The Enemy Inside

by William Christie

  “Yes,” Luis said haltingly. “But not much.”

  “You already knew about them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because they hired you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  It was a command, not an invitation. Luis told about taking the Arab across the border once. Then the Arab hiring them to take him and the twelve across the border. The story of running into the Border Patrol. Los Zetas returning and the Arab and his men moving on.

  “Now, how did they know what the FBI was doing?”

  “From the computer. The Arab would go to an Internet café and use the e-mail. He did not trust our computer. But Los Zetas also control the Internet café. The Arab was told of the FBI plans. I do not know who he e-mailed,” Luis said quickly, seeing the look on Storey’s face. “They knew their weapons had been seized in Los Angeles. They knew they had been betrayed by a man from Pakistan who they trusted. They knew the FBI was hearing everything with microphones and seeing everything with cameras. The Arab and the Chechen spoke of this. This is why they crossed the border before they planned.”

  It was not welcome news. Storey had intended to send a message off to Washington as soon as he’d heard enough. But if there was a leak he couldn’t risk it. If Nimri was getting that kind of quality information he’d either move or hit an alternate target as soon as he heard about it. Once again al-Qaeda was moving faster than they were. “What did they do about losing their weapons?”

  “Purchased replacements from us. For double their true value.” Unbidden, Luis went down the list, and then looked at them as if for praise.

  The negro spoke for the first time. “He’s lying. He’s lying about everything. How would he know?”

  “I helped to unload everything from the truck,” Luis protested.

  Storey believed him. Luis was just the kind of weasel private nobody noticed in the background, who heard everything and knew everything that was going on in the unit. Soldiers gossiped about everything, and he didn’t doubt criminals did the same. He despaired at hearing the list, though. With that kind of firepower they could take on any big-city SWAT team, straight up. Or even overmatch the president’s Secret Service Counter-Assault Team.

  “What will they attack in Laredo?”

  “I do not know,” said Luis, his fear rising as he saw their intensity.

  “When will they attack?”

  “I do not know.”

  Storey thought: What could be in Laredo? Was there some kind of last-minute campaign stop there? Was Bush going to be in Crawford, Texas, on Election Day? Maybe the Arab was going to launch from Laredo. Then Storey realized that, bottom line, nothing had to be in Laredo. Al-Qaeda just had to be in the United States and do something, anything, within range of reporters and TV cameras. Twenty-four-hour-a-day news would do everything else for them. “Where are they in Laredo?”

  “An old warehouse on Carrillo Road. That is all I know.”

  “What is the address of the warehouse?”

  “I do not know.”

  Storey gave the wire a yank. “You’ve come this far, Luis, why make it hard on yourself?”

  Luis was sobbing again. “I’ve told you everything! Haven’t I told you everything? I don’t know.”

  Now the negro was hissing in his ear. “What shit. How would this lying little cockroach know about the warehouse but not know the address? He knows they will attack in Laredo but he doesn’t know what or when. I’m going to take his tools for a ride, and when I come back I’ll see if he wants to keep lying.” He made a move to get behind the wheel.

  “I only overheard!” Luis shouted. “Our men were saying that we also owned a warehouse on Carrillo Road, so they had to check and make sure the Arab’s was not nearby, in case they were caught. This is all I heard! I did not hear the address! I did not hear the place of attack! I did not hear the time!”

  “He’s talking through his asshole,” Troy said.

  “They were to hide there,” said Luis, trying to keep talking so they would not hurt him. “In the warehouse. I know nothing else after that. They may have left.”

  Storey had been thinking the exact same thing. He didn’t think ripping Luis’s nuts off would give them any additional answers. And now they’d gotten the mission-essential intelligence, it was time to start thinking about themselves. “Tell me the preparations your people have made to capture us.”

  Luis was desperate to appease them, and relieved to have something he could finally answer. It was like they’d figured. All the roads out of town had blocks on them. Even a few four-wheel drives cutting across the scrubland in case they tried to go off-road. The U.S. Consulate was covered. And the three international bridges had both Los Zetas and Nuevo Laredo police cars checking vehicles and foot traffic before they crossed to the U.S. side.

