by Tom Clancy
“What?” cried Samad, practicing his own Spanish. “We were promised, and you’ve been well paid for this.”
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to make other arrangements. The sub will be overloaded with my product—and yours—and the other two are being serviced right now. When we agreed on this arrangement, I was very careful to tell Rahmani that once the opium reaches Colombia, I am in charge of shipment. You have a much better chance of success this way. Do you understand?”
Samad gritted his teeth. Their collaboration was unprecedented but a work of genius, according to members of the Juárez Cartel. Instead of having Ballesteros and his cocaine compete with the opium being smuggled in, why not partner up to streamline and expedite the shipping process? Bonuses would be paid by the Juárez Cartel to both organizations for playing nice and getting along. It was a unique relationship, and they hoped it was unforeseen by the Americans. Ballesteros had already established a dozen separate smuggling routes via land, sea, and air, and Rahmani had seen the wisdom in this and been willing to pay for access to those routes and for couriers.
“The rest of my group will be here soon,” Samad told Ballesteros. “How do you expect us to get to Mexico? Walk?”
“I’m looking into a plane that will get you as far as Costa Rica. But don’t worry about that now. We’ll need to go to Bogotá soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Look, let’s agree that we do not like one another, but our employer has paid handsomely for this, and so we will be tolerant.”
“Agreed.”
“You must also promise never to tell anyone about how I’ve helped you with, shall we say, your travel plans. Not our employer. Not anyone.”
“I have no reason to discuss this with anyone but you,” Samad lied. He already knew that the head of the Juárez Cartel could help him and his men gain safe passage into the United States, and he had every intention of seeking out that man’s help. Sure, Ballesteros the pig could help him get to Mexico, but once he was there, it would be difficult to cross the border without help.
Ballesteros turned toward the door and cursed over the heat.
That’s when gunfire suddenly ripped through the walls and windows, glass shattering, men outside screaming, more gunfire echoing the first wave.
Samad hit the floor, along with his lieutenants, and Ballesteros was there as well, unhurt but grimacing as another salvo of gunfire stitched through the walls, splintering wood and sending dust motes swirling up toward the ceiling.
“What is this?” cried Samad.
“We all have enemies,” Ballesteros said with a grunt.
Islamabad Serena Hotel
Islamabad, Pakistan
Israr Rana had not been very receptive to being recruited by the CIA. It had taken Moore nearly three months to finally persuade Rana that not only could this work be thrilling and lucrative, but Rana could be doing something for the greater good and helping to keep his own nation safe. Going to college was supposed to be his priority, but as Rana had been trained by Moore and sent off to gather information, he found the work very exciting. He’d seen every James Bond film and had even memorized some of the dialogue, which he’d used during conversations with Moore, much to the man’s chagrin. In fact, Rana had perfected his English through American cinema. Unfortunately, his wealthy parents would never, ever approve of him doing this kind of work, and so he thought he’d have some fun—at least for a little while—until he grew bored. It was true that Moore could have resorted to other means to recruit him—less-than-ethical means, such as blackmail, and Moore had even described how that worked—but he’d said that he wanted to create a real apprenticeship founded on trust, and Rana respected that so much that it made him work even harder at gathering information for his friend and mentor.
At the moment, he was tucked tightly into a ditch along the foothills overlooking the hotel, and his pulse rose as he thumbed a text message to Moore:
LOCATED GALLAGHER. SERENA HOTEL.
ISLAMABAD.
Rana was about to tell Moore that their dear colleague was as dirty as they came. Gallagher was working with known Taliban lieutenants now and had been meeting with several of them at the hotel. Rana thought that he may very well have killed Khodai’s family—when in fact he’d been charged with protecting them. Every man had a price, and the Taliban had met Gallagher’s.
Rana did not hear them come up from behind. A hand suddenly wrenched the phone out of his hands, and as he turned back, a club came down as an echoing blow knocked him into unconsciousness.
Rana’s head hung toward his chest, and a deep throbbing emanated from the back of his neck and across the side of his face.
He opened his eyes to find only curtains of grainy blue and green—and then suddenly a bright light was in his eyes.
“You are the traitor who is working for the Americans, are you not?”
The man who’d posed that question was nearby, although Rana still could not see him. The blurriness persisted, and it felt as though he had little control over his head.
Judging from the sound of his voice, the man was young, no older than thirty, and probably one of the lieutenants Rana had already observed.
“I’m sorry, poor boy,” came another voice, and this one he knew. Gallagher. His accent was unmistakable.
And now Rana couldn’t help but try to talk, his lips feeling strangely numb. “What are you doing with them?”
“Moore sent you after me, huh? He couldn’t leave well enough alone. You’re a good boy.”
“Please, let me go.”
A hand fell on his cheek, and he finally mustered the strength to tilt his head back and look up. Gallagher’s wizened face came in and out of focus, and Rana realized they were not in a hotel room but in a cave somewhere, perhaps the Bajaur tribal area northwest of the hotel, and the blue and green he’d seen earlier were part of Gallagher’s tunic and trousers.
