Pope remained placid. “I’m not suggesting we use active-duty DEVGRU personnel. There are plenty of former operatives working in the private sector that we could call upon.”
Again, Shroyer looked at Webb. “Can you believe your fucking ears?”
Webb demurred for a moment, taking time to consider his response. “I’m sorry, Bob, but you’ve overstepped this time.”
Pope slipped the flash drive into his jacket pocket. “I don’t see how that’s even vaguely relevant. A nuclear bomb has just been detonated on American soil. Wall Street has been shut down for the first time since 9/11. And people are already beginning to hoard food and fuel. How long do you intend to let this threat go on? I’ve just given you actionable intelligence.”
“Whether it’s actionable or not,” Shroyer said, “is wide open to debate. Not to mention it was illegally obtained, which jeopardizes the integrity of this entire agency!”
Unapologetic, Pope removed his glasses, staring hard at the director. “Contrary to popular belief, George, the time to start bending the rules comes before the enemy gets a second bomb into play, not after, because by then it will be too late.”
Shroyer sat back, folding his arms across his chest. “Well, Bob, if you think I’m strolling into the Oval Office with this ridiculous audio file and suggesting to the president that he okay a black operation on American soil, then you’ve lost your marbles.” He rocked forward, putting his hands on the desktop and throwing caution to the wind. “In fact, I’m going to recommend that you be asked for your resignation. I’m sorry, but your shenanigans have gone far enough.”
13
Twenty-eight-year-old Mariana Mederos was a second-generation Mexican American working as a field agent for the CIA in the city of Chihuahua, the capital of Chihuahua State. She was five foot nine, with a runner’s physique, brown hair, and brown eyes. She’d been two hundred miles south of the border during the New Mexico Event. Awake at zero hour chatting with a contact over the internet, she heard the incongruous roll of distant thunder and felt the tremor in the earth a short time later. Her satellite phone rang soon afterward with a call from the Mexico station chief wanting to know if she could supply any intel as to what the hell had just happened. No one else within the agency was as close to ground zero, and there hadn’t been even the slightest jot of intelligence to indicate that a nuke had been in play.
Since those early hours after the explosion, life had moved pretty fast for Mariana, even if only in the communicative sense. Much of her work was done over the computer from the privacy of her apartment, where she kept in contact with her network of informants — common citizens on the CIA payroll. It didn’t cost a great deal to keep the information flowing in the drug-ravaged state, with its struggling economy. As little as a thousand pesos a week (less than one hundred dollars) could be enough. The majority of the intel she collected was passed on to the DEA and the ICE, to be used in the war on drugs — a “war” that she believed the United States had been fighting with at least one hand behind its back, especially when she considered how much of the information she passed up the chain that was never acted upon.
After the New Mexico Event, however, the nature of her job took on a whole new aspect with an unprecedented sense of urgency. Suddenly she was the CIA’s go-to gal on the ground in the middle of a hot zone, and within only a few hours, she found herself entrusted with resources and information that were customarily reserved for personnel well above her pay grade. The “company” was coming to Chihuahua, and it would be her responsibility to establish arriving operatives in and around the city, introducing them to the appropriate contacts or state officials.
The Mexican government had given its tacit approval for this, but only at the intelligence level. The Policía Federal Ministerial, Mexico’s equivalent of the CIA, was agreeing to a limited influx of American intelligence personnel for one reason and one reason only: nuclear weapons scared the living hell out of everyone, and when it came to such a threat, it didn’t much matter whether or not you liked or trusted the CIA, because its people were the ones you unquestionably wanted on your team upon confirmation that the lunatic fringe had gotten their hands on the bomb.
This morning Mariana had agreed to meet with a contact in La Catedral de Chihuahua, a large, ornate Catholic church in the Plaza de Armas. This would be her first face-to-face with the contact Carolina Rodríguez, a woman from the northern part of the state who had sent her an email claiming to have detailed information about the explosion. She had asked that Mariana bring one thousand American dollars, apologizing for the size of the request, though promising that Mariana would find the information well worth it.
Seated at the back of the cathedral, pretending to be lost in prayer, Mariana considered the amount of Carolina’s demand, knowing that a thousand dollars was a great deal of money to the woman who supported three daughters by cleaning houses for less than ninety dollars a week. Mariana guessed the information she was bringing would either be worth a great deal more than a thousand dollars or nothing at all, and she was leaning toward the latter, but this was the kind of lead that had eventually killed Bin Laden in 2011.
There were only twenty or thirty people in the cathedral this morning, scattered among the pews, some sitting and some on their knees, all of them lost in their own thoughts. A man in a black suit and dark sunglasses entered the pew behind her and sat down just off her right shoulder. She could feel him looking at her, realizing he’d probably sat there to stare, something not uncommon in her experience. Since he was too close for her to have a private conversation anyway, she decided to move.
“What’s wrong?” the man said in Spanish as she stood up to leave. “Am I not good enough to pray with?”
She looked at him, and he removed the glasses, his bulbous eyes unmistakable.
Fear surged in her veins. She cast a panicked look around, seeing that one of Castañeda’s men covered every exit.
“Please,” Castañeda said. “Sit. We have much to talk about, you and I.”
Having little choice, Mariana retook her seat. “What have you done with Señora Rodríguez?”
Castañeda smiled, placing a hand upon his breast. “I am Señora Rodríguez,” he said pleasantly, “and I remain at your service.”
Mariana felt like the biggest idiot of all time. One of her most reliable informants over the last nine months had been Castañeda himself, the very man whose movement she’d been attempting to track. He’d been leading her on a wild goose chase, feeding her intel that, while reliable, always led the DEA to only small shipments of drugs — never the coveted mother lode, and never anywhere close to Castañeda.
He saw the angry look on her face and chortled. “Don’t look that way,” he said, switching to English to reduce their chances of being understood by anyone coming close. “I’ve given you nothing but truthful information since we began our correspondence. You should be grateful.”
Mariana was remembering that she’d been put into contact with Señora Rodriguez through a man named Sergio, whom she had not heard from in some time. “And Sergio?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, I’m afraid Sergio is quite dead,” Castañeda said. “It’s interesting, don’t you think, that the DEA chose to act on only about a third of the information I sent to you? Why do you believe that is?”
Mariana felt her face grow hot. “Why are we having this meeting, Señor Castañeda?”
“I’ve already told you. I have information about the nuclear device that was detonated in Puerto Paloma.”