“Shreve Metzger had you do this, didn’t he?” Laurel said. “Did he fake it? Answer the question. Is it real?”
No knowledge of, no interest in…
The man said nothing more. He turned away, as if the women no longer existed, and left them. He paused at the end of the corridor and was buzzed out.
“What is it?” Sachs asked.
“Didn’t some of the intelligence we got from Fred Dellray report that Moreno was seen in or around U.S. embassies or consulates just before he was shot?”
“Right,” she confirmed. “Mexico City and Costa Rica. After he left New York on May second.”
Sachs’s concerns were further allayed when she glanced back and saw the round, dark face of the guard at the door peering in, unharmed and unconcerned about the visitor. She returned to her station and her celebrities.
With a sigh Laurel said to Sachs, “If anybody was thinking that Moreno was going to attack an embassy they were wrong.” She nodded toward the letter in her hand. “He was looking for an embassy, but one where he could fast-track his renunciation of U.S. citizenship. He did it on May fourth in San José, Costa Rica. The renunciation was effective immediately but the paperwork didn’t make it into the State Department database until this morning.” She sighed. “When he died Robert Moreno was a Venezuelan citizen, not U.S.”
Sachs said, “That’s why he told the limo driver in New York he couldn’t come back to America. Wasn’t because of any terrorist plot but because he’d be non grata and wouldn’t be allowed in on a foreign passport.”
A phone appeared in Laurel’s hand. She looked down at it. Her face had never seemed so wan. Why all the makeup? Sachs wondered yet again. Laurel hit a speed-dial button. Sachs couldn’t see which priority but of course it didn’t much matter. A 9 is as easy to hit as a 1.
Laurel stepped to the side and had a conversation. Finally she put the phone away and remained for a full minute with her back to Sachs. Her phone rang. Another conversation, briefer.
When she’d ended that call she returned to Sachs. “My boss just talked to the attorney general in Albany. However much Shreve Metzger and his shooter overstepped their authority, there’s no interest in pursuing a charge against him when the victim’s not a U.S. citizen. I’ve been ordered to drop the case.” She looked at the floor. “So. That’s it.”
“I’m sorry,” Sachs offered. She meant it.
CHAPTER 68
In the cool, dim safe house in Reynosa, Mexico, al-Barani Rashid completed the list of bomb components and pushed it toward the Fat Man.
That was how he’d thought of the cartel’s chief IED expert when the man had first waddled inside a half hour ago, dusty and with unwashed hair. Rashid had given him the name contemptuously, though accurately — he really was quite heavy. Then he regretted the unkind thought about his physique and personal grooming habits; the cartel’s man proved to be not only very cooperative but extremely talented. It turned out he was responsible for some of the more sophisticated explosive devices deployed in the Western Hemisphere over the past few years.
The man pocketed the shopping list he and Rashid had come up with and in Spanish said he’d be back by evening with all the parts and tools.
Rashid was satisfied that this weapon would do the job very efficiently, killing DEA regional director Barbara Summers and anyone at the church picnic within a thirty-foot circle, possibly wider, depending on how many people were waiting in line at the ice cream station, where the device would be planted.
Rashid nodded toward the room where the Mexican hostages were being kept. He asked the Fat Man, “His company has come up with the ransom?”
“Yes, yes, it’s confirmed. The family’s been told. They can leave tonight, as soon as the last of the money is transferred.” He regarded Rashid closely. “It’s only business, you know.”
“Only business,” Rashid said, thinking, No, it’s really not.
The Fat Man walked to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and, surprising Rashid, took out not a beer but two cartons of Greek yogurt. Eyeing the Arab, he peeled back both tops and ate one then the other with a plastic spoon, standing in the middle of the room. Then he wiped his mouth with a paper towel, tossed the empties into the trash and sipped from a bottle of water.
“Señor, I will see you soon.” They shook hands and he stepped outside, waddling on shoes with heels worn angular.
After the door closed Rashid stepped to the window and looked out. The man climbed into a Mercedes, which sagged port side. The diesel purred to life and the black vehicle bounded down the drive, leaving a dust cloud.
Rashid remained at the window for ten minutes. No sign of surveillance, no neighbors glancing uneasily as they passed by. No curtains dropping back over windows. Dogs stood about unsuspicious and no disembodied barks suggested intruders in unseen places nearby.
From the bedroom suite he heard voices. And then a soft noise he couldn’t place at first, uneven, rising, falling in volume and tone. It grew regular and he knew the sound was a child’s crying. The little girl. She’d been told she was going home but she wouldn’t appreciate that. She wanted to be there now, with her stuffed toy, her bed, her blanket.
Rashid thought of his sister, who, with two schoolmates, was killed in Gaza. His sister…not much older than this girl. She hadn’t had a chance to cry.
Rashid sipped more tea and examined the diagrams, listening to the mournful sound of the girl, which seemed all the more heart wrenching for being muted by the walls, as if she were a ghost trapped forever in this dusty tomb.
CHAPTER 69
The phrase “Kill Room” suggested something out of a science-fiction movie or the operations center in the TV show 24.
But the National Intelligence and Operations Service’s Ground Control Station was a dingy space that looked like a storage area in a medium-sized insurance business or ad agency. It was housed in a fifteen-by-forty-foot trailer and was divided into two rooms. The office area was where you entered from the NIOS parking lot. Lining the wall were cardboard cartons of varying ages, cryptic writing on them, some empty, some containing documents or paper cups or cleaning supplies. A communications center, unoccupied at the moment. Computers. A battered gray desk and brown chair were in one corner and old, unclassified files littered it, as if a secretary had grown tired of finding the right drawer for them and had just given up. A broom, a box of empty Vitaminwater bottles, a broken lamp sat on the floor. Newspapers. Light bulbs. Computer circuit boards. Wires. A Runner’s World magazine.
For decorations, maps of the Caribbean, Mexico, Canada and Central America, as well as of Iraq, and several OSHA posters warning about the dangers of lifting heavy loads with a bent back and not drinking enough water on hot days.
The place was dim; the overheads were rarely on. As if secrets kept better in hinted light.
You tended not to notice the shabbiness of the office, however, because of the other half of the trailer: The UAV operations station, visible through a thick glass wall.
Men and women like Barry Shales, the pilots and sensor operators, tended to refer to the operations station as a cockpit, which nobody seemed to mind, though the word “drone” was discouraged. Maybe “unmanned aerial vehicle” sounded more sophisticated or sanitized. This term was certainly better — from a public relations view — than what UAVs were called among those who flew them: FFAs, or Fuckers From Above.
Wearing dress slacks and a tie-less short-sleeved blue plaid shirt, slim Barry Shales was sitting in a comfortable overstuffed tan leather chair, which was more like Captain Kirk’s in Star Trek than a seat in a jet’s cockpit. Before him was a three-foot-by-eighteen-inch tabletop metal control board, bristling with dozens of knobs and buttons, switches and readouts, as well as two joysticks. He was not touching them at the moment. The autopilot was flying UAV N-397.