Titus Ray Thriller Box Set, page 75
part #1 of Titus Ray Series
“Tell Katherine to keep turning over those rocks. If I’m able to get Marwan to talk, he might be able to give us the timing of the attack, as well as how Hezbollah plans to execute it.”
“I agree,” Carlton said. “I believe Marwan’s capture will yield a treasure trove of intelligence for us. We were lucky he showed up in Buenos Aires when he did.”
Was that true?
Was the capture of Marwan just pure luck?
Maybe so, but I was beginning to believe it might be the answer to the prayer I’d prayed before leaving Washington, D.C., the one asking God to look on me with favor and grant me success in Buenos Aires.
I said, “Marwan’s presence here was definitely a gift.”
“Be careful how you unwrap this gift, Titus. I wouldn’t want it to get broken.”
In the end, Marwan didn’t get broken.
He didn’t even get bent.
Chapter 21
I wasn’t ready to question Marwan yet. There was someone else I needed to question first. I went back inside 301-B and found him over in the corner by the coffee machine.
“Hey,” Vasco said, “how about a cup of Joe? I’m buying.”
After I said yes, I waved off the creamer he offered me, and then I nodded over at the video monitors across the room.
“What’s our prisoner doing?”
“Mostly rocking in place and talking to himself. Are you ready to have a go at him?”
“Just about.”
I lowered my voice and looked Vasco in the eye. “Let’s get something straight before I go in there. I’m the primary on this operation, and unless I tell you to send the Ops Center the real-time feed of the audio, don’t send it.”
Even though the smile on his face remained fixed, his eyes didn’t look happy. “Sure thing. Did I get that wrong before? I sure thought you said to wait five minutes and then send the feed to Langley.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well then, sorry about the miscommunication. I’ll get it right next time.”
“Get what right?” Mitchell asked, walking up behind him.
Vasco seemed startled to hear Mitchell’s voice and almost spilled his coffee. “Oh, hey, Ben, I didn’t see you there. Titus and I were just discussing procedures. I sent Langley the real-time feed when you were questioning Roberto before, and, evidently, I wasn’t supposed to do that.”
Mitchell looked over at me and said, “No harm done, right?” He laughed, “It’s not like we laid a hand on him.”
Vasco laughed along with him. “Exactly.”
My aversion to doing a real-time feed while interrogating a subject stemmed from a bad experience I’d had in Kandahar, Afghanistan, when I hadn’t been able to alert the Ops Center I wanted to pursue an unusual line of questioning with a Taliban fighter. After the Ops Center had listened to the audio for a few minutes, they’d notified my handler to pull me out of there. Consequently, we’d never gotten the answers we needed from the guy.
Now, I preferred to delay the feed and inform the Ops Center later about what I was trying to accomplish with my line of questioning.
I was tempted to explain this to Vasco and Mitchell, but instead, I turned to Mitchell and said, “When you’re the primary on an operation, you’ll discover it’s less about appearance and more about context.”
I wasn’t sure Mitchell got my meaning, but I was sure Vasco did.
* * * *
A few minutes later, as Vasco began telling Mitchell about a sting operation he’d run in Colombia—one he claimed was all about context—I excused myself and walked across the room to where Juliana was manning the computers and monitoring the surveillance cameras.
I nodded toward the screen showing Marwan rocking back and forth in his chair. “Any thoughts about our prisoner?”
“He continues running through the gamut of self-comforting techniques, so I’d say he’s pretty afraid right now. If you played around with that fear, he might be willing to tell you what you want to know.”
“Tell me again why you’re still in surveillance after seven years.”
She laughed. “Routine. I like the routine.”
“Now I remember.”
“Then you probably remember my surveillance crew never spotted any suspicious vehicles, especially black vans, within a mile of Montilla’s residence.”
“I do remember that. You were excellent in there, by the way.”
“Would you mind telling me what was happening in that room before I interrupted you?”
“I’d rather not, but I’ll give you a hint.”
Before saying anything, I glanced over and made sure Mitchell and Vasco were still engaged in conversation.
They were.
I said, “When you were a detective, and you wanted a suspect to spill his guts before he started screaming for his lawyer, what would you do?”
She thought about it for a second. “Get him to trust me.”
I nodded. “And now you know what was happening in the Bub’s Subs senior manager’s office before you and Ben showed up.”
I heard a ping-ping-ping from the computer in front of Juliana, and, at the same time, a blue box popped up in the lower right-hand corner of her screen.
We both glanced down at it.
It was a red-flagged message addressed to Principals, Operation Citadel Protection, Component One, Buenos Aires.
Juliana said, “It’s a priority one message from the ASA office for you.”
The office of Analysis and Strategic Assessment (ASA) was Katherine’s department, and her counterintelligence analysis teams were some of the best at the Agency. Even so, I was surprised to be hearing from her so soon after Carlton’s update.
After Juliana printed off Katherine’s five-page report, I took the document over to a small conference table in a corner of the room. Once I’d read the first page, I got Mitchell’s attention and told him to join me.
I didn’t invite Vasco over.
