“Thank God,” Lyons muttered.
“Carl’s real problem is he hasn’t been to a strip club in a few days,” Blancanales said. “He needs to slap bellies, not bust heads. It’s making our amigo cranky.”
“Who needs a stripper for that?” Lyons growled. “I have a standing invitation from your sister.”
“That’s the only thing standing,” Blancanales replied.
Schwarz and Kurtzman cast their eyes to the table and covered their mouths to stifle laughter.
“All right, you two,” Brognola said, “give it a rest. I’m going to spend all week trying to scrub those images from my mind. Can we focus on the issue at hand? You’re both nodding. I’ll take that as a yes and maybe we can move on.”
“So are you sending us to hunt down the guys who did this?” Lyons asked. “Please say yes.”
Brognola shook his head no.
“Sorry,” Brognola said.
“What, then?”
“We’re sending you to Mexico.”
“I can handle Mexico,” Lyons said.
“We’re not sending you there to party,” Brognola said. “We’ve got real live work for you. Give you guys a chance to earn your massive government salaries.”
“Shit,” Lyons swore.
“But there will be action.”
“I’m listening.”
Brognola raised the remote control and clicked a button. A close-up of a man with a dark complexion, black hair and a thick black mustache appeared on the screen.
Lyons noticed a thin white scar on the guy’s forehead, just below his hairline. His black eyes were flat and Lyons immediately recognized them as those of a killer. Both as a cop and later the commander of Able Team, he’d seen that dead-eyed look too many times to mistake it for anything else.
“Who are we looking at?” Blancanales asked.
“This is Seif Escobar,” Brognola said. “You gentlemen ever heard of him?”
“Little more than a name,” Schwarz said, while the other two said nothing.
“Escobar is a weapons broker based in Mexico City. He sells everything from small arms to surplus tanks all over the world. His customers include a handful of legitimate military clients, especially in Mexico and Central America. But he also sells his stuff to lots of bad guys. The Mexican cartels, the Taliban, some of the al Qaeda-linked groups in Africa. His customer list is a veritable Who’s Who of people we’d like to see dead.”
“Okay, I’m confused,” Schwarz said. “How does a Mexican gunrunner dovetail with the assassination of a U.S. ambassador in Africa?”
“Excellent question,” Brognola said. “The answer’s a little complex.”
Lyons intoned, “Apparently we have time to kill.”
“Carl’s just frustrated,” Schwarz said. “You’re throwing a lot of words at him.”
“Hey,” Lyons said.
Schwarz snickered.
Brognola cleared his throat. “Here’s the deal with Escobar,” he said. “Even though we haven’t been following him, some other U.S. intelligence agencies have been, especially since he has a habit of arming our enemies. They’d noticed that a couple of the front companies Escobar operates were shipping components used to make IEDs over to Africa. Until yesterday, most of the intelligence agencies found it interesting, but only mildly important. Today, it is something everyone is focused on... They found Nmosu’s people had received some of the hardware.”
Blancanales said, “He has a PO box?”
Price cleared her throat. “I can answer that. He has a couple of front companies of his own. And yes, Pol, they really aren’t much more than PO boxes. He has a couple of addresses in Kinshasa and in a couple other cities where companies deliver the stuff he buys, whether it’s fuses, magazines or spare parts for weapons—whatever. He has a group of couriers who then transfer the stuff to him. It’s not sophisticated, but it works. A lot of his stuff falls through the cracks because it’s so far off the grid.”
Blancanales nodded his understanding. “Al Qaeda depended on a similar approach, if memory serves,” he said. “Use a series of human mules and leave as small an electronic footprint as possible. It makes it a lot harder for a technology-heavy country like ours to track these guys.”
“Agreed,” Price said. “Fortunately for us, Nmosu and his cohort aren’t as disciplined as other groups when it comes to communications. There wasn’t enough information to prevent the attack beforehand. But at least there were some clues after the fact to help us deal with the situation.”
“You might want to expand on that, Barb,” Brognola said.
“Sure. We found a couple of phone calls between Nmosu and Hector Castillo, one of Escobar’s lieutenants, dating back a couple of months. Nmosu also spoke on the phone with another number that, interestingly enough, had its roots in Iran.”
“Oops,” Schwarz said. “Talk about bad tradecraft. I’m sure that stuck out like a sore thumb.”
“Again, after the fact it did. This person wasn’t on our radar screen before all this went down.”
“Right,” Schwarz said.
“But now the major agencies have started tracking the number. Guess what? The owner has made calls to some bad people.”
“Surprise!”
“I know, right? One of those bad guys is Castillo.”
“Who also was dealing with Mr. Nmosu.”
“Right.”
“It could be a coincidence,” Lyons said.
Price shrugged her shoulders.
“It could be,” she said. “But there’s a catch. One of Escobar’s products, if you will, is the various dual-use components used in improvised explosive devices. He has a track record for getting hold of technology that our government tries to control through export rules and passing it along to bad people. Sometimes he buys it from employees of those companies and sometimes he purchases components illegally through a network of front companies located in the U.S., smuggles them out of the country and then sells them on the black market. And, again, it’s the same components used in IEDs.”
