“Then let’s bring Cleary in, find out what he knows.”
“Don’t worry, we will. I just want to wait a bit. Right now we have to hope he has them believing we’re tracking this shipment into Newark and ignoring Baltimore. That should keep them on course for Baltimore. If they find out we’ve arrested Cleary we’ll be doing ourselves more harm than good.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Raabe was ushered in by Byrnes’s assistant. Raabe was showing signs of both grief and fatigue after all that had transpired in Reynosa, but for the moment he managed a satisfied look as he held up a sheaf of papers. “SIGINT,” he announced. “We have chatter out of New York.”
Byrnes pointed him to a chair. “Talk to us.”
Raabe sat, placed the paperwork on the table, then looked up and said, “Upper Manhattan. The boys from the NCTC have been working with our people, reviewing data from the past two months. They’ve identified communications between Venezuela and what they think might be a sleeper cell in Washington Heights. It’s a big enclave for Latin Americans, as you know. The exchanges had been totally benign, back-burner stuff. The DEA was contacted a few weeks ago when some calls from Mexico figured in the mix. NCTC thought it sounded like it might be about narcotics, so we weren’t even notified.”
“And now?”
“There’s been a lot of recent activity domestically. NCTC is still taking the lead, our people are trying to keep their jurisdictional hands clean. Anyway, they picked up a lot of talk about a big party in the next couple of days.”
“That’s it?”
“No. It gets better. They mentioned a guest of honor coming to town. But guess where they have not been calling lately?”
“Venezuela,” Sandor said.
“Bingo. There hasn’t been a call to or from Caracas since the rumor that Adina had flown the coop.”
“What do the most recent exchanges sound like?”
“They’re discussing the time frame for their little bash. Seems they want to make it sooner. Since then the chatter has died down and their attempts at coding discussions have become more intense.”
“Do we have addresses on these people?” Byrnes asked.
Raabe shook his head. “They use nothing but disposable cell phones. S and T triangulated the locations, that’s how they nailed Washington Heights as the general area.”
“I don’t suppose anyone mentioned an anthrax delivery,” Byrnes smiled hopefully.
“Not quite,” Raabe said as he started thumbing through the papers, “but have a look at this.” He found what he was looking for and passed it to the DD. “Here it is in Spanish with the translation. The key line says ‘the confetti will be here soon, should be quite a party.’ And how about this one?” He passed a second sheet to Byrnes.
The DD took it and read the highlighted section aloud. “ ‘They’ll never be able to blow out the candles on this cake.’ ” He looked up. “You figure the confetti is the anthrax.”
“It’s one way to read it,” Raabe said.
“What about this reference to candles?”
“Not sure,” Raabe admitted. “We’ve got our analysts on it, poring through every line of transcript from the last sixty days. One thing seems certain though. Taken together, those references aren’t talking about a cocaine delivery.”
Byrnes was not convinced. “Let’s see what else NCTC turns up. Context is crucial. Couldn’t confetti be coke and the candles be a reference to crack?”
“That’s not how we read it, sir.”
“I’m not a cryptologist,” Byrnes said with a frown as he placed the papers on the table. “What do you think Sandor?”
Sandor had been shuffling through some of the other pages. He looked up and said, “Adina never plans anything straight ahead. Craig may be right, this may be a reference to anthrax, and maybe it’s not. What bothers me is the mention of fire. You don’t spread anthrax by burning it.”
“So you’re saying a biological attack may not be the only thing he has planned.”
“Yes sir, that’s what I’m saying.”
“All right, I’ll call downstairs, get our people on these transcripts, too. I also want to speak with DHS on this. I need to report to the task force about Cleary.”
“And I need to get to New York,” Sandor said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, NEW YORK CITY
WASHINGTON HEIGHTS HAS grown to define the entire upper portion of Manhattan, an area stretching from the Hudson River on the west, the Harlem River on the east, the Spuyten Duyvil canal—which separates the island from the Bronx—on the north, and Harlem to the south. A region once dominated by Irish-Americans and Jewish immigrants, in the past half century it has become home, almost exclusively, to Hispanics from virtually every country south of the Rio Grande.
Many who consider themselves true New Yorkers never see any more of the neighborhood than they might glimpse during a quick visit to the Cloisters museum or the sprawling medical facility sitting atop the east bank of the Hudson. This separation of the Heights from the rest of the city is owed in part to the deteriorating quality of life driven by the rampant narcotics trade there. The residents of the area who are peaceable and law-abiding have to deal with gang warfare, street violence, and the inevitable crime that results from a society where illegal drug use is rampant. Given the number of welfare recipients, minimum-wage workers, and day laborers, it is not surprising that an undercurrent of angry, anti-establishment sentiment can easily be cultivated. Just as jihadists nurture anti-Western hatred in their impressionable children, anti-American socialists promote the politics of blame as they deride the capitalist ethic of hard work and achievement, preaching the easy life promised to all by entitlement programs.
