Targets of Revenge (41 page)

————

Byrnes was waiting with Sandor when LaBelle was led back into his office, this time flanked by two agents from the Directorate of Intelligence, or DI.

LaBelle wore an unhappy look.

“What have you got?” Byrnes asked.

The DEA agent took a seat, but the duo from DI remained standing. The senior man began his report.

“The subject left Langley but did not return to his office.”

“I assume,” Byrnes interrupted, “the subject you’re referring to is Joseph Cleary, Assistant Administrator of the DEA?”

“Yes sir.”

“Proceed.”

“He was alone,” the man from DI continued, then gave details of the surveillance by the four agents from DCS.

“Tell me about the phone calls,” Byrnes said.

“The calls were made from a disposable phone that had been fitted with an encryption program. Our software cut through it.”

“Well done, I’m sure. Now, the calls?”

“Yes sir. The first was to a cell phone in Mexico. We fixed the location just outside Monterrey. The second was to a mobile number in Egypt, somewhere offshore, on the Red Sea. The third call was placed to a landline in the Cayman Islands. The private number of an executive in a bank there.” The man looked up. “Do you want me to read each of the transcripts, sir?”

“We can read those ourselves,” Byrnes told him. “Summarize them please.”

“Well sir, the first two conversations were somewhat oblique, but we believe we have a clear read on the substance. In the first, the subject conveyed a warning that someone being held in custody in Monterrey is posing a serious danger. The subject directed that the threat be neutralized. Then the subject addressed a second problem.” The man from DI shot a quick look at LaBelle. “He wanted Agent LaBelle found and removed.”

Byrnes glanced over at the DEA agent. He understood why LaBelle looked as if he had just heard of a death in the family. “Did he say why?”

“In effect, he said that LaBelle was the only surviving connection between the subject and the incidents in Reynosa.”

“Anything else on that call?”

“No sir.”

“Go on.”

“The second call was quite brief and had to do with a possible change of destinations. They appeared to be discussing a delivery. The subject advised that the attention being paid to the primary drop-off point had now shifted to a second location, so their original plans should not be altered.”

“Nothing about the shipment containing toxins?”

“At the very end, the subject asked something vague about that, but the man to whom he was speaking said the issue was under control.”

“That was all they said on that subject?”

“Yes sir.”

“Just to be clear,” Sandor jumped in, “when he answered the question he did not deny there were toxins in the shipment?”

“No, all he said was”—and now the agent thumbed through his copy of the transcript—“the matter is ‘under control,’ ” he quoted.

Byrnes nodded. “And the third call?”

“The subject was making financial arrangements. It’s all in the transcript there. At the conclusion of the discussion he said that he would be seeing this banker soon.”

Byrnes rubbed his face with both hands, then said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything else in those transcripts about a planned attack.”

“No sir, I certainly would have pointed that out.”

Byrnes nodded.

“After the third call the subject left the vehicle, got back into his car, and headed home. The teams from NCS want further instructions.”

“Of course,” the DD said. “First I’d like you to take Agent LaBelle down the hall. Make him comfortable while we sort out a few things.” He turned to LaBelle. “I’m truly sorry about this. I’m going to call Bebon at the FBI. I’ll tell him we have a credible report that your life has been threatened and that we need a protection detail. I saw in your dossier you have a wife and children.”

“I do.”

“We’re going to attend to that right now.” He stood and so did Sandor and LaBelle. “I’ll be back to you in a few minutes,” he told the man from DEA. After the agents from DI led LaBelle out of the room, Byrnes went to his desk and picked up the phone. He was patched in to both surveillance teams and asked for status. When he was told that Cleary was in his house, Byrnes said, “Do not let him out of your sight. If he makes a move, report in immediately. Be prepared to take him into custody.”

Then he called Bebon at the FBI.

————

What began as an unauthorized mission to assassinate Rafael Cabello had since grown into an international, multi-agency initiative to prevent a terrorist attack. When Sandor discovered anthrax was being manufactured at Adina’s Venezuelan compound there was no clear indication of how, when or where the toxins might be used. The CIA had enlisted the resources of several federal departments, from DHS to the Coast Guard, and there was still only the sketchiest evidence even confirming the existence of the plot.

