The Infiltrator

by Brad Taylor

  He remained quiet, and I knew something was different. We were so close, I could read a tick of his eyebrow and learn volumes. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to push.

  He balled up his napkin and said, “You heard Kurt. This has a whole lot more behind it than a simple Alpha mission.”

  Earlier, after leaving the convention center, we’d returned to our hotel room at Caesars Palace to hear what Kurt was thinking. Waiting on the elevator to arrive, Knuckles had broached a topic that was also on my mind: “What the hell do you think this is about? We can’t operate on US soil.”

  The Taskforce was an extrajudicial force—which was a Washington, DC, way of saying it was illegal—but it still had some rules. One of those was that we only operated overseas, hunting bad guys in bad-guy lands. Home soil was the purview of the FBI and others.

  I said, “No idea. But it does make me wonder why Kurt was fine with me coming out here with a full team when two guys would do.”

  The bell dinged and Knuckles said, “Well, this could be fun, but I’m smelling a shit sandwich. Like always.”

  I chuckled and said, “So working with me is always eating shit?”

  We hit the fourth floor and he said, “Pretty much.”

  We’d entered my room to find Jennifer and Retro expectantly waiting, the laptop on the desk connected to the Taskforce through an unbreakable VPN. Jennifer’s eyes were alight, relishing a mission beyond sitting by the pool. Retro looked like he wanted to kick me.

  I shut the door and said, “Okay, before I get on, what’s the deal?”

  Retro said, “The deal is Kurt wants to do some sort of surveillance mission here in Vegas. Against our charter, I might add.”

  I looked at Jennifer, and she said, “Apparently, there’s an arms dealer he wants us to track. Some guy who’s got a booth here at SHOT.” She glanced at Retro and raised an eyebrow, saying, “I think

  it sounds fun. Retro’s a little angry.”

  He said, “I’m not angry. I just think it’s a little sleazy cutting this trip short for a mission that we’re not even allowed to do.”

  Which meant he was pissed. His answer brought a grin to both Knuckles and me because in the twenty-two years that he’d been running missions, he’d never cared about the rules.

  I held up a hand and said, “Okay, okay. Don’t worry about your craps weekend just yet. Dial Kurt up. Let’s see what this is about.”

  We connected, waited a bit, and then Kurt Hale settled in front of the camera. He turned around to look behind him and said, “Close the door, George.”

  When he returned to the screen, I saw his lips curl into a ghost of a smile. “How’s Vegas?”

  I said, “A little boring, to tell you the truth. I understand you want to spice things up.”

  He laughed and said, “You find a vendor for the work on our pistols?”

  “Yeah, I got the one that I think we’re going to end up with, but we haven’t checked out the others yet.”

  “Good. Don’t worry about the others. Just send the information you have.”

  “What’s up, sir?”

  The camera feed disappeared, and in its place a target card appeared.

  A single PowerPoint slide that had the specifics on someone we were hunting.

  Name: Tyler Malloy

  Citizenship: United States of America

  Professed Occupation: Arms dealer

  Activity: Intercepts indicate possible facilitation

  of weapons transfers to groups designated as Foreign

  Terrorist Organizations by the Department of State.

  Currently attempting to gain trigger components

  suitable for nuclear weapons. Currently licensed

  in good standing with Department of State ITAR

  protocols.

  Threat: Low

  Authority: Alpha only, secondary protocol

  Next to the information on the slide was a picture of a thick-necked guy of about twenty-eight, with the ubiquitous “operator” beard and a pronounced Jay Leno–looking jaw. He was giving his best I’m a badass scowl.

  I said, “What’s this guy’s story?”