Adina himself would be pleased with the rhetoric being spread.
Proponents of these self-defeating morals argue, “Your unfortunate circumstances are not your fault, they are the fault of those who have more than you, who take advantage of you, who expect you to educate your young, build a family unit, and work hard for what you get. Who are they to tell you how to live? What do they know of your struggles? Why not take what you feel entitled to instead of what they tell you that you need to earn?”
A battalion of willing radicals is not hard to assemble in this cauldron of poverty, rage, and substance abuse. Controlling them and relying upon them is another matter entirely.
Miguel Lasco was sitting at the back table in a dimly lit bar on Staff Street, just off Dyckman Street, on the northern edge of Washington Heights. Six of his key men were with him.
They trusted the owner of the tavern, who was also its full-time bartender and part-time lookout. Nevertheless, they leaned forward when they spoke, their voices hushed.
“We have to cover a lot of ground,” Lasco said with a concerned look.
“Don’t worry, we’re putting our best men in the tunnels,” one of the others assured him.
“Understood,” Lasco said. “But the GW alone, with lanes upper and lower. That’s going to take a lot of cars right there.”
The others nodded their understanding. The building in which they were meeting was practically in the shadow of the George Washington Bridge.
“The tunnels are still the key,” another man reminded him.
“Of course,” he said, “but the man told us from the start, we have to hit every bridge. All or nothing. He told us that right from the beginning.”
The others nodded.
“This is our moment. This is what we’ve dreamed of.” Then Lasco added with a conspiratorial grin, “And the payoff will make it all worthwhile.”
They became silent.
“Day after tomorrow you’ll have all our groups in place?”
The others said they would.
“We’ve got to make sure the drivers don’t have any details till that morning. They’re good boys, but we cannot afford to trust anyone outside this circle. Agreed?”
The othe
rs agreed.
“Tomorrow they’ve got to line up the remaining cars. Where do we stand on that?”
The man in charge of securing the vehicles made his report. They were still fifty cars short, but he was confident it was not going to be an issue.
“You better be right, my friend.”
“I’m not worried about the cars,” he replied. “I’m worried about discipline,” he admitted. “We can’t have these young studs getting stoned or drunk or flapping their gums between now and then.”
“And what about afterwards?” another in the group asked. “There won’t be one of them who’ll be able to keep his mouth shut. Bragging, if they don’t get caught, ratting us all out if they do.”
Lasco agreed. “Our job is to get this done and then get the hell out of here.”
“With the money,” the man responded.
“Of course.”
“And when does Mr. Green show up, eh?”
“When the goods arrive,” Lasco told them. Then he leaned as close to them as he could. “Tomorrow,” he whispered.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
EN ROUTE TO NEW YORK CITY
ADINA NEVER LACKED a contingency plan. Since the incursion into his compound he harbored suspicions that his anthrax would not make it all the way to New York as a stowaway within the cargo of narcotics. On some levels, he believed that was for the best. Let the authorities focus on intercepting the cocaine; he could still get the toxins through. He now had possession of the deadly cases. All he had to do was to get them to Manhattan.
The radar systems and tracking technology along the border between Mexico and Texas had tightened since 9/11. Any plane not filing a proper flight plan, or deviating substantially from the assigned vectors, would soon be met by F-16s that were constantly ready to be scrambled and deployed.
A private plane coming from south of the border would be met by Customs wherever it set down and subjected to careful scrutiny.
A crossing by car was out of the question.
Small, unmanned devices could be flown north carrying the toxins. The goods would then be dropped in the Texas desert, where they could later be retrieved by use of their electronic homing system, but Adina dismissed the idea out of hand. The UAV could fail. The tracking mechanism might fail. The packages might be found by someone else before he and his men got there.
Use of an ultralight was another possibility, having one man carry the toxins and fly under the radar. The plane would set down in the Texas flatlands where the pilot would be picked up by car and taken to a private airfield someplace nearby. Adina’s charter would meet him there, having flown in without the dangerous baggage and already passing through customs. Since the next leg of their journey would be domestic, Customs would no longer pose a threat. Again, however, they faced the concerns of an unreliable aircraft. There were also too many moving parts in that plan for Adina’s taste, not to mention the possibility that the crossing would be picked up by the enhanced radar.
The overriding concern was the danger in any means of crossing from Mexico directly into the United States. Adina knew trouble was brewing and the arrival of the American agents in Reynosa meant the Border Patrol would already be on high alert.
Fortunately Adina had already planned a safer, if more circuitous, route.
————
The Cessna jet took off from Mendez, landing less than two hours later at La Isabela International Airport in Santo Domingo. Newer, smaller, and better equipped to deal with private jets than Las Americas Airport, it was the perfect spot for Adina to refuel and then embark for his trip north.
Charter flights landing in the Dominican Republic usually meant the arrival of wealthy tourists, so inspections were perfunctory at best. No one with any sense was smuggling anything into the country, and the government had no interest in what you might be taking out.