“Okay,” Lyons said. He brought his cup to his lips and sipped some coffee.
“There’s another wrinkle,” Brognola said. “The Justice Department has been investigating Escobar for a while because of his weapons-smuggling activities. The stuff about his providing weapons specifically to the Taliban and al Qaeda? There’s a lot of evidence to prove his people have done it, especially Castillo.”
“But it’s harder to tie it to the big guy himself,” Lyons said, nodding. “I dealt with that more times than I care to count while I was a cop. The smart ones know how to collect the money without getting their hands dirty.”
“And Escobar’s smart,” Brognola said. “We’ve had a man inside his operation for a couple of years. His name’s Michael Ortega. He’s like Leo Turrin—he’s spent most of his career working undercover. He has a good reputation in certain circles. Escobar, and scum like Escobar, trust Ortega because he’s been around forever. Escobar even gave him a high-ranking position within his organization. That was stunning. Escobar’s extremely paranoid, but they had mutual acquaintances that vouched for Ortega.”
“So what does Ortega say about all this?” Blancanales asked.
“He didn’t have any warning about the assassination, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“It wasn’t,” Blancanales said. “But that’s good to know. I wondered if he’s said anything about the Iran connection.”
“Not specifically. But he had some other disturbing information. Apparently one of Escobar’s suppliers has gotten his mitts on an unmanned aerial vehicle of some kind. Ortega hasn’t seen one yet. But he’s confident in what he’s telling us. That’s the reason we’re sending you to Mexico. Escobar’s connections to the killing, to Iran and
possibly to advanced weaponry have the Man nervous.”
“And once we verify it?” Lyons asked.
“Do what you always do,” Brognola said, “and do it with extreme prejudice.”
CHAPTER TWO
Mexico City, Mexico
“When’s the guy coming?” Lyons asked.
Blancanales looked at his wristwatch.
“Couple minutes, tops,” Blancanales said.
The group had arrived in Mexico City several hours ago and had checked into a hotel suite in the downtown, under Blancanales’s alias, Alonzo Perez. Lyons was seated in the middle of a couch. His feet were hoisted onto a coffee table, right ankle crossed over left. His scowl deepened and he began drumming the fingers of his right hand on the cushion next to him.
“What’s eating you, Carl?” Blancanales asked.
“Nothing,” Lyons muttered.
“Bullshit.”
“It’s your plan,” Lyons said.
“What about it?”
“It’s dangerous.”
Blancanales smirked. “Big change. We usually play it safe.”
“You know what I mean, damn it,” Lyons said. “We do a commando raid or we rough up some scumbags, we’re all there. We can watch each other’s back. This undercover stuff always makes me nervous.”
“We’ve done undercover before,” Blancanales said.
“Right. And the shit always makes me nervous. Real undercover work, like when I was with the LAPD? That took months to pull together. You target someone. You set up a relationship. You build some trust. This way, you’re just diving in headfirst and you have no backup.”
“I have you and Gadgets.”
“In the vicinity. But you’re not wearing a wire. If things go wrong...”
“You’d never forgive yourself?”
“I’m going to kick your ass.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Famous last words.”
“You’re right,” Blancanales said. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be okay. But there is something I can guarantee.”
“What?”
“If something happens to me, you get my Playboy magazine collection.”
Lyons’s face reddened. “Here’s a guarantee— I’m going to kick your ass.”
“So you said,” Blancanales said, smirking. “Still waiting.”
Lyons opened his mouth to reply, but a knock at the door interrupted him.
Blancanales headed for the door. As he moved across the room, he reached underneath his jacket and set a hand on the grip of his Beretta 92 holstered on his right hip.
Lyons uncoiled from the couch and withdrew his .357 Colt Python with the four-inch barrel. He circled around behind Blancanales until he could line up a shot at the door.
Blancanales turned the knob and pulled the door open.
In the corridor stood a slender Latino, his black hair slicked back, revealing a sharp widow’s peak. His slim frame was togged in brown loafers, tan slacks and a red polo shirt. In his right hand, he clutched a black suitcase.
The guy flashed Blancanales a wide smile, but it faded the instant he set eyes on Lyons.
“What the fuck?”
“You’re Michael Ortega, right?” Blancanales asked.
“Yeah, I’m Michael fucking Ortega,” he replied. “I heard you needed an electrician.”
That was the code set up by Ortega’s handlers in Washington. Nodding, Blancanales stepped away from the door and made a sweeping gesture for the Latino to enter. Ortega entered slowly. Blancanales shut the door behind him and locked it.
Lyons holstered the Colt. Crossing his arms over his chest, he glowered at Ortega.
“Sorry about the scare,” Blancanales said.
“No worries,” Ortega said. “Sorry about the stain on your floor.”
Grinning, Blancanales nodded toward the couch. “Have a seat.”
