by Kirk Russell
Mondari showed us a worried text from Pylori. Screenshots not working anymore. Hang up calls last night. Two guys in a car outside on the street. Freaking out!
At three a.m. Mondari asked, “Can I go home?”
“We may need to move you someplace safer.”
“I’m okay tonight.”
I should have listened to my instincts. I should have known.
31
July 9th, 5:00 a.m.
Before dawn, Beatty sat on the cool steel of the metal flight-trailer steps and watched mechanics disassemble the last drone. Lights strung from the aluminum struts of the drone hangar illuminated enough for him to see their progress. The wings came off and were strapped to side brackets inside the truck. The fuselage was hoisted and slid into a custom cradle. All three drones the same way, one truck for each. When the trucks left, he watched their lights make the sweeping climb up and over the rock hills.
Then it was quiet and there were still stars back over the mountains behind. To the east the sky lightened. To his left he saw the headlights of Eddie’s pickup, two pinpricks of light way out there but coming this way. Funny how he’d worried that if he were out here for months he’d go stir-crazy. It turned out so different. Now he wanted to stay out in the open desert and not have to hear his name on TV or have a waitress refuse to seat him, like yesterday.
When he checked again, Eddie’s headlights were much closer. Eddie liked fresh coffee, so what the fuck, let’s make Eddie some coffee. Beatty stood. He stretched, then went up the remaining stairs into the flight trailer. As the coffee brewed he slid onto his chair in front of the computer. He checked the audio file. Ready to go. A few minutes later Eddie rolled up, parked, and came through the door ready to fight.
“Did you talk to your FBI friend like I told you to?”
“Not yet. Want coffee? I just made it for you.”
“You’re going down if you don’t back me on this. I told the FBI you looked at the drone pilot résumés and said which ones to hire. It’ll be your word against mine.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“Fuck your coffee.”
“You sure?”
“You listen to me.”
Beatty listened as he poured the coffee down the sink. Eddie said, “The only reason the Feds are on me is you. They’re in my bank accounts, everything. You and your problems are fucking up my life, so you’re going to do what I say or I tell them all kinds of shit. I’ll make it up as I go. You made threats against the air force. Maybe it was drunk talk or you were high, but what you said scared me. They’re looking for anything on you. They keep pushing with questions, and I’m keeping them hungry, okay. They know I want to deal. But what I really want is to make a deal with you. Everything about the drone pilots, anything to do with drones, that’s you. I’ve got papers you signed that you vetted them.”
“What’s wrong with the drone pilots, Eddie?”
“Nothing is wrong. They’re all good, but I need the FBI off my back. I need everything to do with you out of my life. I’m going to give you money. Ten thousand dollars and until noon today to give me an answer.”
“And what happens when I don’t?”
“You don’t want to know. It’ll be bad. It’ll be really bad. It’ll be all the things you talked about doing to get even with the air force. I will fuck you up for life. Or you do the smart thing and take some money and do what I say. You’re going to need the money. You call me before noon or—”
“Shut the door on your way out, Eddie.”
Eddie shut it hard, and Beatty closed the audio file. He e-mailed the recording to Grale, then just sat there.
32
When I stopped by the hospital, Julia was asleep. I left her a note and drove to the office. I had access to all terrorism databases but also kept my own list of bomb makers. On my list you needed to be active within the past five years.
Some built bombs in primitive mud-walled buildings high in remote mountains. One had holed up for years on the twenty-seventh floor of a Bangkok high-rise. Another worked from an abandoned warehouse in Spain. Some were hermitic. Some had relatives who helped assemble the parts. A few visited the scene of their work to try to figure out how to do it better. Many dealt through third parties or through a friend or family member. Most didn’t travel, or if they did, didn’t go far, and those who traveled to another country were usually pros.
We could be looking for someone homegrown, such as a disgruntled former armed service member who knew C-4 and was recruited. Aspects of that profile are what made Beatty a person of interest. If AQAP could recruit and train a sleeper cell, then why not a homegrown bomb maker trained by our military? That was possible, but I doubted it.
I divided bomb makers into two basic categories: Religious zealots and the ideologically driven were filed under Righteous. This included the Timothy McVeigh and Osama bin Laden types. It didn’t matter to me what religion or political belief they killed for, so long as they were true believers and were willing to murder for their particular religion or political persuasion. They were always right. Their bombs were always just. The dead were always infidels or labeled with some dehumanizing word.
The second group I called Trolls. Trolls had zero interest in doing God’s or Allah’s work, or engaging in politics. They built bombs for money, the thrill, power, or all three. They had no more or less morality or lack of it than the religious true believers, but they had key differences. They weren’t driven by a sense of outrage or purpose. They weren’t seeking retribution, validation, or a prestamped ticket to the afterlife.
Some trolls made a lifestyle out of bomb making. They lived well from job to job and were shrewd about what projects they took on. A few were adept travelers and dangerous anywhere. That’s what I thought we were looking for here. A traveling troll. Mondari’s claim of a cartel delivering a fabricante de bombas fit the traveler group. On my list there were twenty-three who met that criteria. That didn’t rule out a new bomb maker, but I felt odds were, we were looking for somebody known.