Until now.

Sandor and Byrnes were seated at the small conference table in the DD’s office debating the importance of Cleary’s phone call to Egypt.

“That had to be Sudakov he was speaking with, just look at this transcript, it’s obvious. And Sudakov confirmed there were toxins in the shipment. You know I’m right sir.”

“I
believe
you’re right, Sandor. There’s a difference.”

“Not in terms of what we need to do.”

“If you’re wrong—if we’re wrong—this is going to be one hellacious black eye for the Agency.”

“Then let’s bring Cleary in, find out what he knows.”

“Don’t worry, we will. I just want to wait a bit. Right now we have to hope he has them believing we’re tracking this shipment into Newark and ignoring Baltimore. That should keep them on course for Baltimore. If they find out we’ve arrested Cleary we’ll be doing ourselves more harm than good.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door and Raabe was ushered in by Byrnes’s assistant. Raabe was showing signs of both grief and fatigue after all that had transpired in Reynosa, but for the moment he managed a satisfied look as he held up a sheaf of papers. “SIGINT,” he announced. “We have chatter out of New York.”

Byrnes pointed him to a chair. “Talk to us.”

Raabe sat, placed the paperwork on the table, then looked up and said, “Upper Manhattan. The boys from the NCTC have been working with our people, reviewing data from the past two months. They’ve identified communications between Venezuela and what they
think might be a sleeper cell in Washington Heights. It’s a big enclave for Latin Americans, as you know. The exchanges had been totally benign, back-burner stuff. The DEA was contacted a few weeks ago when some calls from Mexico figured in the mix. NCTC thought it sounded like it might be about narcotics, so we weren’t even notified.”

“And now?”

“There’s been a lot of recent activity domestically. NCTC is still taking the lead, our people are trying to keep their jurisdictional hands clean. Anyway, they picked up a lot of talk about a big party in the next couple of days.”

“That’s it?”

“No. It gets better. They mentioned a guest of honor coming to town. But guess where they have
not
been calling lately?”

“Venezuela,” Sandor said.

“Bingo. There hasn’t been a call to or from Caracas since the rumor that Adina had flown the coop.”

“What do the most recent exchanges sound like?”

“They’re discussing the time frame for their little bash. Seems they want to make it sooner. Since then the chatter has died down and their attempts at coding discussions have become more intense.”

“Do we have addresses on these people?” Byrnes asked.

Raabe shook his head. “They use nothing but disposable cell phones. S and T triangulated the locations, that’s how they nailed Washington Heights as the general area.”

“I don’t suppose anyone mentioned an anthrax delivery,” Byrnes smiled hopefully.

“Not quite,” Raabe said as he started thumbing through the papers, “but have a look at this.” He found what he was looking for and passed it to the DD. “Here it is in Spanish with the translation. The key line says ‘the confetti will be here soon, should be quite a party.’ And how about this one?” He passed a second sheet to Byrnes.

The DD took it and read the highlighted section aloud. “ ‘They’ll never be able to blow out the candles on this cake.’ ” He looked up. “You figure the confetti is the anthrax.”

“It’s one way to read it,” Raabe said.

“What about this reference to candles?”

“Not sure,” Raabe admitted. “We’ve got our analysts on it, poring through every line of transcript from the last sixty days. One thing seems certain though. Taken together, those references aren’t talking about a cocaine delivery.”

Byrnes was not convinced. “Let’s see what else NCTC turns up. Context is crucial. Couldn’t confetti be coke and the candles be a reference to crack?”

“That’s not how we read it, sir.”

“I’m not a cryptologist,” Byrnes said with a frown as he placed the papers on the table. “What do you think Sandor?”

Sandor had been shuffling through some of the other pages. He looked up and said, “Adina never plans anything straight ahead. Craig may be right, this may be a reference to anthrax, and maybe it’s not. What bothers me is the mention of fire. You don’t spread anthrax by burning it.”

