A transmission grab from Creech Air Force Base had shown eleven seconds of footage from an MQ-9 Reaper drone loitering over Helmand, Afghanistan. The video was grainy, but analysts were fairly certain the guy in the picture had gotten his hands on a half-dozen MICA rockets.
Jack Junior had worked up the report, identifying the ISIS leader in the video as Faisal al-Zamil, a Saudi national — or at least he had been until the Hellfire missile from the MQ-9 had turned him into fine desert shellac. Zamil came from a wealthy family with bank accounts in various locations around Europe. With the help of Campus Internet savant Gavin Biery, Ryan had been able to follow money from an account in Amsterdam to several pass-through shell companies that would have fooled a casual observer — to a mid-level French arms dealer who thought he was more important than he actually was, named Hugo Gaspard. A tap on the Frenchman’s Paris phone had revealed the appointment with the Russians in Portugal.
After an unofficial and off-site deconfliction meeting with DNI Foley to be certain that no one from any of her sixteen U.S. intelligence agencies were already birddogging Gaspard, John Clark brought his little team to the Algarve coast — to watch a very tan and wrinkled walrus of a French arms dealer wallow around on the beach with a cute brunette in a black bikini.
“The girl’s leaving.” Ryan spoke into the cell-phone mic hanging next to his lips. “Our rabbit’s meeting must be imminent.”
“Maybe,” Ding said. Ryan caught a flash of him peering over the edge.
Below, the brunette trotted up the trail toward the road. “She left her bag and towel behind,” Lisanne said.
Ding’s voice crackled in his ear. “I think she saw the drone.”
“Would you stop with that, boss?” Midas said. “She didn’t see — holy shit!”
Ryan looked at girl — running faster now — and Gaspard, still hanging out on his towel. All three bodyguards were slouching by the overturned boat.
“What?”
“Jack,” Midas said. “You and Lisanne should keep eyes on the girl.”
“Roger that,” Ryan said.
“Talk to me,” Ding said. “What are you seeing?”
Midas held up the drone controller’s display. “See right here in the upper corner of the screen? Unless I’m mistaken, that’s a chunk of Hugo Gaspard’s brain in the sand next to what used to be his face.”
Clinging to the rock with one foot and a fist, Ryan scrambled up and over the edge behind Lisanne. On his belly, he looked down toward the beach in time to see two bodyguards running to their boss while the third, a short, stocky man, sprinted up the path leading toward town, pistol in hand.
“She just jumped on a motorcycle,” Lisanne said.
“Got it,” Chavez said. “A red Ducati, heading west, toward Carvoeiro.”
Clark and the others were there.
Ryan grabbed the small daypack that held his gear, running toward the rented midnight-blue Audi A4.
“Go with him,” Ryan heard Chavez say, half a moment before Lisanne Robertson slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “And keep your commo on. I want real-time COP.”
COP was a common operating picture. Their radios had GPS locators that pinged on both Chavez’s and John Clark’s phones, showing the location of every member of the team superimposed on a map of the area.
Ryan started the car while Lisanne took a plastic case the size of a pill bottle from his backpack and popped it open. She poured the tiny flesh-colored earpiece into her open palm and held it out to Ryan. He took it and popped it into his ear at the same time he punched the accelerator, sending up a rooster tail of gravel from the rear tires. Lisanne handed him a loop of copper wire and attached mic, along with a radio about the size of a deck of playing cards. Ryan put the wire over his neck and switched on the radio, clipping it to his shorts as he drove.
“Check. Check,” he said.
The sound of Midas’s voice filled his ear.
“Have you, five-by-five.”
“Stay with her,” Chavez said. “But do not engage.”
“Copy,” Ryan said. He pressed the accelerator and cut the wheel to the left, fishtailing into a drift that took him from the parking lot and onto the main road without wasting time on the angle. “We should be catching up to her in two minutes.”
Ryan turned to Lisanne, who was working with her own radio.
Ryan took another corner at speed, outside, inside, outside, cutting the apex and hearing the tires chatter on the pavement. Still no sign of the red Ducati.
He straightened the wheel, shooting another glance at Lisanne. “You okay with this?” he said. “You’re not operational.” He regretted how superior the words sounded as soon as they left his lips.
“Fancy driving,” she said, putting in the earpiece and ignoring the premise of his comment. “They send you to quite a bit of specialized training?”
“Yep,” Ryan said. He slid around another corner, catching a glimpse of the bike, and then the gray Mercedes, disappear over the crest of a hill ahead.
Lisanne settled into her seat. She opened the map on her phone, then turned it toward Ryan, eyebrows up, as if to ask a silent question. He gave her a slight nod. He would drive, she would watch the map and give him the big picture.
“We’re still heading northwest on 1273,” she said for the benefit of Jack and the others on the team. “Gaspard’s bodyguards are right behind the woman, dark gray, late-model Mercedes sedan… about one kilometer ahead. She has lots of choices. Hard to say if she’s going inland or is going to cut toward Carvoeiro.”
Jack swerved left, narrowly missing an elderly man out walking with his little white dog beside a hedgerow. The man shook a handful of mail, yelling as they went past. Jack stayed to the center of the narrow road, working through the possibilities. “Smart money says she’ll get out of here after a hit, but if she’s working for the Russians, she may be running toward reinforcements. Good chance we’ll be heading your way, Mr. C.”
6
It was difficult to say if the row after row of whitewashed hotels and tapas bars spilled down from the cliffs of Carvoeiro or crawled back up from the sea.
Dominic Caruso and Adara Sherman sat together at a covered table at the Più Grand Café, one of many restaurants located along the road leading down to the beach. Mournful guitar chords poured from overhead speakers, traditional Portuguese fado, prompting Caruso to sigh.
“They must like to be sad here.”
“I like it,” Adara said. “They call it saudade—irreparable loss, longing.”
“No kidding,” Dom said. “It makes me long for some classic rock. Give me some AC/DC over this stuff any day.”
Though they were on surveillance, the chemistry between them was real, so they did not have to pretend to be a couple. Caruso was a credentialed special agent with the FBI, “on loan” to The Campus. He wore a loose cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, khaki slacks, and comfortable lace-up Rockports that he could run in.
Adara Sherman was in her mid-thirties, with blond hair that fell just over her ears; her white shorts and navy-blue polo accented her propensity for CrossFit. She’d been Hendley Associates’ director of transportation, dealing with travel logistics as well as physical security of the company G5 when it was on the ground. It was the position now held by Lisanne Robertson, a fact that gave hope of eventual promotion to the latter. Sherman was a former Navy corpsman and always had at least a small tactical medic’s kit within easy reach. The relationship between her and Caruso had happened naturally, and, so far at least, they’d proven they could work together without any issues. Caruso told himself that at times like this the fact that they were a couple made the op even more believable. Clark and Hendley weren’t altogether happy about the work relationship, but neither of them tried to put a stop to it. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, even in the intelligence community. There were plenty of operational couples in the FBI and the CIA, though they rarely worked on the same cases. Even Mary Pat Foley, the director of national intelligence, and her husband had been spies together back in the day.