Alex searched for a notepad and a pen, then scribbled the name and underlined it several times. “Can’t say I have.”
“Professional soldiers. Mercenaries. Recruiters for that kind of thing.”
“Nice guys.”
“The nicest, if you get my drift. It seems they put together a team a few years back to overthrow the government of Comoros, a small oil-rich nation off the southeast coast of Africa, in order to get their hands on sizable offshore reserves. The coup was led by a mercenary named Trevor Manning and was backed by a group of international businessmen.”
“When was that exactly?”
“Two thousand five.”
“March?”
“March third,” said Eyraud, surprised. “You know it?”
“Lambert had a tattoo on his arm with that date. I figured it stood for something.”
“The coup was a failure. Everyone knew they were coming before they even set foot in the country. Manning and his team were arrested as they landed to refuel in Zimbabwe. The lot was flown to Comoros and put on trial. Most of them were released after a month or two, but Lambert did a full year. In the trial, it was revealed that he was Trevor Manning’s right-hand man.”
“A year doesn’t sound long for that kind of thing. I’d have thought they’d have been taken out at dawn and shot.”
“It took a lot of strings to get them out. One of the sponsors was the son of a former English PM. We all know about him.” Eyraud gave a cynical chuckle.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to fill me in.”
“He was a front for your boys, of course.”
“What do you mean, ‘our boys’?”
“The CIA. Who do you think?”
“Are you saying that Lambert worked for the CIA?”
“I’m not saying anything. You can connect the dots yourself.”
Alex stood and paced the bedroom. Eyraud’s revelations, true or not, had turned the investigation on its ear. The mere possibility that Luc Lambert, an experienced and battle-tested mercenary who had been involved in an operation backed by the CIA, was assembling a team on U.S. soil elevated the threat level by an order of magnitude.
“By the way, Alex, you didn’t tell me what Lambert was doing in your part of the world.”
“Getting ready to put his skills to use.” Alex explained about the raid at Windermere, the deaths of Malloy and the others, and the trove of weapons discovered beneath the house.
“I don’t like the sound of it,” said Jean Eyraud. “Any idea where or when?”
“We found maps of Manhattan. There was fresh food in the refrigerator for Lambert and a half-dozen accomplices. I’d say sooner rather than later. Days. A week at most. We’re frightened that we may be looking at a Mumbai-style attack.”
“Not good.”
No, thought Alex, definitely not good. If what Eyraud said about the CIA’s being involved in any way with the failed coup was true, they would have managed it through the directorate of operations or, more likely, a shadow organization funded off the books that did not officially exist. Knowledge of the affair would have been compartmentalized at the highest levels of the Agency. Sadly, Alex knew no one with access to such information.
“Jean,” she began uncertainly, “you mentioned something about a recruiter for mercenaries based in London.”
“Executive Outcomes.”
“They still around?”
“I haven’t seen their name recently, but you never know.”
“London, eh?”
“Yes, London.”
“Merci, Jean. We will keep you in the loop on this one.”
“Before you go, Alex, may I tell you something? I served alongside many legionnaires when I was in the army. Men like Lambert. Tough. Smart. Maybe a little crazy. Some even work for me today.”
“What are you trying to say, Jean?”
“These men are not terrorists. This guy Lambert, he didn’t want to die. Whatever he was planning to do, he was planning on getting out of it alive.”
39
The Pilatus P-3 landed at sunrise.
At Matamoros Airport on the southernmost tip of the Texas border with Mexico, the temperature on the ground was a balmy 88 degrees. Three black Chevrolet Suburbans waited on the tarmac. The members of Team One deplaned and were at once overcome by the scent of mesquite and yucca. Requiring no instruction, they divided themselves into groups and climbed into the vehicles.
The convoy left the airport by a restricted gate at the east end of the field, one mile from the main terminal, and traveled north on Highway 101 until reaching the Zona Industrial, a swath of warehouses and factories situated a stone’s throw from the American border. Matamoros was a center of maquiladora manufacturing, and the Zona Industrial was home to many of the world’s most famous corporations, including General Electric, Walmart, and Sony, to name a few.
In the cars, the six men and two women were given breakfasts high in carbohydrates, energy drinks, and snacks to sustain them in the hours ahead. The next leg of their journey would not be as comfortable. Most busied themselves as they ate, studying maps, memorizing radio frequencies, mentally repeating the tasks they would be asked to perform during the coming crucible. All were professionals, and they knew how to use the time remaining to them wisely.
After thirty minutes the vehicles pulled up to a gate at the rear of an unmarked warehouse as large as two football fields laid end to end. The gate rolled back on its tracks and the vehicles entered a loading zone running the breadth of the building. They drove past three eighteen-wheelers lined up at the docks, bays open, an army of men and machines filling each with pallets of finished goods bound for export to the United States.
A fourth rig sat alone at the far end of the loading zone. The three SUVs parked beside it. The team members climbed out and stretched their legs. Several recognized the name of a large American chain of supermarkets painted on the side: Pecos Supermarkets. Atop the cabin was a refrigeration unit designed to chill the truck’s interior to 32 degrees Fahrenheit. The rig was a meat hauler used to transport freshly slaughtered beef and poultry from industrial farms in northern Mexico to stores in the United States.
At 7 a.m., a lean, mustachioed Mexican wearing a white straw Stetson and mirrored aviators emerged from the factory. The leader of Team One was expecting him. The two men shook hands but did not exchange names.
“You have something for me?” asked the Mexican.
The leader of Team One was blond and compact and tanned. He had served for ten years in the South African Army, where he’d earned the nickname Skinner. He handed the Mexican a plastic freezer bag containing the passports used to pass through Mexican immigration control. From here on out, no one would carry any form of identification, false or otherwise.
“Eight. All accounted for.”
“Excelente,” said the Mexican.
The Mexican led the members of Team One to a dressing room adjacent to the loading platform. To one side hung row upon row of jumpsuits; to the other, fur-lined parkas. Gloves were piled into a rack in one corner. Insulated boots occupied another. The men and women moved from one garment to the next, selecting those that fit. They emerged ten minutes later looking as if they were bound for the Arctic Circle.
The Mexican accompanied them into the rig. A concealed door at the rear of the cargo area opened into a narrow compartment. There was no room to sit. The team filed in and took their places shoulder-to-shoulder. The Mexican closed the door. A short time later, the refrigeration unit rattled into operation. The compartment grew colder. Frost crusted eyebrows and eyelashes.
The manifest called for the rig to haul five tons of beef carcasses to a meat processing plant in Harlingen, Texas. Loading began promptly at seven-thirty and ended one hour later. The truck left the Zona Industrial at 9 a.m. The stop at the border was short and uneventful. The supermarket chain was too large to be suspected of smuggling illegal immigrants. A company such as that did not break the law.