Ortega moved to the couch and lowered himself onto it. Hefting the scuffed briefcase, he set it on its side on the coffee table. According to Ortega’s file, he used the briefcase to schlep around an Uzi and a couple of spare magazines for the Israeli-made SMG. Ortega was part of a special task force that fought gun trafficking in Mexico, as well as in Central and South America. Gray streaks ran through his perfectly coiffed black hair. His clothes were new and his nails manicured. Despite all this, his eyes looked sunken, bloodshot, as though he rarely slept.
“So,” Ortega said, “you’re looking for an introduction?”
Blancanales nodded. “And an endorsement,” he said. “If you don’t think it will put too big a target on your back.”
Ortega snorted. “Hell, I’ve already been digging my grave for years. What’re a few more shovelfuls of dirt before I go?”
Blancanales dropped into an armchair across from where Ortega was seated.
“You worried about getting involved?” Blancanales asked.
“Getting? Hell, I am involved. The minute I showed up here, I became involved. I’ve helped Escobar’s people load RPGs and AK-47s onto airplanes and deliver them to narcoterrorists. I’m involved, okay? But, screw it. Leo tells me it’s a big deal. It’s the UAV chatter, right?”
“It is. That was a good find on your part.”
“And there’s a good chance, when all this is over, my cover could be blown anyway, right?”
“If we fail,” Blancanales said, “the people we’re going after, the ones who are left, are going to purge their ranks. If they have any suspicions about you—and I mean any—then they will kill you.”
“Right after they torture me. Right, I know the drill. So give me details. What can Mr. Ortega do for you?”
“I want some face time with Seif Escobar.”
“That’s going to be tough.”
“You can’t get me an introduction?”
“Look, I don’t know how much bullshit Leo floated about yours truly, but I don’t have that kind of juice. I can get you a meeting with one or two of his lieutenants. I’ll lie and tell them you walk on water, tell them you’re a trustworthy SOB. After that, you need to work your own magic. Maybe you’ll get an audience. Maybe not. Escobar doesn’t set up a lot of play dates.”
“Understood,” Blancanales said.
“And if you do get to see Escobar, the guy’s paranoid as hell. There are no surprise visits. You want some face time with him, you’d better have your back-story nailed down tight, because he’ll look for holes.”
“How soon can you get me in to see him?”
Ortega scowled and the creases in his forehead deepened. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
* * *
ORTEGA CALLED BACK twenty-three hours and forty-seven minutes later.
The ringing of his mobile phone roused Blancanales from a light sleep. He grabbed for the phone holstered on his belt and glanced at the clock, which told him he’d been out for about four hours. He’d spent several hours studying the files on Escobar and memorizing pieces of his cover story.
Pulling himself up to sitting, he raised the phone to his ear.
“Yeah?” he said.
“It’s me,” Ortega said.
“Right.”
“You got a meeting,” he said.
“When?”
“Tomorrow,” Ortega replied. “Like I said, they will want to check you out, check out your story before you see anyone.”
“Will I see Escobar?”
“Hell no. You get to meet Hector Castillo, one of Escobar’s lieutenants. That guy checks you out. If he feels okay about you, then you get an audience with the big guy. If not, end of story. No face time with him.”
“We have other ways of reaching him,” Blancanales said. “They’ll just attract more attention. Where’s th
e meet?”
“Castillo’s penthouse here in Mexico City.”
“You have an address?”
“Yeah.” Ortega recited the address and Blancanales committed it to memory. He’d pass it along to Stony Man Farm to track down architectural plans and other details before the meeting. He could also send Lyons and Schwarz over to conduct surveillance.
Ortega said, “Don’t wear a wire. Castillo’s people will pat you down. Occasionally, if they’re feeling cranky, they’ll throw you in the pool just to make sure any electronic devices short out. Besides, if they find a wire on you, they’ll shoot you on the spot, chop your corpse into bits and feed it to Castillo’s dogs.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Don’t thank me. If you get killed, guess who’s next on the list? I have a vested interest in keeping you alive.”
CHAPTER THREE
Escobar was seated behind his desk, his feet propped up on it. In his right hand, he gripped a stubby glass with the remnants of bourbon and branch water. His head was tilted back and his brown eyes focused on the ceiling. Smoke curled up from the tip of a cigarette perched on the edge of an ashtray located just out of arm’s reach.
His eyes felt gritty and his head throbbed from a lack of sleep. Nikki had kept him up well into the wee hours of the morning, his body fueled by copious amounts of bourbon and pills. Last night, he’d felt like he could go forever. This morning, Nikki had begged him to stay with her. It had taken everything he’d had to pull himself away from her so he could speak with his various lieutenants.
Thankfully, the last call of the day was almost over.
“What else do you have for me, Hector?”
Castillo’s disembodied voice came out from the intercom. “Maybe a new customer.”
“Okay.”
“Name’s Alonzo Perez.” Castillo paused, apparently expecting the name to register with Escobar. “He’s a buyer.”
“Our customers usually are buyers,” Escobar said. “That’s why they’re customers. The real question is, who is he buying for?”
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