  Troy stepped in close and murmured in Storey’s ear, “Shit, they got more people than we thought. They wouldn’t have to pull anyone off the checkpoints.”

  But Storey didn’t reply. He didn’t even give any indication that he’d even heard. He was just staring at Luis with that preternatural focus. Then something clicked and he dug the map out of his pocket. “You mentioned three bridges,” he said to Luis. “Which three bridges?”

  Luis was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Which three bridges?” Storey repeated, more harshly this time.

  “Bridge 1, Bridge 2, and Bridge 3,” Luis said, still puzzled. Then he added, to be helpful, “The three international bridges across the border.”

  “What about Bridge 4?” said Storey.

  “That is only for trucks. Commercial. No tourists.”

  Storey turned to Troy with just the faintest hint of a satisfied smile. Then he began untying the wire from the bumper. He thought about having Luis make a call to his superiors, but being a weasel cut both ways.

  “Are we done?” Troy asked in English.

  Storey nodded.

  Troy turned around with the pistol in his hand and shot a smiling Luis in the head. “I was almost starting to like the little shit,” he told Storey. “So I had to remind myself he was out there trying to kill us.”

  “You know why?” said Storey. “You’re used to interrogating al-Qaeda.”

  “Yeah, you got to stop yourself from killing those assholes.”

  Storey looked at his watch. “We’re fast running out of time. We need put the headlights on and zero the sights on those two AKs.”

  That procedure only took a few rounds and a screwdriver.

  “You drive,” said Storey. “I’ve got a couple of things to do.”

  Troy started the engine. “I forgot to ask. What’s in those two boxes?”

  “One’s full of loaded AK magazines. The other’s full of grenades.”

  “Grenades? What kind?”

  “Old M-26 frags. I’m guessing Mexican Army issue.”

  “Where the fuck did you find two boxes of mags and frags lying around?”

  “That one SUV that missed the EFPs. Driver bailed out and ran. I guess they kept their reserve ammo in the back.”

  “You were running around in the road with two more live EFP shots out there?” Troy demanded. “What if you hit one of the beams.”

  “I placed them,” Storey said, offended. “I sure as shit knew where they were.”

  Troy let it go. “How do we get the word out on this? If we message the Pentagon command center they’ve got to notify the FBI. If we say the FBI’s got a leak the FBI is going to say we’re full of shit—you know the FBI. But the FBI’s got a leak, and if they don’t have people in Laredo they’ve got to move people into Laredo. That could take time, and al-Qaeda could be quicker than us.”

  Exactly what Storey had been thinking. “The FBI has people in Laredo. If Los Zetas was shooting machine guns at the Border Patrol, the FBI’s in Laredo.” He pulled out his PDA, extended the antenna, and began dialing. “We just have to go a bit outside the regular chain of command.
”

  “Sounds like a court-martial to me,” said Troy.

  “You up for it?”

  “Sure. Besides, I think we could beat it anyway. Are you calling who I think you’re calling?”

  “Yup.”

  “What do you think the odds of her being in Laredo are?”

  “Never hurts to try,” said Storey. “If not, we’ll go to Plan B.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Everyone had a hell of a time getting there. One van-load of FBI forensics people got lost on a dirt road and only found their way back by following the glow of all the flashing domes and portable spotlights.

  Beth Royale had never been in the desert. It was amazing how cold the night was. She could see everyone’s breath.

  Beth didn’t bother the poor Border Patrolman. He was sitting under one of the spotlights, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by all the bosses from all the agencies, all barking questions at him at once. That, of course, was where her partner was.

  The technicians were wandering around with metal detectors, looking for shell casings or anything that had been dropped. Camera flashes were popping. Others were taking impressions of tire marks.

  The Border Patrol vehicle was charred and still smoking. That hydrocarbon torched car smell was all over the hill.

