Titus Ray Thriller Box Set, page 101
part #1 of Titus Ray Series
“You’re right. He’s no hero.”
Chapter 54
Wednesday, July 8
Following Carlton’s instructions, I arrived at Langley just after midnight on Wednesday. He tended to become paranoid whenever third-party deadlines were involved, and he said he wasn’t taking any chances as to what Franco Cabello meant when he said he would send a text to Marwan’s phone on July 8.
After checking in with security and having them inform Carlton I would meet him in the Ops Center, I walked over to the cafeteria and grabbed some breakfast. A few minutes later, Josh Kellerman from Support Services walked over to my table.
“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “I hate to eat alone.”
“No, of course not. I won’t be here long, though; I’m overdue in the Ops Center.”
“That’s okay. I’m a fast eater. I’ll probably be finished before you are.”
Agency personnel weren’t specifically forbidden from discussing operational details in the cafeteria, but they seldom did. Kellerman didn’t ask me why I was overdue in the Ops Center, and I didn’t ask him why he was at Langley at midnight.
Instead, we discussed the previous evening’s game between the Washington Nationals and the Pittsburgh Pirates, a game Stormy and I had watched together in my bedroom after I’d arrived back at The Meadows.
After Kellerman and I had rehashed the ump’s bad calls, I gulped down the rest of my coffee and told him I had to head out, giving him the I-enjoyed-eating-with-you-and-now-I-have-to-rush type of social nicety.
When I picked up my tray, I also grabbed the camera Benson and I had purchased when we’d made the appointment to see Walid Khouri. I’d already sent the Ops Center all the photographs I’d taken, but later today, I planned to hand the Nikon over to one of the feds on the Joint Task Force, the person appointed to take Benson’s place.
Kellerman gestured at the camera. “I see you found the Nikon. That’s good. Now you won’t have to fill out all the paperwork I gave you.”
“Uh ... no, I was just—”
“Since you’re running late, why don’t you just leave the camera with me? I’ll return it for you.”
I spent about twenty seconds having an internal debate with myself about the ethics of allowing the FBI to pay for my lost Nikon.
Did it matter whether it was the FBI or the CIA who paid for the expensive Nikon? In the end, wasn’t it the U.S. taxpayer who was really footing the bill?
I left the camera with Kellerman.
* * * *
When I entered Room C of the RTM Center, Carlton was occupying the captain’s chair, a slightly elevated seat in the middle of the room. On the console in front of him was the personal cell phone belonging to Marwan Farage, along with the encrypted cell phone given to him by Naballah. Both cell phones had a full battery charge.
Room C in the Real Time Management Center, was the largest of the six RTM centers, collectively referred to as the Ops Center.
Center C consisted of both an upper and lower section. The upper section had a seating area, and that’s where the members of the Joint Task Force were seated; everyone that is, except Arnie, who was on the lower level standing next to Carlton.
A wall of high-definition monitors encircled the room, but the number of screens used for projecting real time video during an active operation depended on the type of operation, the amount of data coming in, and how many operatives were involved.
Today, six of the twenty screens were being used for real time video; the rest of the screens were connected to the computers of the RTM employees seated at consoles around the room.
Of the six screens displaying real time video, three were showing aerial shots from Agency drones flying around the Washington Beltway, but no one in the room was paying much attention to those screens. I knew that would change when the sun came up.
Two of the screens displayed the FBI logo. However, once Franco Cabello identified the location of the semi-trailer truck carrying the gas canisters, the FBI logos would disappear. Then, everyone inside RTM Center C would be able to view the live action video from the FBI’s special reactionary force, the Critical Incident Response Group (CIRG), as it arrived at the truck stop and interdicted the shipment.
The last screen on the far right showed a residential street in Baltimore. The camera was focused on the home of Leandro Manolo, the Hezbollah cell leader who was awaiting a call from Hassan Naballah telling him where to pick up the chemical weapons.
Unless I totally blew it, Manolo would still receive that phone call from Naballah, and when he left his house to meet up with the other members of his cell to retrieve the weapons, the FBI would move in and start making arrests.
Unless I totally blew it.
My assignment—once Cabello had sent the text—was to call Hassan Naballah on the encrypted cell phone and pretend to be Marwan Farage.
When Carlton had first suggested this bit of play acting, I hadn’t been enthusiastic about it, but he’d kept insisting I’d spent enough time with Marwan to fool Naballah for a few minutes.
I wasn’t so sure about that.
* * * *
I was on my third cup of coffee when Marwan’s personal cell phone dinged. The time was 7:47 a.m. The text message was from Jorge Zamora.
I could tell the name didn’t register with Arnie, but after Carlton adjusted his headset and announced Jorge Zamora was the alias Cabello always used in his business dealings, Arnie immediately nodded his head as if he’d known this all along.
Carlton cleared his throat and read the message aloud.
Nolan Wilson, who was acting as the RTM manager in Olivia’s absence, quickly typed the words out on his computer screen, so everyone could view them on one of the video screens.
“Calverton Travel Center; Exit 31; 5W69588.”