I scrutinized that list and was at my desk when an audio file came from Beatty. I listened, saved it, and forwarded the e-mail to Venuti just before Jo called.
“I’m at the hospital,” she said. “They’re telling me Julia had another very hard night. I think she needs grief counseling to start now. I know a retired nurse who isn’t a counselor but who would be really good. She’s seen it all and has a huge heart. Should I send you her phone number? What do you think?”
“Send it. I’ll call her.”
“There’s something else. One of Julia’s friends thinks Julia isn’t going to see them very much anymore. She thinks that when she lives with you, she’ll have to go to a different high school and will lose all her friends.”
“If I can’t get it approved for her to attend the same high school, then I’ll lease my house to someone and move to her school district.”
“I know and I’m sure she wouldn’t think of saying anything. I’m not even sure she said anything to her friend. It may just be that her friend thinks that.”
“It’s legit. I’ll figure it out.”
An hour later I took a call from Rosamar Largo, who wanted to meet for lunch. I was on the fence about that and threw it out for Venuti to decide.
Venuti said, “We’ve found no evidence that Menderes was her brother, and she’s not exactly grief stricken. We talked to her ex yesterday. He says their marriage ended because she was sleeping with a drug dealer boyfriend. He also said cocaine cost her a good casino job. Go ahead and have lunch with her, but make it clear that if she holds back anything more, she’s dealing herself in. She met with two agents yesterday. Why call you?”
“Juan Menderes’s murder. When the homicide detectives questioned her, they used me as the bad guy. They told her I believe she knew what would happen to Juan.”
“Do you believe that?”
I nodded.
“Do you want to do this lunch with her?”
“I’ll do the lunch and then I’m out.”
“Meaning what? Meaning you think Largo and Menderes are about drugs only and everything to do with them is unrelated to the bombings. They killed him, so he couldn’t talk about the drug deliveries.”
“Probably. He’s got a history of moving drugs. He worked for a coyote. Under his former name he’s got enemies in the drug world, and she’s got money she can’t explain.”
“Why does she want to have lunch with you?”
“Good question.”
“I’ll send a couple of agents in ahead of you, so look for them when you get there. What’s the coyote work Menderes did?”
“The roommate Enrique Vasco told me Juan ran a crew for a coyote who led border crossers to their deaths from dehydration and heat exhaustion. Juan’s crew followed and stripped the bodies of anything valuable, including gold fillings. I think there’s something there that ties to the cocaine peddling, and it worries her.”
“I can’t even follow that.”
“Never mind, I’ll go do the lunch.”
The restaurant was large, cool, and quiet inside. I was ten minutes early, but Rosamar was already at a table with a margarita. Two agents sat at a table behind her. She ordered sparkling water and an appetizer. I ordered a chicken sandwich and iced tea. Before the waiter left, she changed her sparkling water to another margarita then stared at my hands.
“You don’t have a ring.”
I took it off a decade ago after the memorial service for Carrie. Rosamar took a generous sip and looked at me with a glint in her eye, something humorous occurring to her. I doubted it was my left hand.
“I once slept with an FBI agent who was married. This is when I was dealing blackjack and before I was married the first time. He wasn’t from your office, but honestly you all look alike.”
“People say that. It makes them feel better, I guess. How many agents do you see in the room?”
She looked around.
“Just you.”
“The agent I slept with was working on an interstate fraud thing and would come to my table every night and wait for my shift to finish. I knew he was married and it wasn’t going anywhere long term with him. While I was undressing, he would call his wife and talk to her in a low voice about the surveillance he was on. When he got tired of me, he told me about his moral compass. He said all FBI agents have one. How’s yours?”
“How about the drug business and who you and Juan worked with? Who wanted him killed? Did you get a call after the Alagara bombing and get told where to drop him? He phoned somebody else first. Did they phone you with instructions?”
“Why are you saying that?”
“We know where Juan got his new name and ID. Juan Gutierrez needed a new last name when he came out of prison. He’d made some serious enemies, but luckily the real Juan Menderes was willing to sell his identity to keep his family alive. So Juan Gutierrez became Juan Menderes. Of course a new name doesn’t mean people don’t recognize you, so after crossing the border, he went to work for the Sinaloa cartel. Probably figured that would protect him. He’s not your half brother. So if you want to make this a working lunch, let’s talk drug dealing. I think you need us, Rosamar. What happened to Juan could happen to you. You know too much, so let’s talk. Let’s figure something out.”
“I’m unemployed and looking for work. I did a tryout to deal cards again and I’m still good with them, but they won’t hire me because I look too old. These lines at my eyes and around my mouth, they’re a no-go. They said it was my card handling, but it wasn’t.”
“Try another casino.”
“I’ve tried them all.”
“I think you’re in danger. I think you should come clean with us. You do that, and I’m sure we can help you. Did Juan have any connection to the bombing?”
