Titus Ray Thriller Box Set, page 71
part #1 of Titus Ray Series
Carlton said, “Subtlety has never been his strong suit.”
Mitchell said, “I also believe interrogating Roberto is a waste of time.”
I said, “No, I’m not saying it’s a waste of time. In fact, I’m sure we’ll pick up some extra intel by having another go at Roberto. What I am saying is that we may not get the necessary intel in time to stop Hezbollah from dropping a rocket load of sarin gas on Washington, especially if those canisters arrive in Cuba in a few days.”
Carlton said, “We’ll be sending Agency personnel to Cuba, and we already have operatives monitoring Rehman Zaidi in Damascus. The team in Damascus also has a solid asset in Hezbollah’s camp, and this asset may be our best chance of learning the timetable for the event.”
I remembered Olivia’s advice about Marwan Farage, and, since the briefing appeared to be almost over and Wilson hadn’t brought up the man’s name once, I decided it was time to toss it out there.
“Have our people in Damascus mentioned anything about Marwan Farage?”
If Carlton was surprised to hear Marwan’s name, he didn’t show it. “I’m not aware of any reports about him.” He pointed over at Wilson. “Marwan Farage? Is there any new intel on him? He was one of Ahmed Al-Amin’s relatives.”
Katherine spoke up, “His cousin. Marwan was his cousin.”
Katherine had uncovered the connection between Ahmed and Marwan, and, unlike most counterintelligence analysts, she never minded receiving attention for her efforts.
Wilson typed in a few keystrokes on his laptop.
Seconds later, he sat back in his chair and nodded. “Here it is. His name was mentioned in a report about the meeting Zaidi had with Hassan Naballah, the head of Hezbollah in Damascus. There’s nothing there, though. The report just mentions Marwan’s name.”
I asked, “Just his name? Nothing else?”
“See for yourself.”
Wilson projected the document on the screen in front of everyone.
It was a typical Field Report Summary (FRS). This one described a meeting between an asset and his handler.
The body of the document was the printed transcript of the audio recording from the meeting, and, as soon as I saw the handler’s initials were KP, I knew Keever Pike had to be one of the principals working Operation Citadel Protection in Syria. I wasn’t able to figure out the asset’s name, because, as per Agency policy, an asset’s initials were only listed as UA for unnamed asset.
The transcript read:
KP: Who was at the meeting between Naballah and Rehman Zaidi when he returned to Damascus?
UA: Marwan Farage and Abdul Latif were present, and, of course, I was also there.
KP: Did Naballah tell you why he’d called the meeting?
UA: He wanted a full report on Zaidi’s role in Ahmed Al-Amin’s death.
KP: Why did he want the report? Did Naballah blame Zaidi for his death?
UA: Maybe. I don’t know. He just wanted to know how Ahmed had died.
KP: Did Zaidi take responsibility for Ahmed getting killed?”
UA: No, he placed the blame on Roberto Montilla. He said he was sure Montilla was working for the CIA, and he even gave Naballah one of the bullets from Ahmed’s body to prove it. He said the bullet had come from a Glock.
KP: What does that prove?
UA: He said most CIA people use a Glock.
KP: Some do. Some don’t. Okay, so what was Naballah’s reaction?
UA: He didn’t have a reaction. The only person in the room who showed any emotion was Marwan. He got so angry Naballah had to calm him down.
KP: Did Naballah discuss the chemical weapons at the meeting?
UA: Naballah said the ships carrying the canisters were being diverted to Cuba because the warehouses in Venezuela had been compromised by Montilla’s betrayal.
KP: And the target? Has that changed?
UA: No. It remains Washington, D.C.
KP: Did he talk about how he plans to disperse the gas or say anything about the timing of the attack?
UA: All he said was the Cuban location wasn’t going to change the schedule. He said nothing about how he plans to use the gas.
KP: And you still don’t know when the attack will take place?
UA: No. Naballah said only General Suleiman knows the schedule.