Once Carlton had finished reading the message, he said, “Target is acquired. Commence the operation.”
RTM Center C sprang to life after that.
First, a map pinpointing the Calverton Travel Center was projected up on one of the monitors. It showed the truck stop was north of the Capital Beltway and thirty miles south of Baltimore.
A few seconds later, a drone was positioned over the location and everyone in the room was able to view the site in real time.
It looked like a typical truck stop. Semis were parked side-by-side along the outer perimeter, and several more were lined up at the gas pumps. Signage indicated there was a restaurant, driver’s lounge, and other trucker amenities inside the sprawling building on the property.
The feds on the upper level of the RTM Center kept their eyes fixated on the drone feed, as they began issuing orders to the CIRG units on their cell phones.
Five minutes after Cabello’s message arrived, the special agent in charge of CIRG unit #1 said he was ten minutes out from Exit 31.
Suddenly, Marwan’s phone dinged again.
Carlton and I both looked down at the screen.
Another text had arrived from Jorge Zamora.
“How’s the weather there?”
I said, “Cabello’s paranoid about security. He’s making sure it was Marwan who received his text. He’s asking him for his code phrase.”
“Well then, give him the code before he alerts the truck driver. If that happens, this operation could get very messy.”
I looked down at the phone and tried to remember the exact words I’d heard Marwan say to Cabello in the library at Naballah’s compound. I knew it had something to do with how hot it was and the lack of rain.
I wrote, “It’s hot with no chance of rain in sight.”
Seconds before sending it, I changed it to “It’s hot and dry with no chance of rain in sight.”
I pushed the send button, and Cabello texted back, “Sounds exactly like the weather here.”
I handed the phone back to Carlton, who said, “I’m glad you remembered that phrase, because I certainly didn’t.”
“Perfect recall,” I said, breathing a prayer of thanks.
* * * *
All three of the CIRG units arrived at the Calverton Travel Center within five minutes of each other. Once the last unit had joined the other two, they immediately surrounded a sky blue 18-wheeler with California license plate number 5W69588.
The moment the driver and his passenger were confronted by two dozen FBI personnel wearing black tactical gear, they surrendered without offering any resistance.
When that happened, everyone inside RTM Center C cheered and gave each other high-fives.
While I was enthusiastic about the peaceful takedown, my excitement was short-lived when I saw the FBI videographer moving around to the back of the truck in anticipation of opening up the cargo doors.
What if there were no canisters inside? What if Franco Cabello had double crossed Hassan Naballah and kept the sarin gas for himself?
The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced Cabello had done exactly that.
I knew the cartel wouldn’t have any scruples about using the weapons to protect their drug empire, so this made perfect sense to me.
On the other hand, since Cabello was ultimately a business man, he could have decided to auction the weapons off to the highest bidder, say a terrorist group like ISIS or al-Qaeda, and thus enhance his revenue stream.
I was conjuring up a third scenario, when one of the agents brought the driver around to the rear and had him unlock the cargo doors.
Once the doors swung open, all I could see were a couple of wooden crates, and I thought my worst fears had been realized. Then, two of the FBI guys hopped inside the truck and made their way down the aisle between the stacked crates. Seconds later, one of them appeared at the cargo door and gave the rest of the CIRG guys a thumbs up.
Not more than five minutes later, the Ops Center began receiving images of the pallets of gas canisters inside the truck. The grayish-blue metal canisters were nestled inside wooden pallets and appeared to be as harmless as a bunch of propane canisters sold at Walmart stores everywhere.
However, there was no mistaking the warning message written in Arabic on the outside of each of the canisters or the red and green chemical weapons symbol used by the Syrian military.
Once the feds on the upper level of the RTM Center saw the video coming in, they loudly congratulated each other on a job well done. For a brief moment, I thought someone was about to lead them in a cheer.
Carlton turned to me and said, “It’s time for you to make that call to Hassan Naballah.”
“I don’t need a bunch of cheerleaders around me when I do it.”
Carlton handed me the encrypted cell phone Naballah had given Marwan. “Go upstairs and make the call from my office. Mrs. Hartford will let you in.”
In the elevator on the way up to Carlton’s office, I congratulated myself on a job well done and gave Keever Pike an imaginary high five.
Chapter 55
Sally Jo was waiting for me when I arrived in Carlton’s outer office, so I had to assume he’d called ahead and told her I was coming.
I could have been wrong about that, because Sally Jo had a phenomenal intuition.
There were times when I even found it a little scary.
When she opened the door to his office, she said, “Now remember, Titus, if you move something out of its usual place, you’ll need to put it back before you leave.”
“Don’t worry, Sally Jo. I know the drill.”
“Of course you do, dear. I’ll leave you alone now.”
I sat down on Carlton’s sofa and placed the cell phone beside me.
After closing my eyes and laying my head back against the seat cushion, I tried to recall Marwan’s voice, the way he sounded when he’d spoken to Hassan Naballah. I needed to remember his exact tone.
Had he sounded deferential? Had he used formal Arabic or the less formal, more colloquial speech?