  The slide vanished, and Kurt reappeared on-screen. “He was an enlisted Marine for four years, one tour in Helmand. After that, he became an independent contractor for a company called Blue Spoon. He ended up in Bulgaria training a bunch of Syrian ‘moderate’ rebels under the failed CIA program. While he was there, he seemed to figure out where the money was really made, which was supplying the arms for the fight instead of getting paid by the hour to train up a bunch of farmers. Blue Spoon was buying a ton of AKs and other old Soviet arms from Belarus and Bulgaria, and he spent his time there learning the trade and building personal contacts. Eventually, he went out on his own, using those contacts and undercutting Blue Spoon pricing until his little company became the sole supplier. That was three years ago. Now he’s a real player, selling everything from tanks to missile launchers. He’s moved far beyond the small train-and-equip program for Syria.”

  I said, “And we’re tracking him because why, exactly? The card says he’s a nobody, low threat and secondary protocol. Hell, according to the Oversight Council, he’s not even worth a primary mission. He’s a standby target in the if we have the time category. He’ll probably get arrested by the FBI for breaking ITAR if we let him run it out.”

  “Except he’s apparently got some ideas about purchasing nuclear components, and we don’t know why. The guy is amoral with respect to buyers, and while we don’t really give a shit if he sells some AKs to someone who passes them to Hezbollah, nuclear components are something else entirely.”

  I brought up the elephant in the room. “Sir, he’s an American. We’re on American soil. We can’t operate here. I get President Hannister loves us, but surely he didn’t authorize this.”

  Kurt vanished from the screen and a new picture appeared. An older man in a foreign military uniform, with a receding hairline and tiny piglike eyes. He looked like a caricature of some old Soviet propaganda poster. Kurt said, “This is Stanko Petrov—Tyler’s unofficial right-hand man. Formerly a colonel in the Bulgarian Army from the Warsaw Pact days, he scraped by after the fall of the wall until he met Tyler. He’s the man who got Tyler his start in the arms trade. He now acts as a sort of combination personal security slash personal assistant to Tyler. Everything that Tyler’s planning to do goes through him. And he’s Bulgarian.”

  I smiled and said, “Ahhh . . . Sooo. Approval because we aren’t officially tracking an American. We’re tracking a Bulgarian. Nice. Where’s his target card? What’s the Council’s level of operational approval for him?”

  Kurt reappeared and said, “He doesn’t have a card. Look, Pike, his guy has an iPad mini that’s glued to him like a third hand. Everything Tyler does is executed through Stanko, and that iPad will have it all.”

  I glanced back at my crew, now on unfamiliar ground. Usually it was I who was begging to break the rules. Now my commander was ordering me to do so. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It was easy to rage against the machine when the machine kept you in check. It was something else when the machine itself began to go off the rails.

  I said, “Sir, you sure about this? Did you talk to the Oversight Council?”

  He exhaled and said, “No. They don’t care about Tyler, and truthfully, neither should we, but I’ve got a feeling about him. He’s not a good guy. He can pull his small-time shit and stay off the radar, but he’s up to something, and that something is potentially big. I don’t want to react to a threat. I want to prevent it from occurring.”

  I paused, not responding. He said, “Pike, all I want you to do is attempt to access the iPad. If you can’t, you can’t. Just get me details on where and when his next overseas trip is, so I can begin executing Alpha authority against him. Let me deal with any fallout. I’m n
ot asking you to thump him on the head. When I learned he was at the SHOT show, it was the perfect coincidence.”

  I considered his words. In truth, it sounded easy enough, and, honestly, I could use some high adventure. If Kurt thought it good enough, then I wouldn’t question, although I’d keep the overstep in mind. Because I’d personally saved the president’s life on a previous mission, we now had his ear, which meant we’d get to do whatever we wanted with our intelligence, but cutting out the Oversight Council might not be the best thing for the nation, because it would be up to the Operator on the ground to determine what was right in the future. And I was that Operator.

  Not liking the role reversal, I relented, with a caveat. “Okay, but we get the follow-on mission.”

  Now it was his turn to pause. He said, “You guys are off cycle. You don’t even have a team. Retro’s retiring, Veep’s attending SOTIC, and Knuckles is on a training billet for Carly.”

  I said, “They don’t call it SOTIC anymore. It’s just the SF Sniper Course now.”