KP: You mean the Iranian general?
UA: Yes. General Suleiman, the head of Al Quds. He’s the one who has the final say.
* * * *
Wilson stayed quiet until it was obvious everyone in the room had finished skimming the FRS.
“See what I mean?” Wilson said. “There’s nothing there.”
I said, “The UA said Marwan was upset when he heard about Ahmed’s murder. He thought it was significant enough to mention it to his handler.”
Wilson said, “You sound like Olivia. She said the same thing.”
Carlton gave me a curious look. “What are your concerns about Marwan Farage?”
“Revenge is my concern. Jihadists feed on anger. All the 9/11 hijackers were fueled by anger at the Americans for some reason or another. We should be proactive and start monitoring Marwan’s travels before he shows up over here to exact his revenge.”
Whether he agreed with my reasoning or not, Carlton instructed Wilson to put a tracker on Marwan. Once that was done, he said he wanted to wrap things up by taking care of some housekeeping details.
“The DDO has decided to split Citadel Protection into two separate components. Everyone here in this room is a member of Component One. Component Two will be led by C.J. Salazar, who’ll be investigating yesterday’s incident at the Washington Navy Yard. His team will ascertain if the shootings had anything to do with the threat posed by Hezbollah to use chemical weapons on the capital.”
Now I understood why Carlton has assured me he would be the handler for my run into Buenos Aires. As soon as he saw the drugs in Felipe’s backpack, he must have realized Salazar would ask the DDO to allow him to explore the drug cartel’s role in the Navy Yard incident.
I had no doubt Carlton had also encouraged the DDO to give Cartel Carlos that assignment—moving the pieces on the board in such a way as to protect his territory and remain in control.
Carlton pointed over to Katherine. “Ms. Broward’s team will continue to do a deep background check on Walid Khouri, whose phone number was found in the second shooter’s backpack. If she finds a Hezbollah connection, I’ll let you know.”
At the mention of her name, Katherine smiled and glanced across the table at me. I was tempted to give her a wink, but I didn’t want her to interpret it as anything other than signaling we were co-conspirators when it came to Walid Khouri.
I gave her a brief smile instead.
She returned my smile with a wink.
* * * *
Our flight to Buenos Aires didn’t leave until four o’clock the next day, so, after leaving Langley, I headed back out to The Meadows to spend the night.
The moment I pulled in the driveway, I got a call from Nikki.
“Your timing’s perfect. I was just about to call you,” I said.
“Does that mean you’re still in Virginia?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yes, in a way. My captain was involved in a pretty bad car accident today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s not—”
“No, no. Other than having two broken legs, he’s okay. His doctor said he’ll be fine in a couple of months, but I’m afraid this means Stormy will have to stay in a kennel after all. I couldn’t ask the captain’s wife to take care of an extra dog while she’s busy taking care of the captain.”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m sorry it worked out like this. I know he won’t like being confined. I’m talking about Stormy, not the captain.” She laughed. “The captain won’t like it much either.”
“His wife might not be happy about it herself.” I got out of the Range Rover and headed toward the front door. “What are the kennel options for Stormy?”
The moment she started explaining them, another thought popped in my mind.
“Forget the kennel,” I said. “Bring Stormy with you. I have the perfect place for him here.”
“Really? Are you kidding?”
I told her I wasn’t kidding, and I gave her the address.
Once we said goodbye, I went inside and told Arkady to expect a companion for Frisco to arrive at The Meadows by the end of the week. I said he’d be in the company of a beautiful woman.
I assured him Carlton wouldn’t mind having Stormy around—once he’d met the beautiful woman.
Of course, that was sheer fantasy on my part.
* * * *
The next morning, around ten o’clock, I received a phone call from Brian. As soon as I saw the caller ID, I tried to figure out the best way to explain my failure to get the recommendation I’d promised him.
Since he didn’t hold me in very high esteem anyway, I knew he probably wouldn’t be too surprised when I told him I hadn’t come through for him.