  Starting at the bottom where the brush was flattened from all the vehicles running through it, Beth walked up the hill, following the cones that marked found shell casings like a trail of breadcrumbs. At the top was more pushed-down brush where they’d continued on. She walked past the limit of the spotlights into the darkness. Looking over those black hills as if she expected to see something. But she knew all the scattered headlights were law enforcement.

  She walked back over the hill and returned to the ring of lights. One of the technicians was pacing back and forth beside some deep tire ruts, waiting for his casting medium to set. “What does it look like?” Beth asked him.

  “Four SUVs,” he replied. “All the same model, but I don’t know for sure which one yet. Border Patrol says they were black, maybe Ford. One came up near the top of the hill here, opened fire, then backed down. Another one stayed at the bottom of the hill the whole time. Those two turned around, headed back to Mexico. Other two came up the hill, went over the top, and kept going. That’s it for now. Is it true there’s a state trooper missing?”

  “That’s right,” said Beth.

  “Poor bastard,” the technician muttered. He knelt down and poked his cast to see if it was hard.

  “Thanks,” said Beth. She turned, and there was Karen the Spook. “Jesus, Karen, I wish you’d stop sneaking up on me like that.”

  But Karen was serious. “They wanted me to tell you before you heard it secondhand.”

  “My dad?” Beth said quickly.

  “No, your family’s fine.” Karen paused, then said, “Your informant. Roshan. He’s dead.”

  Beth just gave a little nod, as if the news wasn’t unexpected. “His family?”

  “No, just him.”

  “Go ahead, Karen.”

  “He got a call from the group, inviting him to a meeting in San Bernardino. Place they’d never had a meeting before. L.A. office put just one car on him. After an hour at the meeting four cars leave, going in different directions. Roshan’s still there. They didn’t have a wire on him because everyone had been getting frisked going into meetings. They waited another hour, then went in. He was on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. Throat cut.”

  “And the whole group is gone,” said Beth. No question there.

  “They’re looking for them now.”

  “Anything else?” Beth said crisply.

  “No. We’ll have to wait for the damage assessment, try and trace the leak.”

  “There won’t be any damage assessment,” said Beth. “The Bureau does damage assessments after it’s been publicly embarrassed. The Bureau doesn’t conduct damage assessments that are going to cause public embarrassment. Not serious ones, at least. Besides, there were so many grubby little fingers in this pie they’ll never be able to narrow anything down.”

  “You don’t have to be such a hard-ass, you know.”

  “I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to cry, Karen. Let’s get back to work.”

  Karen studied her face in the moonlight for a moment before saying, “Okay. Come on over to the car.”

  There was a map spread over the hood, anchored with stones.

  “You mean you don’t have it on your laptop?” said Beth. A map was so low-tech for Karen.

  “Yeah, but it’s easier to see on paper,” Karen replied, clicking on her flashlight. “Here’s where we are,” she said, making a pencil circle around a ridge on the map. She slid the pencil over. “Here’s where the Border Patrol helicopter got shot down.” Another circle. “Missing state trooper made his last radio call from here. And he was heading north.” A final circle and an arrow.

  Beth leaned over the map, tracing the road networks with her finger. “So is it north to San Antonio, or south to Laredo?”

  “What’s in Laredo?” said Karen. “San Antonio. Or east to Houston. North to Dallas. Or maybe just north to Crawford.”

  “Just what we needed, a president from Texas. I bet the Secret Service is shitting.”

  “Even if they don’t make it there, they could make a lot of noise.”

  Beth measured the distances with her finger. “Anyway, they’d be in San Antonio or Laredo by now. We’ll have to wait and see if two abandoned black SUVs turn up. Or more dead bodies.”

  “Or more dead bodies,” said Karen. “They have AKs and at least one 7.62mm NATO machine gun, based on the shell casings. Which means either M-60, Belgian MAG, or German MG-3.”

  “That weapons mix sounds familiar,” said Beth. “I guess they did find another source of supply.”