“All right, we will let you go, but first we’re going to ask you some questions about what you’ve been doing and what you and Moore have learned here in Pakistan. Do you understand? If you cooperate with us, you will go free. You will not be harmed.”
Every part of Rana’s being wanted to believe that, but Moore had told him that that was exactly what they’d say if he was ever captured. They would assure him freedom, make him talk, then kill him once they learned what they needed to know.
Rana realized with a chill that he was already dead.
And so young, too. Not even out of college. Never married. No children. So much of life waiting for him—but he would never arrive at that stop.
His parents would be heartbroken.
At that, he gritted his teeth and began to pant in anger.
“Rana, let’s make this easy,” said Gallagher.
He drew in a deep breath and spoke in English, using words that Moore had taught him: “Fuck you, Gallagher, you fucking traitor. You’re going to kill me anyway, so get on with it, you scumbag.”
“Some bravado now, but the torture will be long and terrible. And your friend, your hero Mr. Moore, has left you here to rot. You’re going to remain loyal to someone who has abandoned you? I want you to think about that, Rana. Think very carefully about that.”
Rana knew that Moore had not intentionally left Pakistan. He was called away, and that was the nature of his job as an operative. He’d mentioned that several times and had explained that other agents might contact him and that his relationship with the Agency was very important to them.
But Rana was not sure he could deal with the torture. He imagined them chopping off his fingers and toes, attaching battery cables to his genitalia, and pulling out his teeth. He imagined them cutting him, burning him, putting out one of his eyes, and allowing snakes to bite him. He saw himself lying in the dirt, hacked apart like a lamb, and bleeding until the cold consumed him.
He tugged against the bindings around his wrists and ankles.
His vision finally cleared. Gallagher stood there with the two Taliban lieutenants behind.
One of the men clutched a large knife, while the other was leaning on a large metal pipe, using it as a cane of sorts.
“Look at me, Rana,” said Gallagher. “I promise you, if you tell us what we need to know, we’ll let you go.”
“Do you think I’m that stupid?”
Gallagher recoiled. “Do you think I’m that ruthless?”
“Fuck you.”
“All right, then. I’m sorry.” He glanced to the men. “You are going to cry like a baby, and you are going to tell us everything we want to know.” Gallagher gestured to the man with the knife. “Cut his bindings. And then we’ll start with his feet.”
Rana trembled. Held his breath. And yes, he wept like a child now.
The sheer panic came on in quakes throughout his chest and gut. Maybe if he did talk, if he did tell them everything, they would free him. No, they wouldn’t. But maybe they would? There was nothing left to believe. Now he shook so violently that he was about to vomit.
“Okay, okay, I will help you!” he screamed.
Gallagher leaned in closer and smiled darkly. “We knew you would …”
WHERE WE BELONG
Bonita Real Hotel
Juárez, Mexico
ALL OF THE high-tech devices in the world could not replace old-fashioned boots on the ground gathering Human Intelligence (HUMINT), and that, Moore often mused, had kept him gainfully employed all these years. When the engineers invented an android that could do everything he did, he might be forced to hang up his balaclava and turn in his spy card—because, in his humble opinion, the world would soon be coming to an end as the machines took over. An age-old theme in science fiction would become reality, and Moore would watch it all unfold in the grandstands, with, he prayed, a hot dog in one hand and a beer in the other.
However, he still marveled over all the highly encrypted data he could view on his smartphone. At the moment, he was watching real-time streaming satellite images of the hotel so that he could observe the comings and goings of everyone outside, even while tucked nicely into his bed, feet propped up, the TV morning news humming softly in the background. The spy satellites used to feed him that intelligence were operated by the National Reconnaissance Office (staffed by DoD and CIA personnel) and hung in low-earth orbits to optimize their resolution for several minutes before each handed off the job to the next satellite in line in a sophisticated relay of data transfer.
He was also receiving text alerts from the analysts back home who were watching the same images and could draw his attention to anything they noted. Other windows would show him the GPS locations of all other JTF members, and yet another window displayed more photographs of other targets in the city, such as cartel leader Zúñiga’s ranch house. Indeed, it was a complex and aggressive overwatch campaign by geeks sipping on lattes half a world away.
Moore had checked in to the hotel owned by Dante Corrales (noted by Towers as the most senior-ranking member of the cartel that authorities had identified thus far). Like all good drug pushers, Corrales was beginning to surround himself with legitimate businesses, but even so, mistakes would be made, money laundered, and the poor honest folks he did employ would either be implicated in his crimes or simply lose their jobs as his operations were shut down and he was arrested.
However, he would not be apprehended anytime soon. They needed him running wild in order to help identify the lord of the operation himself, and Corrales seemed like just the kind of loose cannon who could do that.
The bio they had on him was fragmentary, gleaned from street informants and personal documents they’d been able to obtain. That his parents had been killed in a hotel fire and he’d turned around and bought one was interesting. His hubris was well appreciated by the Agency and could be exploited. His penchant for showy cars and clothes made him ridiculously easy to spot around town. The guy probably had a Scarface poster hanging above his bed, and in some ways, he resembled a seventeen-year-old Moore—combative, full of bravado, with little sense of how the choices he made now would affect his future.
