“What are the PPL and CPL?” Melkasian asked.
“Those are the exams required by the ICAO, the International Civic Aviation Organization, to qualify for private and commercial pilot licenses,” Sue replied.
The moment he heard “commercial pilot licenses,” Crocker traveled back to 9/11, an event that had profoundly changed his life. Prior to that time, the pace of ST-6 operations had been so slow he’d been thinking about leaving the navy and starting a private security firm. Following 9/11, ST-6 ops increased exponentially. He had been deploying overseas an average of 280 days a year.
Rappaport asked, “What do we know about the real identities of these men?”
“Practically nothing,” Sue answered. “Since we found them on the papers you recovered, we assume they are Iranians who have been granted Venezuelan citizenship and given new identities.”
Melkasian’s cell phone rang. As he listened to the person on the other end, his forehead furrowed. He put his hand over the phone and, turning to Rappaport, said, “It’s Sanchez. He says the Learjet the Iranian flew in on is getting ready to leave from Simón Bolívar Airport.”
“Excuse us for a minute, Sue,” Rappaport grunted into the speakerphone. Then, to Melkasian, “Is Alizadeh aboard?”
“Unclear.”
“Where’s the plane headed?”
“According to the flight manifest, the destination is Ciudad del Este, Paraguay.”
“Why the fuck is he going there?” Rappaport asked, thinking out loud.
Crocker chewed on the same question. What business might Alizadeh or the other Iranians possibly have in that lawless, corrupt city?
Rappaport bid goodbye to Sue for the time being, and the four men spent the next forty minutes discussing possibilities. Then they called Reston, Virginia, and woke up the head of CIA’s Quds Force Working Group, Sy Blanc. Though Sy was suffering from a fever and flu-related symptoms, his mind remained sharp. He pointed out that Ciudad del Este had approximately twenty-five thousand Shiite Muslim residents who had emigrated from Lebanon during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War and the 1985 Lebanese Civil War. It was known that the Iranian-backed Hezbollah militia had built an active smuggling network operating out of the remote tri-border region and that it funneled large sums of money to fund operations in the Middle East, also financing training camps, propaganda campaigns, and bomb attacks in South America.
“What kind of smuggling?” Rappaport asked.
“Cigarettes, marijuana, and cocaine. It’s smuggled across the border to Brazil, then shipped to Europe,” Blanc reported. “Profits are huge, anywhere from an estimated two to four billion a year.”
It was the perfect place, Crocker thought, for Alizadeh to find money to support Unit 5000’s activities. If he was looking for an illegal means for funding his new organization, what better place to look than the lawless tri-state border region of Paraguay, Brazil, and Argentina?
Blanc agreed, concluding that “Ciudad del Este is essentially a free zone for significant criminal activity, including people who are organized to commit acts of terrorism.”
“Great,” Rappaport said with a groan. “What should we do?”
Blanc pointed out that since Hezbollah terrorists operating out of Ciudad del Este had bombed several Jewish synagogues, killing more than a hundred people in nearby Argentina in the 1990s, Mossad had maintained a presence there. The CIA also had assets in Ciudad del Este.
Blanc said, “I’ll make sure they’re alerted to look for the aircraft and monitor Alizadeh’s activities.”
“But we’re not sure he’s on the plane,” Melkasian reminded him.
“No, we’re not.”
Crocker argued that he should travel there immediately to help support local CIA assets. Sy Blanc agreed.
Emergency visas were issued for Crocker and Akil (who spoke fluent Farsi) and tickets booked on a 6:37 p.m. flight to São Paulo. Crocker hurried back to the safe house, packed, instructed Mancini to coordinate with Melkasian and Neto regarding what they needed to do until he returned, then called a taxi to drive them to the airport.
Traveling as Tom Mansfield and Jerid Salam, they flew to Bogotá via Avianca Airlines, and after a six-hour layover, which they spent mostly surfing the Internet and drinking beer, the flight continued another six hours to Guarulhos International Airport in São Paulo. They arrived just before seven the following morning, then transferred to a small TAM Airlines jet to Ciudad del Este.
By the time they reached Aeropuerto Internacional Guaraní, they were half asleep. A young Paraguayan customs official stopped them and asked where they had gotten their visas.
“Caracas, Venezuela,” Crocker answered.
“What were you doing there?” the official asked in accented English.
“We were there on business, organizing an expedition.”
The official explained that their visas hadn’t been entered into the Paraguayan system, which meant that they couldn’t enter the country without each man paying a hundred-dollar expediting fee. What system he was talking about wasn’t clear. Akil pointed out that the computer screen he appeared to be looking at was blank.
They were traveling in alias, so Crocker didn’t want to attract attention, but he didn’t feel like being ripped off, either. A Brazilian man who stood behind them in line sweating profusely whispered, “I recommend that you pay it. Otherwise he will keep you here all day.”
Crocker handed the official twenty dollars, which he said should cover both men. The official shook his head no, he wouldn’t accept it.
Akil reached into his wallet and produced three more twenties, whereupon the official stamped their passports and waved them through.
“Nice place,” Akil whispered.
“Yeah. Be alert.”
The baggage claim was packed with travelers from Europe and Asia who were going to visit the famous Iguazu Falls. Akil’s suitcase, which he had had to check in São Paulo because of its size, was a no-show, so he filled out a form at the information desk.
“Good luck with that,” Crocker commented.
“Yeah, right.”
The woman working the desk had a message for Mr. Mansfield, which read, “This is DZ from the agency. Because of circumstances, I’m not able to meet you at the airport. Hire a taxi to take you to Hotel Casablanca. I’ll see you there. Don’t let the driver charge you more than $30.”
The only two taxi drivers stationed outside the terminal both demanded a fifty-dollar fare. Crocker and Akil chose the newer and cleaner-looking of the two cars-a fairly comfortable Toyota Corolla sedan. The overweight driver drove it as if it was stolen, tearing down the freeway at eighty miles an hour.
The air outside the window was hot and sticky, the ground dotted with mud-colored puddles. Storm clouds formed impressive towers of gray, white, and black, while the landscape was festooned with exuberant tropical foliage. Man’s footprint could best be described as tacky-broken-down cars and buses, mud-encrusted shacks, large lurid signs advertising sex shows, casinos, electronics stores, and “five-star” Italian, Japanese, and Chinese restaurants.
Out of the corner of his eye, Crocker saw a motorcycle tear out of a side street toward their car and screamed, “Watch out!”
The driver, who was speaking nonstop Spanish into a cell phone and didn’t see the motorcycle until the last second, swerved to avoid a head-on collision. From the backseat, Crocker watched the young rider’s face smash into the passenger-side window. Then the bike and rider flew into the air.
The driver slammed on the brakes, got out, examined the scratches on the side panel of his car, and started cursing. Crocker ran over to the motorcycle rider, who wasn’t wearing a helmet and was lying facedown in the dirt. He assumed he was dead, but as Crocker knelt to examine him, the long-haired kid got up, rubbed his dislocated kneecap, which appeared to be his only injury, then limped over to the bike, picked it up, and wheeled it to a footpath. Crocker tried to stop him, but the kid was intent on confronting the driver. The two men stood nose to nose, shouting at each other.