  A ring tone went off. Karen put her hand on her phone. “It’s not me.”

  Beth flipped hers open and held the screen up to her face. “Who the hell could it be at this time of the morning? Weird number. Well, at least the Bureau’s paying for the call ... Beth Royale speaking. Ed! Where are y ... yes, I’m in Texas. How did you know that? Just outside Laredo. Ed, how do you know about that? Yes, I suppose I can ... all right, all right, I’ll definitely be there. And if I’m not someone else will. Yes, I’ll make sure I tell them. Ed, are you sure there isn’t anything I need to know right now? Yes, I understand. You’re damn right you’ll tell me when you see me.” She closed the phone.

  “Ed Storey?” said Karen.

  “If you can believe it,” said Beth. “He’s in Nuevo Laredo right now. He knows about the Border Patrol being shot up, and he knows there’s a leak in the FBI. That’s why he called me. He wants me to pick him up on the U.S. side of International Bridge 4 in Laredo at eight this morning. Unbelievable.”

  “Want to bet he isn’t in Mexico on vacation?” said Karen.

  “No.”

  “Mind a suggestion?”

  “What?” said Beth.

  “Remember the last time you two got together that wasn’t a date? Bring something besides your sidearm.”

  “Okay.”

  “And be careful. Think of me surrounded by all these suits all by myself.”

  “Yes, Mom. I think I need to go check out with Timmins.”

  “If you can’t find your partner, just make a half circle around him,” Karen suggested. “She’ll be the one with her nose up his ass.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Abdallah Karim Nimri wanted to scream. But he could not scream at Chechens. Only Temiraev could. And he was as bad as the rest.

  The past day had been nothing but unending grumbling. The warehouse, with no air-conditioning, was like an oven. It smelled of dust and mold and sour rotten wood. There was no way to cook food, so there was nothing to eat but fruit and candy bars and snacks. Nothing to drink but warm bottled water and juice. No place to wash except in buckets. By God, he had heard it all. All and enough.
>
  He had insisted on preparing the explosives and weapons the night before, knowing it was more difficult to get men moving in the morning. Now they were washing and eating and dressing and wiping down their rifles. And every time he tried to hurry them along they gave him that expression.

  He went to enlist Temiraev’s aid, but Temiraev was praying. All Nimri could do was wait, boiling with frustration, until he finished.

  Finally he was able to say, “The minutes tick away, my brother. If we are not careful it will be after nine, and we must have the morning.”

  After a daylong sulk, the prospect of imminent action had brought Temiraev back to being himself. “God’s will, my brother.”

  Nimri had heard Inshallah on the eve of every disaster. He was prepared to accept the will of God, once events had come to their conclusion. He was not prepared to hear it from the lips of men before a mission had even taken place, or as an excuse for their own failure. “Accept God’s will but do not tempt His judgment, my brother. Our work awaits, and every second squandered could be the difference between success and failure.”

  Temiraev’s face changed, causing Nimri to drop his hand in the vicinity of his pistol holster.

  They stared at each other for a moment, then Temiraev clapped his hands together like a pistol shot. “Get to the car!” he shouted, grinning at Nimri. “Stop wasting time! Move!”

  That finally roused them. Nimri heard the sound of boot steps on the wooden floors, and the metal clattering of weapons. He saw them heading for the vehicle, shoving candy bars into their mouths.

  Nimri paused to embrace Osman, the Dallas operative who had arranged the warehouse and provisions. He had been silent as a mute in the presence of the Chechen fighters and the famous Arab commander.

  “God grant you success,” said Osman.

  “A safe journey,” Nimri replied. As soon as they left, Osman would cross the border and fly home to Yemen. Nimri would not leave any connections for the Americans to discover afterward. Those clumsy fools in California? They could fend for themselves. But Nimri wanted to preserve this operative for the future. “Take heed, brother, when I tell you that you have accomplished the tasks you were set perfectly. If you knew how rare this is, you would understand how highly I praise you.”