“Did I catch you at work?” he asked.
“Just heading in.”
“Late start, huh? Well, I won’t keep you, but I wanted to let you know I didn’t get the internship with Senator Conrad.”
“I’m sorry about that. I did try to—”
“Don’t be sorry. As soon as I got off the phone with Senator Conrad’s office, I got a call from Senator Mitchell. I go to work for him on Monday.”
“Senator Mitchell called you?”
He sounded breathless. “Yes, can you believe it? He’s the highest-ranking senator on two intelligence committees. Anyone who interns with him gets paid really well and is pretty much assured of employment in Washington after they’re done.”
“He’s a powerful man.”
“From what I understand, Senator Conrad was so impressed with my application, he forwarded it to Senator Mitchell, and that’s how I got the position.”
“I bet it was your grade point average that won him over.”
Brian laughed. “That’s the funny part. My grades this semester haven’t been all that great. It’s been a rough year.”
“I’m happy for you, Brian. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”
“I’ll probably be stuck at a desk all day, but, according to the Senator, that’s how he got his start. He emphasized how he had managed to work his way up from the bottom.”
“Sounds like he was sending you a message.”
“He also said he plans to take a special interest in me.”
“I’d definitely say he was sending a message.”
“Well, I heard that message loud and clear.”
I also heard the Senator’s message—my nephew’s future was in his hands.
PART TWO
Chapter 16
Thursday, June 25
The freckled-face driver the American Embassy sent to Ezeiza International Airport to pick up the two executives from Bub’s Subs was a loquacious kind of guy.
As soon as Mitchell and I were settled into the back seat of his car, he told us he was born in Brooklyn, New York. Along with giving us the highlights of his life, including a story about his engagement to an Argentinean actress, he also pointed out some of the city’s attractions on our way into downtown Buenos Aires.
I did my best to feign an interest in the Art Museum, the Planetarium, and the Botanical Gardens, but I was happy when we finally pulled up in front of the Park Hyatt Hotel. The Brooklyn Guy checked us in and took care of our luggage. Then, a short time later, he drove us over to the American Embassy, about six blocks away.
After the Marine security guard waved us through the gate at the embassy compound, Brooklyn Guy drove the car around to the back entrance, where there was an underground parking facility. From there, Mitchell and I rode the elevator up to the second floor. When the doors opened, Vasco was waiting for us with a big smile on his face.
“Hey, guys. Nice to see you again.” He gestured toward a hallway. “Come this way.”
Mitchell and I followed him down a short corridor.
After using his key card on an unmarked door, Vasco entered The Bubble, the same room we’d seen him occupying during the video conference call two days earlier.
The moment Vasco turned to face us, he began rubbing his hands together vigorously, as if he were anticipating the pleasures of an all-you-can-eat buffet. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to be working with the two of you.”
Extending his hand toward Mitchell, he said, “Ben Mitchell. You’re Elijah Mitchell’s son, right?”
Mitchell pulled away from him. “That’s right, but I don’t see how that’s relevant to this operation.”
Vasco laughed. “Oh, it’s not, but I did meet the Senator once, and I just thought I’d let you know that. Not to worry, though. Outside of this room, I’ll address you as Ignacio Rubio.”
Vasco turned away from Mitchell and shook hands with me. “Titus Ray. You probably don’t know this, but I took over your operation when the Agency pulled you out of Colombia.”
“I had no idea.”
During my early days at the Agency, I’d been assigned to the Latin American desk, and, as a newbie, I’d gotten my feet wet in Nicaragua. After my handler was almost killed in Managua because of my failure to follow orders, I was transferred to Barranquilla, Colombia.
I hadn’t made the request for a transfer (TR); that request had come directly from my handler.
My new assignment in Colombia had been to recruit assets inside the two big drug cartels, which turned out to be a nearly impossible task. By the end of three years, when I heard the Agency was offering an intense language course in Arabic, along with a transfer to the Middle East, I’d jumped at the chance to fill out the TR for a new assignment.
