business envelope. “Take a look at this while you’re in there. And please don’t run off. No matter how much you’d like to.”
Nasser hurried into the men’s room, took a stall, and ripped open the envelope. Inside was $5,000 in cash. He twisted around and violently threw up. Then again, losing all his Diet Coke.
He flushed the toilet and wiped his mouth. He was bathed in sweat. His cell phone rang. Even in the midst of all that was happening he was a child of his age, and could no more not answer his phone than stop breathing. Someone was sending him a photo. At least that was something not terrible for his mind to grab onto. He watched hypnotically until it blinked onto the screen. It was him taking the envelope from Bakri, snapped by someone in the restaurant.
Nasser spun around and vomited again. His stomach was empty, but he was wracked by dry heaves.
Even after they ended, the last thing he wanted to do was go back out into the deli. But he was trapped.
He put the envelope back onto the table. “I don’t want this. Take it for yourself. Take the e-mails. But leave me alone. Please.”
Bakri put down his sandwich. He’d almost finished it. “Nasser, that’s quite impossible. Without our help the FBI would surely start a security investigation on you. You would be indicted. Your parents would be bankrupted by the legal expenses. You’d go to prison. We can’t let that happen.”
Nasser realized that all the pleading in the world wasn’t going to save him. He felt like he wasn’t getting enough air. And something was happening to his head. He couldn’t hear any of the clatter in the deli. All he heard was Bakri’s voice.
“You applied to the Bureau, didn’t you?” Nasser said. “You didn’t pass the polygraph.”
Bakri wiped his hands on his napkin, folded up the e-mails, and tucked them under the envelope. He pushed all of it back across the table. “Keep the e-mails. We have copies.”
Nasser just sat there.
“You really shouldn’t leave that out on the table,” Bakri said. “Put it in your jacket.”
When Nasser did his recruitment was complete. Another photograph had been taken of him doing it.
“Did you print out the e-mails?” Bakri asked.
“Flash drive,” Nasser said tonelessly.
“From your computer?”
“Yes.”
“That was reckless. FBI s
ecurity is a joke, but we cannot risk you coming to any harm. I promised you we would protect you, and we will. You’ll need to have a new computer. Listen carefully.”
Bakri began telling him what he needed to do. Nasser folded his napkin and took out a pen.
“What are you doing?” Bakri demanded.
“Writing it down.”
“Write nothing down. Memorize this.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, all of it.” When he finished he made Nasser repeat it back, correcting him until he got it right.
“Next,” Bakri said. “We’re very interested in this case in California that’s been in the newspapers.”
“Not Guantánamo?” said Nasser, perhaps finally realizing what was happening.
“Guantánamo of course. But we feel these people in California have been falsely accused. It’s quite possible that their civil rights have been violated. The more information we have, the better.”
“I’m not translating that case,” Nasser said desperately.
“No matter. I’m sure you’ll be able to discover who is, and borrow their computer when they’re not using it. In any case, you must always use someone else’s computer when you retrieve this information.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Of course you can, if you apply yourself. And time is of the essence. We can’t hope to defend these brothers if we don’t have information about the government’s case against them. You have to work quickly. But do the other thing first. I’ll contact you the day after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow?”
“Yes. Please have the California information by then.”
Nasser looked down at his plate.
“You don’t look well at all,” said Bakri. “You should eat something.”
The next day Nasser arrived at work early, but not too early. He unplugged his computer. He’d bought a fireplace lighter, breaking it apart, discarding the butane tank, keeping only the piezoelectric igniter. Pressure on the piezoelectric crystal is what produced the spark to ignite the butane and produce a flame. A spark hot enough to ignite flammable material is more than 2,000 volts. It only takes 200 volts to destroy a computer chip.
The Enemy Inside Page 21