“Damn right.”
“Perfect. They operate clubs and restaurants and whatever. Let’s pick a spot where I’m likely to make contact with one of the big players. They’ll make you immediately, that’ll move things along quickly, get me to the right guy.”
Now Ferriello was staring at him in utter disbelief. “And what? You gonna tell them that you’re with the United States government but they should believe you when you say that you’re stopping by to warn them that the shipment of coke they’re waiting on is contaminated with anthrax?”
“Not sure yet. You think that approach has holes in it?”
Ferriello was laughing again. “Holes? Even if they believe you, why will they care?”
“I can think of a few reasons, but let me lead off with the one I see as the biggest motivation for them to tread carefully here.” He hesitated, having a look around the room. “I’ve never been in your office before.”
“So?”
Sandor thought it over, then decided not to give his views on the interior decorations. He returned to the subject at hand. “I’ve been doing some homework on drug enforcement. Federal, state and local.”
“Congratulations.”
“You’re undermanned and underfunded. You’re fighting an uphill battle over a product that’s cheap to grow, easy to refine, and more profitable per ounce than any other substance on earth. The chances of you ever winning this war are zero and none. You’re raiding crack houses in Bed-Stuy while tons of coke and heroin and marijuana are smuggled into this country every year. Stop me if you disagree.”
“Go on.”
“The astronomical profits give these drug lords the ability to bribe police, local officials, even highly placed ministers in the banana republics where the dope comes from.”
“I’m not arguing.”
“The dirty little secret about narcotics is that middle America doesn’t really care if you win the war on drugs. Inner-city blacks, Hispanics and other poor minorities, they’re the real users of crack and smack and crystal meth. You contain the bulk of the damage in the ghettos and you’ve done your job.”
Ferriello managed a weak smile. “You left out the coke parties in Hollywood.”
“True, except our government wouldn’t spend ten cents to stop Charlie Sheen or Lindsay Lohan from partying themselves to death. They certainly would like to stop suburban kids from smoking weed or snorting coke, but once again you’re waging a campaign aimed at containment, not true victory.”
“You’ve become quite the social philosopher Sandor. What’s your point?”
“The point is, the narcotics trade has never been tied to terrorism.” He waited a moment to let that concept sink in. “If the government believes that drug dealers are in league with terrorists the entire game will change. Think about it. If there’s a biological attack on this country and the toxins got here through these narcotics smugglers, even the DEA will be dwarfed by the resources we’ll mobilize. Homeland Security. The FBI. NSA. The entire United States military. Your entire department will look like Mayberry RFD.”
Ferriello was shaking his head. “But narcotics already cause murder and mayhem.”
“Yes, but to whom? Let’s be honest. We’ve reduced crime in this country through technology and by ignoring the true victims. Statistically, who are the biggest victims of minority crime?”
“Minorities,” the detective conceded.
“Right. As long as they’re shooting each other in Watts and Newark and the South Bronx, Mr. and Mrs. America shake their heads, say, ‘What a shame,’ then sleep peacefully at night. You get a marauding band of crackheads invading Scarsdale and see what happens.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Thank you. Now multiply that outrage by a factor of a hundred million or so if those drugs are tied to a massive biological assault.”
“I’m with you.”
“Your Russian thugs in Brighton Beach might seem dangerous now, but wait till there’s a public outcry and the army runs a dozen tanks and armored personnel carriers into their neighborhood.”
“Come on, Sandor.”
“You don’t see that happening? Think about everything that’s taken place since Nine-Eleven. Two wars.”
“Overseas.”
“What about the changes here? Wiretapping. Video cameras and surveillance everywhere. The left wing screaming about the abridgment of their rights.”
“Don’t leave out enhanced interrogation techniques. Your personal favorite, as I recall.”
“I do what I have to do to save lives.”
Ferriello sat back, his chair tilting toward the file cabinets behind him. “So where do you go with this? You try to convince these Russian pricks that they need to cooperate with you in order to survive?”
“As I said, I’m not sure, but if I’m going to locate this shipment I believe the way to do it is to get to them and work my way backward.”
“What about locating the goods from the source?”
“We’ve got people on that right now.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
OUTSIDE CARACAS, VENEZUELA
THE ELEMENTS OF tradecraft that make one man a successful covert operative or another an effective terrorist are in some ways two sides of the same coin. The ability to prepare, even for the unexpected. The knack for anticipating unforeseeable events. A talent for staying one step ahead of your adversaries. The need for maintaining secrecy, even from those one is tempted to trust. And, of course, the skills required to execute a plan.
In many instances your enemies come from several directions at once, creating an exponential increase in the level of difficulty being confronted. Such was the case now for Rafael Cabello. Without the support of the Venezuelan administration, Adina had to account for danger on three fronts. The first and most obvious, American counterterrorism, was expected. The second came from the narcotics traffickers he was dealing with, none of whom could be trusted, all of whom were dangerous, and each of whom was pursuing his own ends. Now, however, he also had to allow for a third possible interdiction—from powers within his own country.
