Stevenson, the community bank manager, had been very helpful. The reams of banking information he provided included credit histories, ATM transactions, and credit card statements. Two team members had even set up their mortgages through Stevenson’s bank. The guy Ryan ultimately wanted, though, had been much more careful. His personal financial presence in the data was almost nonexistent. There was only the corporate stuff. He had been smarter than the rest of the team members and had established follow-on bank accounts for his money to wash through. Even if somebody pierced the community bank, they’d have a lot more work to do to track down where he lived.
That was fine by her. They’d catch up with Tom Cushing, the team’s leader, eventually. They weren’t looking for the head of the pack now anyway. They were looking to pick off someone a little bit further back.
As far as Ryan was concerned, they had taken a significant leap forward. The team had not been disbanded; it had just been pushed further into the shadows. The question that she didn’t want to wrestle with, but which was still there, was why had she been cut loose? Why did they not bring her along with them? She had thought she had been a pretty good fit, even when she was acting as her teammates’ conscience.
Was that it? Was that why she had been let go? Had her morality been that inflexible? Granted, she’d been fairly rigid when she joined the team, but once she’d been tossed in the deep end and saw not only how much was at stake but how ruthless the enemies of the country were, she had begun to quickly play ball.
Maybe her being added to the team had only ever been window dressing. Maybe someone on the seventh floor had leaned on Phil Durkin and he had assigned her to the team in order to appear like he was at least trying to make things right. Who the hell knew what was real and what was fiction when it came to anything anymore at the CIA?
Ryan forced the question from her mind. It was a rabbit hole that went absolutely nowhere. There were bigger things she needed to focus on at the moment.
The Eclipse team still existed and they were still being funded via the Central Intelligence Agency. That was a big part of the puzzle that had now fallen into place. The next question she needed answered was what they were up to. Were they destabilizing Islamic countries so that their current governments could be overthrown and replaced? If so, was Jordan on their list? And if it was, how far along were they and who else beside the Muslim Brotherhood figures that had been photographed meeting with them in Cyprus were they involved with? Nafi would want all the details. Of that, she was sure.
She was also sure of what their next move should be, but McGee didn’t agree. He liked the idea of isolating one of the team members; he just didn’t like the person she had picked. McGee had his own feelings when it came to whom they could double back against Phil Durkin and the team.
“There is no way you’ll get Tara to crack,” Ryan had told him.
“The hell I won’t,” the man replied. “Everyone cracks. Drag their kids in and they crack so fast your head’ll spin.”
“We’re not bringing anyone’s children into this.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“Jesus, Bob. We’re talking about little kids.”
“What kind of monster do you think I am?” McGee retorted. “Nothing’s going to happen to them. We’re just going to use them for leverage.”
Ryan fixed him with a withering look. “No, we’re not.”
“So then what? We go with your guy? Florence of Arabia?”
“Cut it out. Florentino makes more sense than Tara at this point. He’s the weakest one on the team, he’s the person I had the strongest rapport with, and based on his credit card history, we know what bar he spends every Tuesday night in when he’s in town.”
“The only reason you two had such strong rapport is because he didn’t try to put the make on you.”
“He actually had reservations about many of the things Cushing was pushing the team to do.”
The older operative stood looking at the names on the wall and took a sip of coffee. “Just because your Arabist had his moral compass set a little truer north than the rest of them,” he said, lowering the mug, “doesn’t mean he’s going to cooperate with us.”
“We’ll see what happens.”
“I’m telling you, it’s a mistake. We should go after the Tara woman. We use her kids, she talks, and bang. We’re golden.”
“No kids. No bang.”
“I didn’t mean bang as in—”
“I know what you meant, but we’re done discussing leveraging anybody’s children. I’m not doing that. Understood?”
McGee was silent and Ryan shot him another look. “Understood?”
“Fine,” he finally replied. “We’ll do it your way. No kids.”
“And you’ll let me handle Florentino? You promise to stay out of my way?”
“What are we, suddenly in a negotiation?”
“No,” she said. “This isn’t a negotiation, it’s an operation, and I want to make sure that there is no confusion as to chain of command. This was my team, I know these people, this is my op. Easy enough?”
“Fine,” McGee relented again. “But let’s just be clear on one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The minute any guns come out, this becomes my op and we do things my way.”
CHAPTER 39
WASHINGTON
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
Florentino Marche had been born in Brooklyn, New York, and was the only child of an Italian father and a Puerto Rican mother. He had attended Columbia University, where he showed considerable aptitude for languages, particularly Arabic. From there he had gone on to Georgetown and a master’s degree from the Center for Contemporary Arab Studies. The Central Intelligence Agency made their approach shortly thereafter.
He was a tall, thin man with dark features and curly hair. With his black-framed eyeglasses and retro fashion sense, he came off as more geek than chic.
There were at least a hundred other hipster men in the crowded bar dressed just like him. Waitresses shuttled to and fro with pitchers of beer and trays laden with rings and wings. Televisions mounted on every wall broadcast a myriad of current as well as classic sporting events. It was difficult for Ryan to move through the crowd unimpeded. Table after table of young men invited her to join them, some less sober and more insistent than others. Finally, she spotted Florentino.
He was sitting with a group of friends in a booth. Instead of talking to each other, they were all looking down at their phones, texting. Occasionally, some team on one of the TVs would score, the crowd would cheer, and Florentino’s booth full of hipsters would look up and react. She needed to get his attention.
Tipping a waitress to slide him a cocktail napkin with a cryptic message had occurred to her but Florentino was too smart and too paranoid to bite on something like that. Guys like him didn’t get sent notes on cocktail napkins.
She was trying to come up with another option when she saw him tuck his phone in his pocket, say something to his friends, and get up from the table. As he walked toward the restrooms, she fell in step behind him and followed.
Her question now was whether she was going to present herself before or after he used the men’s room. Probably better to wait till after.
Slowing her pace, she picked a spot where she could wait and watch for him to come back out. He didn’t go into the men’s room, though. He kept walking toward the back of the building.
He hip-checked the crash bar on a fire exit and stepped outside. Smoke break?
She needed him isolated anyway. Behind the building was just as good as anyplace else. Besides, it was too noisy inside. She could barely hear herself think.
Catching the door before it closed, she slipped outside behind him.