As I let those conversations play out in my head, I realized his Syrian dialect had been tinged with a Spanish accent. Should I try and mimic that?
I picked up the phone and made the call.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum.”
Naballah replied, “Wa-Alaikum-Salaam. Did Franco send you the text? Do you have a location?”
“It’s Calverton Travel Center; Exit 31; 5W69588.”
Naballah repeated the information back to me.
“That’s correct.”
“I’ve been studying the I-95 freeway near Washington. I believe Exit 31 is near Baltimore. That means Leandro and his men should have plenty of time to arrive at the travel center before Cabello’s deadline expires.”
“I believe so.”
“Are you well, Marwan? Are you enjoying your visit with your family?”
“I am. And you?”
“I’m fine, but I’m worried about Jamal. He’s been missing for several days now.”
“Missing?”
“He left shortly after you did on Saturday, and no one’s seen him since.”
“Strange.”
“While it may be strange, I don’t find it surprising. He was always coming up with some scheme to make money. I imagine that’s why he decided to leave so abruptly. Someone must have offered him a chance at a better life.”
I doubted Jamal was enjoying a better life right now.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“When you get back to Damascus next week, we’ll be celebrating our great victory over the Americans. Once things have settled down here, I have something important to discuss with you. It’s an opportunity General Suleiman offered me when I met with him last Saturday night. His plan also involves you.”
Even with my short answers, I knew I’d already pressed my luck at pretending to be Marwan, but when Naballah brought up what sounded like an upcoming operation, I couldn’t resist asking him for further details.
“What kind of opportunity?”
“We’ll discuss it later. I need to call Leandro now and let him know where to pick up the shipment.”
Since I knew the Ops Center was waiting for Naballah to make the phone call to Leandro, I didn’t press the issue and immediately told him goodbye. “Ma'aasalaama.”
“Go celebrate Samira’s birthday now, Marwan. We’ll all be having a celebration on 7/11 when we bring down the Great Satan.”
Within the next twenty-four hours, Hassan Naballah would get the news the chemical weapons had been confiscated and the Hezbollah members of the Baltimore cell had been arrested. At that point, he’d realize there would be nothing to celebrate on 7/11.
Shortly after reaching that conclusion, he would reluctantly pick up the phone and tell General Suleiman his decade-long plan to rain down death on Washington had failed.
When that moment arrived, I’d give anything to have a Grasshopper in place to capture the general’s reaction to that news.
* * * *
After disconnecting the call, I looked around the room to make sure I hadn’t disturbed anything. Once I’d readjusted one of the pillows on the couch, I left Carlton’s office and returned to the reception area.
I noticed Sally Jo was talking on the phone, so I simply waved at her to let her know I was leaving. She immediately shook her head and raised her hand like a traffic cop.
“Yes, sir,” I heard her say to the caller, “I’ll see that he gets the message.”
Once she hung up, I asked, “Was that our boss? Was Douglas checking up on me?”
“That was definitely our boss, but it wasn’t Mr. Carlton on the phone. It was the DDO, and he wants to see you in his office immediately.”
“Now?”
She peered at me over the top of her wire-framed glasses. “He said immediately.”
“Well then, would you get in touch with Douglas and tell him my phone call went well, and he should see activity at the house in Baltimore at any moment?”
“Of course. Anything else?”
“You might mention I’m on my way upstairs to meet with Deputy Ira.”
She nodded. “I’m not sure why the DDO wants to see you, Titus. But, for what it’s worth, he didn’t sound angry.”
I thanked Sally Jo, but I wasn’t convinced her information was all that helpful to me.
Once the deputy had made up his mind about something, he seldom revealed his emotions.
* * * *
I was all alone as I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor. I was happy about that. It meant I didn’t have to engage in social chit-chat with anyone, and I could use the time to figure out why the DDO wanted to see me.
What immediately came to mind was the death of Walid Khouri.
From the beginning, I suspected the DDO had been acquainted with Khouri on a personal basis, although I had no evidence to back that up. Nothing, except my own intuition. Granted, it probably wasn’t as good as Sally Jo’s intuition, but it was fairly reliable most of the time.
If my suspicions were correct, then I’d done the DDO a big favor by killing Khouri.
I’d spared him the embarrassment of having some Congressional committee investigate why the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations had been personally acquainted with an Iranian deep-cover operative, someone who had been just days away from dropping canisters full of sarin gas on the nation’s capital.
Did I expect to receive a commendation from the DDO for helping him avoid such a scenario?
Hardly.
My next guess was that I was being called up to the DDO’s office to receive a condemnation. If so, it probably involved Keever Pike.
Perhaps the DDO would give me a blistering lecture for allowing my Hezbollah asset to find out Keever Pike the journalist was, in reality, Keever Pike the spy.
In the end, I had to admit I wasn’t sure what to expect from the DDO, but, as I was escorted into his office, I thought I’d prepared myself for every possible scenario.
As it turned out, my preparation was less than adequate.
* * * *
Robert Ira occupied a corner office on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building. Not surprisingly, he had a million-dollar view.