When Mitchell sat down, I laid the first page in front of him and continued to feed him the rest of the pages as I finished reading them.
The first three pages of the Strategic Analysis Report (SAR) provided the biographical data on Marwan and his family. Although it was just the raw data—listed chronologically without analysis—Katherine pulled all the threads together in the final two pages. Here, she noted the areas where her team had been unsuccessful in digging up information or exact dates. Notably absent from Marwan’s biography was anything about his parents, his growing up years, and the time he’d spent in Hezbollah’s militia unit.
She summarized her findings in the final three paragraphs at the end of the report.
Although Marwan was born in Beirut, Lebanon, he was living in Barcelona, Spain by the time he was a teenager. He met his wife, Yamina, when he went to work at her father’s restaurant in Barcelona, and they continued living there until their daughter, Samira, was three years old. At that time, he moved his family back to Beirut, and that’s where their son, Arshad, was born.
Around that same time, probably 1992, Marwan joined a Hezbollah-funded militia fighting the Israelis in southern Lebanon. After Marwan distinguished himself in that action, he rose rapidly in the ranks of Hezbollah’s militant wing, and, several years later, he came to the attention of Hezbollah’s leadership when they needed a Spanish translator to deal with the Zeta drug cartel.
As more of the drug cartels in Mexico and Colombia joined forces with Hezbollah to expand their drug trade, Marwan took on the role of an advisor to Hezbollah instead of just a translator. Now, Marwan is a member of Hezbollah’s security council in Syria and represents their Latin American interests.
At the very end of the summary, Katherine had added a notation: “Trying to ascertain the location of Yamina and Samira Farage. At the present time, whereabouts unknown.”
After I handed Mitchell the last page, I sat there and thought about Katherine’s report. Something in the data gnawed at me. It was on the very edges of my gray matter, and I waited for the synapses to fire and send me my own red alert.
Or a blue one.
I wasn’t picky. Even a yellow one would do.
* * * *
Once Mitchell had finished reading the report, we both agreed there wasn’t much in the document I could use as leverage. Marwan Farage was a dedicated Hezbollah fighter, probably trained to withstand interrogation, and he wasn’t going to give up his secrets easily.
I gestured toward the video screens. “He’s exhibiting coping behavior, so he’s obviously afraid of something.”
“He knows he blew his mission; he failed to kill Roberto.”
“I’m not sure about that. This could have been a lone operation; something he decided to do on his own to avenge Ahmed’s death.”
“If that’s the case, then maybe he’s afraid Hezbollah will send someone after him for disobeying orders and getting caught in the process.”
I stood up. “Let’s go find out.”
Mitchell looked surprised. “You want me in there? I thought you’d want to conduct your interrogation in Arabic.”
“For all we know, Spanish could be his native tongue. Besides, I might end up needing your bad cop routine.”
“I don’t have a bad cop routine.”
* * * *
Before heading across the hall to question Marwan, I asked Vasco if he’d heard from any of his Hezbollah contacts about Marwan’s arrival in Buenos Aires.
“I checked in with them as soon as you called me from the cemetery. One of my assets said he’d never heard of him, and the other one said he’d heard of Marwan Farage, but he wasn’t aware he was here in the city. That guy is also connected with the cartel, so he may not be playing straight with me.”
“That sounds about right.”
I handed the ASA report off to Juliana. “You can put this in the burn bag now.”
Vasco said, “Would you mind if I took a look at it first?”
As chief of station, Vasco was well within his rights to request access to a document relevant to an operation for which he was providing support. At the same time, as the primary for the operation, I had the right to refuse him permission to view such a document.
Vasco seemed less bombastic since I’d confronted him about the audio recording issue, and, while I was slightly suspicious of his change of attitude, I considered it to be a positive thing.
“Sure. Have a look,” I said, handing him the document. “There’s a summary statement on the last page.”
He flipped through the pages and quickly read through Katherine’s synopsis.
“So Marwan is connected to the drug trade? Maybe my asset was telling the truth after all.”
“I don’t believe Marwan came to Buenos Aires with an official sanction. My guess is that he flew in here with the intention of making the hit on Roberto, and then he planned on getting out of here without making any contact with the other Hezbollah brothers.”
Juliana, who was still in front of her computer screen, said, “I just heard back from Otis about Marwan’s car. It’s an airport rental, and Marwan picked it up after arriving here on a flight from Caracas. There’s video of him deplaning from Flight 363.”
Mitchell said, “So Marwan left Beirut yesterday and flew to Caracas and then caught another flight to Buenos Aires last night. At least we know he’s jet-lagged. That should make our job a whole lot easier.”
The moment Mitchell mentioned Beirut, the synapses fired, and I immediately grabbed the elusive thought gnawing away at me since reading Katherine’s report. I looked at my brainchild from every angle, and then I made a quick decision.
Vasco said, “Yeah, I’d say go in there and hit Marwan with both barrels right now.”
“No,” I said. “We won’t be questioning Marwan right now.”
Mitchell looked surprised. “But I thought—”
I addressed Vasco. “Put Marwan in 301-A. Give him something to eat and make sure he’s not disturbed during the night. I don’t want him sleep-deprived when Ben and I question him in the morning.”