Adina’s failure to complete the ambitious attack against America’s Gulf Coast was an embarrassment that still stung. Diplomatic posturing avoided an international disaster, since the involvement of the Chavez regime could never be proved or even formally charged. Yet those inside the Venezuelan dictator’s tight circle of advisors knew how close Adina’s actions had brought them to war with the United States. For all of the ranting and threatening Chavez had done over the years against the world’s largest superpower, only a fool would believe he actually wanted any part of an armed conflict with the military behemoth to the north.
Now that Adina had embarked on a new plan of attack, he was careful not to reveal even a hint of his intentions to any but a few allies who remained close to Chavez. He assured them that his present efforts would be met with success, with no fear the source of the assault could be traced back to him or his country. As he sped toward a small airstrip outside Caracas, seated in the back of a nondescript sedan, he considered his situation. His refusal to share the details of his scheme now appeared prescient—he had come to realize he could not even trust that small cabal he once viewed as faithful to his cause.
————
Adina was mulling over his next move when he and his two lieutenants reached the private terminal at Oscar Machado Zuluaga Airport. It was less than half an hour after they made their exit from the SEBIN headquarters, and he knew the sooner they were safely out of the country the better he would feel.
Alejandro spoke into the intercom and the security gate slid open. He drove through, heading directly for the tarmac, where a Cessna Citation Sovereign sat fueled and ready. Adina had arranged for the plane two days before, knowing the time for action was near. He could not risk using any sort of government aircraft, so he reached one of the president’s wealthy partisans who remained sympathetic to Adina’s political views. He set up
this transportation, making it clear to the charter manager that a two-man crew should be on standby, ready to go on an hour’s notice. At Adina’s request he also dispatched a team of men to make some modifications to the interior of the plane’s cabin, all of which had been completed.
As Alejandro brought the car to a stop outside the small terminal, the pilot and copilot were finalizing their inspection of the sleek aircraft. The young pilot turned and greeted the three men as they emerged from the sedan. “Just finishing up the preflight checklist,” the pilot said, then introduced himself and his partner.
Adina nodded politely, but neither of his men replied, instead going about the business of unloading the car and carrying their bags onto the plane.
“Help you with those?” the copilot asked.
“No,” Jorge said without looking up, hoisting a heavy duffel from the trunk.
Adina strolled over to the two young men. He was dressed with customary elegance, wearing a crisply pressed Italian suit made of a tan tropical wool, a white shirt without tie, and a colorful silk square in the pocket of his suit jacket. The only difference in his usual appearance were the touches he had applied just before leaving El Helicoide. His gray hair was dyed light brown. Contact lenses turned his hazel eyes dark. And he was wearing eyeglasses, with tortoiseshell frames and clear lenses.
No one had been able to get a photo of him for many years, but there were ways of creating virtual portraits from earlier pictures. His intention was to give himself a younger appearance for this journey, a change he had undertaken once before to create a passport issued by the Dominican Republic under another name. He was no longer Venezuelan nor was he Rafael Cabello.
“We should be leaving immediately,” he told the two young men without looking at them.
“Not a problem,” the pilot said pleasantly.
“Good,” Adina replied with his thin, unpleasant smile.
“I was told you would have the flight plan.”
Staring out at the hills in the distance, Adina said, “Yes. I have it.”
The pilot hesitated. “May I see it?”
Now Adina turned to him. “It’s in my bag. I’ll give it to you when we get aboard.”
The pilot nodded. “You’ll be leaving your car here then? Will someone be picking it up or should I have it parked for you?”
Fixing him with his narrow gaze, Adina said, “Have it parked.”
The copilot went into the nearby hangar and called out to someone about the car.
“Shall we?” Adina said, then began walking toward the plane.
The pilot, staying alongside him, said, “I’ve not even been told our destination.”
“Mendez, in northeastern Mexico,” Adina said. “There’s a private airstrip there.”
“I’ve been instructed to extend you every courtesy,” the young man said.
“Good,” came the reply, Adina not even breaking stride, “good.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
MONTERREY, MEXICO
AS ADINA AND his entourage went wheels up outside Caracas, Craig Raabe and Jim Bergenn were landing at the General Mariano Escobedo International Airport, just outside Monterrey, Mexico. Like Adina, they traveled on a private plane. Any sort of military transport would have marked them before they hit the ground, and flying commercial was not an option—they needed to get there quickly and they needed their weapons. Passing through a private terminal would resolve those problems and help speed them on their way.
Monterrey is Mexico’s most successful and technologically advanced city. Raabe and Bergenn passed uneventfully through Immigration, identifying themselves as businessmen. This placed them comfortably and anonymously in the flow of visitors to a thriving metropolis known for its commerce.
On LaBelle’s advice they chose this approach, forgoing the diplomatic protocol of checking in as foreign agents with the Mexican authorities. American DEA personnel had too often been disappointed by leaks within the law enforcement agency known as the Federal Police or, more commonly, the federales. LaBelle cautioned them not to involve the locals, at least not yet. If Bergenn and Raabe registered their presence at the headquarters of a large, cosmopolitan center such as Monterrey, there were too many ways for that information to be shared, too many ways for it to be delivered to the wrong people.