The Arabic language course meant living in Pakistan with a non-English-speaking tutor for six months. Learning a language had never been that difficult for me, and by the end of my six months, I could speak Arabic fluently. I could also communicate in Farsi, after having spent a lot of time with an Iranian neighbor who lived across the hall from me.
Vasco nodded. “Yeah, the Agency assigned me to Colombia after you left. I finally recruited a couple of assets inside the Medellin cartel, and then I got really lucky when three brothers inside the Cali cartel agreed to work with us. They helped our guys bring down one of the major drug families in the cartel.”
Mitchell said, “Are you talking about Miguel Rodriguez? One of my instructors at Camp Peary lectured us on that operation. He said it was a textbook case.”
Vasco nodded. “It was pretty sweet.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “I wasn’t as successful in penetrating the cartels.”
“Yeah, but look at what you’ve done since. You’re a Level 1 intelligence officer now, and from what I hear, your operation in Afghanistan pulled in some pretty big fish a few years ago.”
Before I had a chance to respond, Mitchell asked him a question about Miguel Rodriguez, and that launched him into a colorful story about the drug lord’s nefarious ways. The moment he wrapped up that story, Mitchell peppered him with even more questions.
It was clear Ken Vasco had made a big impression on my partner.
I couldn’t say the same.
Something about the man irritated me.
As I listened to him answering Mitchell’s questions, I realized the station chief reminded me of Sal Westerfield, a police detective who’d lived down the street from us in Flint, Michigan.
I figured that resemblance was why Vasco was hitting the wrong notes with me.
Like Vasco, Sal was also a big man with an overlapping gut—courtesy of one too many donuts—and, like Vasco, he was also a slap-you-on-the-back, gregarious kind of guy.
As a teenager, I hadn’t liked Sal very much.
In fact, I’d found him loud and overbearing. If my parents had allowed me to use the word, I probably would have described him as stupid, maybe a little dense, certainly laughable.
However, during breakfast one morning—I was probably sixteen at the time—I’d changed my mind about Detective Westerfield’s personality. It was right after my mother had shown me an article in the morning newspaper.
“You should read this,” she said, indicating a front-page article describing how Detective Sal Westerfield had disarmed a suicidal young man bent on killing his family and taking his own life.
She pointed to the picture of Sal with his arm around the young kid. “That’s Sal for you. People underestimate him because he acts dumb. Personally, I think he’s learned to use that to his advantage.”
Now, as Vasco sat down at the head of the conference table and pulled a computer keyboard toward him, I wondered if the same could be said about the station chief.
Vasco said, “Let me see if I can manage this uplink with Langley without calling in one of our tech guys.”
His fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard.
A few seconds later, Carlton, along with Nolan Wilson, could be seen on the wide-screen monitor at the other end of the room. The two of them were seated in Carlton’s small conference room next to his office.
Vasco looked up at the screen and gave Carlton a snappy salute, along with a big smile. “All present and accounted for, sir.”
Carlton wasn’t smiling.
“We’ve had some disturbing news.”
* * * *
Before giving us the details, Carlton asked Vasco about the surveillance he was running on the Jihadist groups in Buenos Aires.
The Agency, along with Mossad, had kept a close eye on all the Hezbollah militant groups operating out of Argentina, especially after a car bomb had destroyed a Jewish community center a few years ago.
A group calling itself Islamic Jihad had claimed responsibility for the Jewish center attack, but, even so, none of its members had ever been prosecuted.
Like Venezuela, the government in Argentina appeared reluctant to move against the militant arm of the Muslim community for fear of upsetting the societal structure they’d built, including a couple of hospitals and several schools. More importantly, Argentina had tied itself economically to Iran in the form of trade agreements, exchanging their agricultural products for Iranian oil, and they seemed reluctant to see this balance of trade upset in any way.