Vasco nodded. “Okay, if that’s what you want. What about Roberto?”
“You can release Roberto but continue your surveillance on him.”
Vasco looked over at Juliana. “You heard the man. Continue the surveillance on Roberto.”
I said, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like for Juliana to go back to the embassy with Ben and me. Let someone else run the surveillance on Roberto.”
Vasco said, “You’re headed back to the embassy? You two are Bub’s Subs executives. You might blow your cover if you don’t go out and party tonight. Never pass up a perfectly good excuse to party.”
I ignored Vasco and addressed Juliana. “I’ll need a secure hookup with Sam Wylie, our head of station in Caracas. Can you set that up for me?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“You’re contacting Sam?” Mitchell asked. “Is this about Roberto?”
“No, it’s about Marwan, and who was on that flight from Beirut to Caracas with him yesterday.”
Chapter 22
Mitchell and I rode over to the embassy in Juliana’s Jeep Cherokee. This time, I rode in the back seat and Mitchell rode shotgun—but only figuratively.
While they were talking sports in the front seat, I was having an argument with myself in the back seat, debating whether I should contact Carlton before initiating the call to Sam Wylie.
Since Carlton was running me, there probably shouldn’t have been a debate. As a field officer, I had a lot of leeway in calling the shots, making quick decisions, and acting on my instincts, but sitting high above the maze was Carlton, and, if I didn’t keep him informed about what I was planning for my next move, I might get boxed in and never find my way out.
Still, I hesitated to pick up my phone and tell him I was on my way into The Bubble to conference with Wylie.
Sam Wylie was the chief of station (COS) in Venezuela, and he’d played a major role in the Clear Signal operation by helping Mitchell and me locate Ahmed Al-Amin. He’d also been instrumental in the cover-up of who had really pulled the trigger on Ahmed, but I didn’t intend to rehash that ill-conceived conspiracy with him.
My hesitancy about phoning Carlton stemmed from my uncertainty about Wylie’s status in Operation Citadel Protection. Although Wylie had been thoroughly briefed into Clear Signal, there was no reason for me to believe he’d been briefed into Citadel Protection, and the Agency had certain rules about a field operative contacting a COS who hadn’t been briefed into an operation.
If I told Carlton I was planning to call Wylie, and he thought I was violating Agency regulations, he’d be obligated to forbid the action.
No matter what he said, I planned to contact Wylie, but if Carlton was against it, I’d probably have to do some groveling later.
Groveling wasn’t my strong suit.
* * * *
As Juliana pulled into the embassy’s underground parking garage, I remembered Carlton saying Reyes Valario had attended a Hezbollah training camp in Venezuela.
Wylie had briefed me on Hezbollah’s use of this so-called “youth camp” when I’d been with him in Venezuela, and, in my mind, this connection tied Citadel Protection to Clear Signal.
Could this connection justify my contacting Wylie? At the very least, I could easily make the case I was simply doing a follow-up to Clear Signal, and I wasn’t in direct violation of the rules.
When Juliana parked the car, she glanced up and saw me staring at her in the rearview mirror. “You haven’t said a word. Is something wrong?”
Mitchell said, “In case you haven’t noticed, Titus isn’t much of a talker.”
I said, “It’s hard to talk and scheme at the same time.”
Juliana nodded. “I can see how that might tax you.”
Mitchell laughed—a little longer than necessary—and I joined in to show it didn’t bother me.
After the three of us got off the elevator on the second floor, I gestured down the hallway. “You two go ahead. I’ll meet you in The Bubble in thirty minutes.”
“Skipping out on us?” Mitchell asked.
“I need to make a phone call. Now that I’ve finished scheming, I’m ready to talk.”
* * * *
I headed in the opposite direction of The Bubble and entered an office suite. The nameplate on the door identified it as General Services, Procurement and Trade Division.
A receptionist was seated at a desk in the middle of the room and looked up from her computer when I walked in. I pointed to the door behind her, which had Ken Vasco’s name on it.
“Ken said I could use his office to make a phone call.”
When she hesitated, I pulled out the temporary security badge I’d been issued earlier in the day and waved it in front of her.
She glanced at it and said, “Oh, sure. Go ahead. It’s not locked.”
When I walked into Vasco’s office, I fully expected it to be a reflection of the man himself—disordered and untidy—but instead, I found it neat and uncluttered.
His bookshelves were full of photographs of Ken Vasco shaking hands with politicians and government officials. One of those photographs was with the President. However, Vasco was one of about fifty other people in the frame.
Still, he’d managed to be standing next to the President when the picture was taken.
He also appeared to be an aficionado of biographies of past presidents, as well as those of present-day politicians.
I removed one of the newer books from the shelf.
The thick tome was the biography of a man everyone assumed would run for president someday. On the flyleaf was the signature of the man himself, along with an inscription.
“To Ken,” it read, “a man who’s never met a stranger and tells a great story.”
I slid the book back on the shelf, resisting the temptation to add a few words of my own. Finally, I sat down in Vasco’s cushy executive desk chair and pulled out my sat phone.