She answered that by reaching across the table and gripping my hand, and then pretending to jerk hers free just as the waiter approached with food.
She said loudly, “I just can’t do this with you. I can’t be in a relationship right now.”
She grabbed her purse and left. The waiter paraded a bemused smile as he returned with the check.
Midafternoon I sat down with Venuti and Thorpe.
“A lawyer called, not what’s-his-name, she’s got someone new. She intends to file a complaint against you for telling her that if she had sex with you, you’d make all the FBI questions go away. We talked to the lawyer and told him we had other agents there and the entire conversation is on tape, so no issue, but that’s it with you and her.”
“Works for me, and I’ve got a question for both of you. If Omar Smith knew about the Alagara bomb plot, then he knew the building could be destroyed or burned down. Would he risk letting the money get burned up or blown apart?”
Venuti shrugged. Thorpe said, “Maybe it’s his cover.”
“Hundreds of thousands of dollars? I don’t see that,” I said. “He likes having money.”
“He knew something,” Venuti said.
“You mean he’s not telling us everything? I agree, he knows more, but I don’t think he thought a bomb would detonate inside the Alagara.”
We left it there.
33
It was inevitable someone would post a YouTube video after a tour of Beatty’s trailer. When it happened, it went viral. The video was shot to make the trailer look like a creepy place, cracked wood at the deck steps, dead cactus in a planter, sliced-open garbage bags taped over the windows from the inside, dead flies on the floor, a door creaking open, and twilight gloom inside. A flashlight beam swept the tabletop and lingered on duct-tape repairs to the Barcalounger and Styrofoam trash no longer stacked neatly on the floor. A voice-over talked about confiscated computers targeting US cities.
The camera panned across stripped walls. It moved behind the tacked-up sheets to the bed and small bathroom still cluttered with clothes. The flashlight beam circled a vomit-caked bathroom sink. The video ended on the table and the open door. Eerie and nothing like the Jeremy Beatty I knew.
I walked into Venuti’s office soon after. He was in a clean suit and had a new haircut. Must have gone home. Good. He needed to.
“Shut the door, Grale, and let’s have that talk again.”
“What happened to forty-eight hours?”
“The Bureau will announce tomorrow evidence is conclusive that Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula supplied the C-4 for the three attacks and that ISIS aided in its transport and built the cell here.”
“Are we going to provide any evidence of that?”
“We’re not going to reveal too much but will ask the public for tips.”
“Whose idea is this?”
“There’s consensus. To be blunt, we need people looking hard at their neighbors.”
I didn’t say anything to that. I looked past Venuti, and Venuti said, “You’re thinking this may push them to act sooner with the remaining C-4.”
“It could and we’re not really giving the public anything to work with.”
“We are. We’re giving probabilities.”
Venuti ticked them off as if that would convince me. The sleeper cell most likely was predominantly male with an age range between twenty-one and forty-five. He went right down his list, but he had many of the same doubts as me.
“If the analysts are right, there’s a sleeper cell of seven to ten individuals,” he said.
“Where are they getting these numbers?”
“Through hours required for tasks performed, coordination, phone analysis they’re not talking much about, and an algorithm drawing from the variables. So do we adjust what you’re doing? Do we still put hours into Mondari?”
“How did we jump from this to Mondari?”
“We’re going to see a flood of tips, and we’re going to need everyone. We’re going to account for every house, every apartment, trailers, hotels, everything in southern Nevada.”
Another computer-driven idea, I thought, someone’s
metadata fantasy. Before he could explain the grand plan, I said, “Mondari told me a much different and more credible story last night of a bomb maker moved north via a cartel pipeline and brought across by them.”
“And how would he know?”
“By chance, through a scam his tech thieves had going. They were remotely stealing information from a Sinaloa cartel manager.”
“There’s a bright idea. Where are they now?”
“Missing.”
Venuti laughed.
“The cartel operative they targeted is enough of a high roller to stay in the same casino suite every month when he comes through here. From the room he logs into a dark site to retrieve his e-mails. Mondari’s geeks were reading his e-mails right along with him, and they were able to take screenshots. Don’t ask me how it works, but one e-mail screenshot they caught talked about the delivery of a fabricante de bombas and payment for delivery. He says he told Jane part of this but not all.”
“Bullshit. She would have told me. She would have been all over it.”
“No kidding, she would have. Mondari’s two tech guys disappeared about two weeks ago. That’s right about when Mondari started moving around.”
“He got scared.”
“Yeah, he put it together, though he swears he had nothing to do with stealing information from the cartel.”
“Sure, he had nothing to do with it, but, okay, let’s stretch our imaginations. Let’s say Mondari is telling the truth. What do we do?”
“We look hard for Mondari’s tech guys and put agents on finding the Sinaloa manager. If we find him and put it to him the right way, it might be worth it to him to give us the information. We can let him know that otherwise, it’ll get whispered that he’s working with us. That could lead to a real job-promotion setback for him. He might talk, and he’s the one who can verify what Mondari claims his guys saw on the screenshot.”