“So you’re saying a biological attack may not be the only thing he has planned.”

“Yes sir, that’s what I’m saying.”

“All right, I’ll call downstairs, get our people on these transcripts, too. I also want to speak with DHS on this. I need to report to the task force about Cleary.”

“And I need to get to New York,” Sandor said.

W
ASHINGTON
H
EIGHTS HAS
grown to define the entire upper portion of Manhattan, an area stretching from the Hudson River on the west, the Harlem River on the east, the Spuyten Duyvil canal—which separates the island from the Bronx—on the north, and Harlem to the south. A region once dominated by Irish-Americans and Jewish immigrants, in the past half century it has become home, almost exclusively, to Hispanics from virtually every country south of the Rio Grande.

Many who consider themselves true New Yorkers never see any more of the neighborhood than they might glimpse during a quick visit to the Cloisters museum or the sprawling medical facility sitting atop the east bank of the Hudson. This separation of the Heights from the rest of the city is owed in part to the deteriorating quality of life driven by the rampant narcotics trade there. The residents of the area who are peaceable and law-abiding have to deal with gang warfare, street violence, and the inevitable crime that results from a society where illegal drug use is rampant. Given the number of welfare recipients, minimum-wage workers, and day laborers, it is not surprising that an undercurrent of angry, anti-establishment sentiment can easily be cultivated. Just as
jihadists
nurture anti-Western hatred in their impressionable children, anti-American socialists promote the politics of blame as they deride the capitalist ethic of hard work and achievement, preaching the easy life promised to all by entitlement programs.

Adina himself would be pleased with the rhetoric being spread.

Proponents of these self-defeating morals argue, “Your unfortunate circumstances are not your fault, they are the fault of those who have more than you, who take advantage of you, who expect you to educate your young, build a family unit, and work hard for what you get. Who are they to tell you how to live? What do they know of your struggles? Why not take what you feel entitled to instead of what they tell you that you need to earn?”

A battalion of willing radicals is not hard to assemble in this cauldron of poverty, rage, and substance abuse. Controlling them and relying upon them is another matter entirely.

Miguel Lasco was sitting at the back table in a dimly lit bar on Staff Street, just off Dyckman Street, on the northern edge of Washington Heights. Six of his key men were with him.

They trusted the owner of the tavern, who was also its full-time bartender and part-time lookout. Nevertheless, they leaned forward when they spoke, their voices hushed.

“We have to cover a lot of ground,” Lasco said with a concerned look.

“Don’t worry, we’re putting our best men in the tunnels,” one of the others assured him.

“Understood,” Lasco said. “But the GW alone, with lanes upper and lower. That’s going to take a lot of cars right there.”

The others nodded their understanding. The building in which they were meeting was practically in the shadow of the George Washington Bridge.

“The tunnels are still the key,” another man reminded him.

“Of course,” he said, “but the man told us from the start, we have to hit every bridge. All or nothing. He told us that right from the beginning.”

The others nodded.

“This is our moment. This is what we’ve dreamed of.” Then Lasco added with a conspiratorial grin, “And the payoff will make it all worthwhile.”

They became silent.

“Day after tomorrow you’ll have all our groups in place?”

The others said they would.

“We’ve got to make sure the drivers don’t have any details till that morning. They’re good boys, but we cannot afford to trust anyone outside this circle. Agreed?”

The others agreed.

“Tomorrow they’ve got to line up the remaining cars. Where do we stand on that?”

The man in charge of securing the vehicles made his report. They were still fifty cars short, but he was confident it was not going to be an issue.

“You better be right, my friend.”

“I’m not worried about the cars,” he replied. “I’m worried about discipline,” he admitted. “We can’t have these young studs getting stoned or drunk or flapping their gums between now and then.”

“And what about afterwards?” another in the group asked. “There won’t be one of them who’ll be able to keep his mouth shut. Bragging, if they don’t get caught, ratting us all out if they do.”

Lasco agreed. “Our job is to get this done and then get the hell out of here.”