  Kurt said, “Whatever. I’m sure that was a bullet on some officer’s OER.”

  I said, “What’s Blood doing?”

  “Some liaison work with OGA.”

  “Well, there you go. That’s my team.”

  5

  I watched Retro throw the dice, holding a spit cup and arranging a huge dip of Copenhagen in his mouth with his tongue. I said, “At least he’s getting in his craps time. He can’t bitch about the mission now.”

  Knuckles said nothing. I looked at him and poked the blister. “What’s going on with you and Carly?”

  He said, “Nothing. I should be going on this mission. You’ve never left me behind.”

  I looked him in the eye, the mission taking a back seat. He turned away. I said, “You’ve never shirked on a commitment before. Remember that time in Bosnia? When you were supposed to leave, but you refused because you feared for a source of ours? The Council ordered you out, and you stayed. You have a commitment to Carly. What’s changed?”

  He bluntly said, “We broke up.”

  I leaned back, taking that in. He’d spent so much energy getting her a shot at selection because of their relationship, and now they didn’t have one. I knew it had to hurt. I said, “Does she still want to do it?”

  Glumly, he nodded. “Yeah. She does.”

  “What was the breakup? Something bad?”

  “No. We just . . . sort of decided. It wasn’t bad.”

  I looked at Jennifer across the hall, waiting near the reception counter for our trigger. She was reading a magazine, oblivious to the conversation.

  I said, “You can’t do that, Knuckles. You made a promise. Carly deserves it. She bled for us.”

  He looked up, and I saw that he knew I was right. He said, “Yeah, I get it. You think I should train her? Knowing what you know about her? You had questions before.”

  I laughed and said, “So now you’re questioning her capability because you’re no longer in the sack with her? You brought this on yourself. And, yes, I think she’s capable. Any team showing an interest in her?”

  Kurt had already decided that—if Carly succeeded—she wouldn’t be coming to my team. For one, there was no reason to stack a single team with the unique capabilities a female might bring. For another, he wasn’t keen on the fraternization. He allowed it with Jennifer and me because we were civilians, and he honestly couldn’t do anything about it. Knuckles, being active-duty Navy, was a different story.

  “Yeah. Johnny’s team. Axe likes her. He’s seen Jennifer and wants that in the mix. But she’s not Jennifer.”

  “Nobody is Jennifer. Train her ass to the best of your ability. This s just an Alpha mission. If you don’t do it, Jennifer will lose trust in you. And that means something on this team.”

  He nodded reluctantly, and my earpiece came alive with Retro’s oice. “How long can I play? I’m pretty sure I’ve destroyed every key card within ten feet of me.”

  Retro had a device that generated an enormous electromagnetic field around him. In essence, he was carrying a giant magnet in his pocket, which would wipe any hotel key that came within his web. Two feet to the right of him was the Bulgarian, Stanko, his iPad mini on the rail as he gambled.

  Kurt had given us what he knew about the Bulgarian, most of which was useless, but one tidbit stood out: Like Retro, he was fond of playing craps. It had been a simple matter to find Tyler’s booth—learning his company had the unimaginative name ParaBellum—and follow Stanko for the short time it took him to begin gambling. From there, I’d set my plan in motion, with Retro now on board when he learned all he had to do was roll the dice. Well, until he had to do something embarrassing. Which was why he was calling.

  I said, “Next time you get the dice. Play to your heart’s content until then.”

  I heard, “That’s three players. Is the Taskforce going to pay for the bets?”

  “No fucking way. Force it now, if you want.”

  I heard, “I knew you were too cheap. I should have left this team a long time ago.”

  I laughed and said, “I thought you were winning.”

  “I was. Not now.”

  Seven minutes later, through Retro’s microphone, I heard, “New shooter, new shooter.” Then Retro himself saying, “Okay, here you go. One roll, and then he’s off to his room.”

  Off the net, I said, “Knuckles, get ready.”

  “You sure about this? When I get in the elevator with him, I’m done, forever.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry. But you’re doing your part for America.”