Instead, Labelle counseled them to maintain their pose throughout the arrival process. Once they picked up their rental car they could abandon any such façade, since they were going to bypass the city and immediately head east toward a town closer to the United States border. Their destination was a notorious little pueblo that, as LaBelle warned them, did not share the safe and secure reputation enjoyed by Monterrey.
Reynosa has a bloody history, owing to the narcotics traffic that passes through it on the way north. In 2010 the increase in violence among the competing cartels—as well as between the cartels and law enforcement—became so bad that the nearby United States Consulate temporarily closed its office. Corruption within agencies of the Mexican government is suspected to have been one of the reasons for that move, which was followed by the issuance of a travel warning by the State Department urging American citizens to stay away from the area, including Reynosa. A renewed warning was issued after the murder of an American citizen there in 2011, and in 2012 when the corpses of forty-nine decapitated bodies were found in an area near Reynosa.
“This is typical,” Raabe said as Bergenn steered the car toward the rural horizon, the urban skyline of Monterrey disappearing in their rearview mirror. “Sandor goes to Sharm el-Sheikh and Moscow and we get a ticket to the armpit of Mexico.”
“May I remind you, he almost bought it in both of those places.”
“True, but Sandor tends to bring his own party wherever he goes.”
Bergenn laughed. “I have a feeling we’ll be having our own party in the next couple of days.”
————
At the conclusion of their briefing in Dallas, LaBelle told them he was going to entrust word of their mission to only one contact south of the border.
Felipe Romero was a DEA agent who had been under deep cover in Reynosa for the past two years. Mexican by heritage, American by birth, LaBelle described him as short and muscular, in his mid-thirties, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pockmarked complexion that made him appear older than his years. He also warned them that Romero inhabited the treacherous middle ground between the reality of his position with the DEA and the counterfeit existence he was now forced to live.
“He’s a serious guy,” LaBelle said, “and with good reason.” He described how Romero had lost a younger brother years ago to gang warfare on the streets of West Los Angeles. That had been difficult enough for a family being raised only by their mother, Romero’s father having disappeared years before. But then his older sister was hit in the crossfire of a drug-related shooting, leaving her dead and landing his mother in a state mental facility. With nowhere to go, Romero joined the Army and turned his life around. When he finished his third tour of duty he signed up with the DEA.
“This is not just a job to Romero, that’s what I’m telling you. This is a crusade. He will not deal well with anyone who gets in his way.”
Bergenn and Raabe assured him that they understood.
“Good, because he’s the best man I can put you together with down there.”
————
They were to meet Romero in an abandoned barn ten miles west of the Reynosa city limits. They arrived just before dusk and made one pass around the property.
The old farmhouse had all but collapsed, the roof caved in, the walls leaning at a precarious angle. A hundred yards or so behind it was the barn, a ramshackle structure that had apparently once been part of a functioning operation. Bergenn pulled the car around back where they got out and circled toward the front on foot.
There was no one there.
They were far enough from the road that they would not be seen, except by someone who might be looking f
or them, but they were still cautious as they entered the barn.
“This has got to be the place,” Raabe said.
Bergenn nodded as he had a look around the musty interior. Then, from a shadow in the corner, a man stepped forward, an automatic in his outstretched hand.
“Don’t say a word,” he ordered them. “Just put your hands on your heads and stop moving.”
The two agents did as they were told.
“You Romero?” Bergenn asked.
“What about ‘don’t say a word’ was confusing to you, man? I’m holding the gun, I ask the questions here. Your names.”
They told him.
“Who sent you here?”
“Why should we answer that without knowing who you are?” Bergenn replied.
“Because if I wanted to take you both down you’d be dead already.”
“Dan LaBelle,” Bergenn said.
“Describe him to me.”
Bergenn did.
“He gave you a password.”
Bergenn stared at the man. He was just as LaBelle had described. Stocky and strong and serious. “Freedom,” he said.
“All right,” he said, appearing more annoyed than relieved, “put your hands down.”
“How the hell did you get the drop on us?” Raabe asked. “No car in the area. No footprints in the dirt here.” He pointed to the barn floor.
“My car is in the woods, half a mile away. And I used some brush to cover my tracks in here.”
“Nice work.”
He frowned. “I don’t know what you guys are used to in D.C. or wherever, but you have just entered one of the most dangerous places in the world. People here, they get a whiff of something wrong and they kill their friends, even their own family. No second chances, no mistakes allowed. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Bergenn said. “And just so you understand, we’re field agents, not desk jockeys. So, do we get to ask questions now?”
“Felipe Romero, local runner for the Sinaloa Cartel.” He recited the information as if it were his name, rank, and serial number. “Around here they know me as Pacquito. I’ve been in Reynosa for more than two years and I’m telling you as sure as I’m holding this gun, if you do anything to blow my cover, you’ll become my enemy as much as any of them.”
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