Once the brief inspection was concluded, Adina told the pilot and copilot to get some rest. They would be leaving soon.
“I’ll need to file a flight plan, sir. This is an international airport.”
Adina nodded. “We’ll find you in the lounge and let you know. Leave the air-conditioning on in the cabin.” It was clear he wanted the crew off the plane, so they went on their way. When they were gone Adina took a seat in the cabin, facing Alejandro and Jorge. “You are both satisfied the cases will not be found?”
“They did a good job modifying the storage bins,” Alejandro told him. “They replaced the lining with removable panels, then made it look like there’s fabric sewn on top of that. The cases are airtight and the goods are odorless. If they try and run any sort of interior detection, the plastic cases will blend in with the fuselage.”
“And we’re just three visitors from the Dominican Republic,” Jorge chimed in, reaching into his pocket and holding up his counterfeit passport.
Adina nodded thoughtfully. “They’re looking for a container ship from Mexico on its way toward Newark. Whatever those agents discovered in Reynosa, they’ll assume the goods are traveling by sea and cannot arrive before day after tomorrow, more likely the next morning.”
“Which means they’ll be too late.”
“We hope so” Adina said. “Alejandro, go tell our young pilot he has three gentlemen who would like to fly nonstop to Stewart Airport, in Newburgh, New York.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
SANDOR HAD TO get to New York. With time running out he knew the best place for him now was at the point of attack. He also knew that chasing Adina from behind was not going to get it done. He needed to get in front of the situation.
On his way to Manhattan, however, he had a couple of stops to make.
Commandeering an Agency car, he took Craig Raabe and Dan LaBelle and drove toward Arlington, Virginia. Whatever he was going to do when he got there—which he had not yet decided—these two men had earned the right to be present. As he approached his destination he contacted the teams Byrnes had in place. Sandor told them he was going to meet with Joseph Cleary and that they should remain at the ready but take no action unless he called them in.
A few minutes later he arrived at Cleary’s home, pulled into the driveway, and turned the car off.
“You two wait here. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you.”
Raabe placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “I still think this is a lousy idea.”
“Me too,” Sandor admitted, then got out of the car.
As he strolled up to the front door he had a look around. The house, an old-style split-level, was situated on a quiet suburban street. At this time of night there was not much going on, which was for the best. If Cleary had allies watching the people who in turn were watching Cleary, the two NCS teams would have spotted them.
Sandor rang the bell and waited.
When Cleary came to the door he was still in his work clothes, although his jacket and tie had been removed and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. The man looked as if he was busy. “Sandor,” he said, not hiding his surprise.
“There’s been a development. We need to talk.” Before Cleary could respond, Sandor walked past him into the small foyer.
Other than the overhead Cleary had switched on when he answered the bell, the lights in the house seemed to be off, except for a room off to the left.
“Family asleep already?”
“My wife took the kids to see her sister. With everything going on I figured it was a good time for her to get away.”
“Get away?”
“I’m up to my eyeballs with the situation we have here. Thought it would be best.”
Sandor nodded. “No distractions. Makes sense.”
“Look, I’m in the middle of pulling some data together. What’s the new development?”
The two men were facing each other beneath the harsh glare of the brass and glass light fixture. They stood about the same height and Sandor had positioned himself directly in front of Cleary, so they were eye to ey
e.
“No small talk, Cleary? No offer of a drink or anything?”
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he glanced toward the front window. In the darkness he could not see if there was anyone else in Sandor’s car. “What are you up to?”
“You know the old expression, ‘Lie down with dogs and get up with fleas’?” Cleary did not respond. “Looks to me you’re as flea-bitten as an old hound.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m having a conversation with a dead man walking.”
“I’m calling your boss right now,” Cleary said, then began to turn toward his office.
Before he could complete the about-face Sandor grabbed him by the wrist, spun him back around, and was showing him the business end of his Walther PPK.
“Like I said, I’m here to have a conversation, then you can call whoever you want.”
Cleary did a reasonable job of maintaining his composure, actually managing a sneer as he said, “I know all about you, Sandor. You’re a renegade with a terminal discipline problem, and right now you’re way over the line. Pulling that weapon on a senior government official is going to earn you time in federal lockup.”
“You’re scaring me to death, Cleary. Is that an intimidation technique they taught you when you went through the initiation rites for the Sinaloa Cartel, or did you work up that little act on your own?”
Cleary glared at him without speaking.
“I have to admit, I may be a little myopic on this issue, but I simply cannot see how a man in your position can betray his own country.”
“Betray my country? You’re insane.”
“Am I?” Sandor gestured with his weapon, pointing toward Cleary’s office, then gave the man a shove to get him moving. He followed him into the room, then had the man from DEA sit behind his desk. Sandor remained standing as he poked through the papers that were spread out.
Cleary smirked at the effort. “You’re delusional.”
Sandor moved beside Cleary and opened the top drawer. A revolver sat atop some documents. Sandor removed the gun and stuck it in his waistband.
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