  He scowled, and we both looked at Retro’s table. He rolled once, got what he wanted, and jumped up and down, spilling his vile cup of spit onto Stanko’s shirt. Immediately, there was an altercation, with shouting and threats. Retro handled it well, backing off and offering chips as a placating measure. Stanko took them, then stalked off, heading to the elevator.

  I looked at Knuckles and said, “Showtime.”

  He nodded and left, walking behind Stanko.

  Ordinarily, we could have used the Taskforce to figure out this guy’s room. A seamless little hack that would prevent the ridiculous play I had just put in motion. In this case, because the entire mission wasn’t sanctioned by the Oversight Council, Kurt had refused to give me the assets I’d need to do that, stating that I had my team and that was it. I’d been aggravated about that but knew better than to push. I either accepted the mission or I didn’t. We’d just needed to find another way to determine his room, and the easiest way was to get him to go there, so we could follow him.

  I watched Knuckles get in the elevator with Stanko, the only two to do so, and knew Knuckles was pissed. No way would he be able to do anything against this target again. Not after riding up an elevator with him.

  I remained still, sipping my club soda and waiting on the call. It came in two minutes. “Passed by him. He’s in room 703.”

  A minute later, “His key card failed. He’s on the way back down.”

  I said, “Roger that. Jennifer, you got the ball. Give us a time hack.”

  She said, “Roger all.”

  Retro came over to my table and said, “You done with me? I’d like to get back some of what I lost in the name of the Taskforce.”

  “Yeah. I’m done until tonight. I’ll need you then.”

  Retro walked and talked like a Neanderthal, but underneath, he was a little bit of a computer geek. Honestly, beyond the loss of his friendship, that was going to be the biggest blow to my team. When he was gone, I’d have to find a replacement on the tech side. But I already had an idea about who that would be—the millennial currently in SF sniper school.

  I said, “You sure that gadget you brought will work?”

  Retro had given Knuckles what looked like a standard iPad charging cord, one with the small brick at the end. I
nstead of Apple-approved electronics, inside the brick was a man-in-the-middle device that would allow us to digitally drain everything in the iPad through its lightning port. When Stanko plugged it in to charge, we’d start sucking it dry.

  He said, “Yeah, it’ll work. I tested it on my own iPad. It’s set for the Venetian Wi-Fi network, and I can access the website that downloads the data from anywhere.”

  Jennifer came on the net. “Ivan’s at reception.”

  We always gave targets a nickname, just to keep them straight in case there was more than one, because using real names on an open net was a nonstarter. Ivan seemed to fit here.

  I said, “Roger . . . break, break . . . Knuckles, you in the room?”

  “Yeah, I am, but we’ve got a problem. He’s got the iPad cord going straight into a USB outlet from the hotel. There’s a bank of them on the desk. He’s not using the AC adapter.”

  Retro said, “He’ll have to use it sooner or later. We don’t get the info right now, we’ll get it eventually.”

  I said, “It’ll join any Wi-Fi hotspot?”

  Retro sagged back, realizing his mistake. He said, “No. Not if it’s password protected. That needs to be loaded in advance.”

  Jennifer came on. “He’s done. He’s got his new key card.”

  Shit.

  “Knuckles, Knuckles, abort. Get out. We need to regroup on a different course of action.”

  Retro stood up, saying, “Well, that was worth it. Can I get back to the table?”

  I rubbed my forehead and said, “Yeah. We’re done here.”

  I watched Ivan return to the elevators, still wiping a napkin on Retro’s stain, and called Knuckles. “He’s on the way up. You clear?”

  “No. I’m taking a look around. The desk has some paperwork on it.”

  “Abort. I don’t want to risk him knowing we were in there. This is low-hanging fruit. We’ll try something else tomorrow.”

  I heard nothing, prompting me to say, “Knuckles, you copy?”

  He came back, “We won’t be trying anything tomorrow. I have a paper itinerary here for a flight. He’s headed out of town.”