Moore rose, set down the phone, and pulled on a polo shirt and expensive slacks. His hair had been trimmed and pulled back into a ponytail, and his closely cropped beard was a far cry from the lobster bib he’d sported in Afghanistan and Pakistan. He’d donned a fake diamond earring to give him an edge. He picked up a leather briefcase and headed for the door. His Breitling Chronomat read 9:21 a.m.
He took the elevator down from his fourth-floor room to the first floor, and the man at the front desk whose badge read Ignacio gave him a polite nod.
Standing behind him was an absolutely stunning young woman with long, dark hair and vampire’s eyes. She wore a silver-and-brown dress, and a gold crucifix dangled down into her cleavage. Her perky boobs were enhanced, but they weren’t ridiculous porn-star water balloons, either.
Moore removed his smartphone, paused, pretended to check an e-mail, and snapped a silent if somewhat haphazard photo of the woman.
He frowned once more, thumbed to another page, then glanced up. The woman gave him a perfunctory grin, and he returned the smile and headed outside for his rental car. Once in the car, he forwarded the woman’s photo to the folks at Langley.
Fifteen minutes later, he met the real estate agent on the other side of town, but not before driving past a small tavern where several local police cars were lined up and officers were leading out several men in handcuffs. Early-morning bar bust in Juárez, go figure.
The real estate agent was an obese woman with bright blue eye shadow and whiskers. She’d barely poured herself out of a rusting and dust-covered Kia coupe and shook his hand vigorously. “I have to be honest with you, Mr. Howard, these properties have been on the market for over two years and I haven’t received one call on them.”
Moore, aka Mr. Scott Howard, stood back to take in the view of two old manufacturing plants sitting beside each other on twenty acres of barren, dusty land, the buildings themselves looking as though they’d weathered several tornadoes, their graffiti-laden walls still standing but not much else. Between the stretches of broken glass and the gray haze that had permanently settled around the lots and spilled past the broken chain-link fence, Moore couldn’t help but grimace. He took out his phone and snapped a few pictures. And then he forced a broad grin and said, “Mrs. García, I appreciate you showing them to me. Like I told you on the phone, we’re scouting properties all over Mexico to build assembly plants for our solar panels. Our assembly plants will be here, while our administrative, engineering, and warehouse activities will remain in San Diego and El Paso. I’m looking for land just like this, with excellent access to the highways.”
Moore was simply referring to an operation known as a maquiladora, named after a U.S.-Mexican program allowing low duties on goods assembled in Mexico. Literally thousands of maquiladoras operated on both sides of the border.
In fact, Moore had had dinner with an old SEAL buddy who’d gone to work for GI (General Instruments), a telecom company. His buddy had become the general manager of GI’s maquiladoras, and when it was time to move raw materials from the United States to Mexico, he’d hit a snag. All goods for manufacturing had to originate from Mexico and could not be currently owned by GI. Moore’s buddy had devised a clever solution: He sold the goods to a third-party Mexican trucking firm that drove them into Mexico, and once there, he bought them back at cost plus mordita (a bribe), as goods originating in Mexico. To quote his buddy, “Mexico runs on mordita.” The memory of that dinner had helped Moore devise his initial cover while in Juárez.
As the real estate agent smiled, Moore looked past her at the two punks parked across the street. They were shadowing him, and that was fine. He would not have expected anything less. He only wondered if they were from the Juárez or Sinaloa cartels.
Or worse…they could be Guatemalans. Avenging Vultures …
Moore raised his brows. “I think this land would work out perfectly, and I’d like to meet with the owner to discuss his price.”
>
The woman winced. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, why?” Moore tempered his curiosity because he already knew why: The land was owned by Zúñiga, leader of the Sinaloa Cartel.
“The owner is a very private man, and he travels a lot as well. All of this would be handled through his attorneys.”
Moore made a face. “That’s not the way I like to do business.”
“I understand,” she said. “But he is a very busy man. It is rare when I can get him on the phone.”
“Well, I hope you will try. And I hope he will make an exception in my case. Tell him it’ll be well worth his time and money. Now here …” Moore reached into his briefcase and withdrew a portfolio filled with marketing materials regarding his fictitious company. Embedded in the portfolio was a wafer-thin GPS beacon. Moore hoped she’d actually give the materials to Zúñiga and that he would actually follow up and check out his company, only to realize it was fake.
You didn’t just walk up to a cartel leader’s front door, ring the bell, and ask if he’d like to cut a deal. You would never get that meeting. You had to “inspire” his curiosity first, make him become so curious, in fact, that he’d demand to see you. This was a game Moore had played many times with warlords in Afghanistan.
“Here, please share this with the owner.”
“Mr. Howard, I’ll do my best, but I can’t make any promises. I hope that no matter what happens, you’ll seriously consider this land. Like you said, it’s perfect for your new operation.”
She’d barely finished her sales pitch when automatic-weapons fire echoed in the distance. Another volley split the morning silence, followed by a police siren.