Targets of Revenge (42 page)

“With the money,” the man responded.

“Of course.”

“And when does Mr. Green show up, eh?”

“When the goods arrive,” Lasco told them. Then he leaned as close to them as he could. “Tomorrow,” he whispered.

A
DINA NEVER LACKED
a contingency plan. Since the incursion into his compound he harbored suspicions that his anthrax would not make it all the way to New York as a stowaway within the cargo of narcotics. On some levels, he believed that was for the best. Let the authorities focus on intercepting the cocaine; he could still get the toxins through. He now had possession of the deadly cases. All he had to do was to get them to Manhattan.

The radar systems and tracking technology along the border between Mexico and Texas had tightened since 9/11. Any plane not filing a proper flight plan, or deviating substantially from the assigned vectors, would soon be met by F-16s that were constantly ready to be scrambled and deployed.

A private plane coming from south of the border would be met by Customs wherever it set down and subjected to careful scrutiny.

A crossing by car was out of the question.

Small, unmanned devices could be flown north carrying the toxins. The goods would then be dropped in the Texas desert, where they could later be retrieved by use of their electronic homing system, but Adina dismissed the idea out of hand. The UAV could fail. The tracking mechanism might fail. The packages might be found by someone else before he and his men got there.

Use of an ultralight was another possibility, having one man carry the toxins and fly under the radar. The plane would set down in the Texas flatlands where the pilot would be picked up by car and
taken to a private airfield someplace nearby. Adina’s charter would meet him there, having flown in without the dangerous baggage and already passing through customs. Since the next leg of their journey would be domestic, Customs would no longer pose a threat. Again, however, they faced the concerns of an unreliable aircraft. There were also too many moving parts in that plan for Adina’s taste, not to mention the possibility that the crossing would be picked up by the enhanced radar.

The overriding concern was the danger in any means of crossing from Mexico directly into the United States. Adina knew trouble was brewing and the arrival of the American agents in Reynosa meant the Border Patrol would already be on high alert.

Fortunately Adina had already planned a safer, if more circuitous, route.

————

The Cessna jet took off from Mendez, landing less than two hours later at La Isabela International Airport in Santo Domingo. Newer, smaller, and better equipped to deal with private jets than Las Americas Airport, it was the perfect spot for Adina to refuel and then embark for his trip north.

Charter flights landing in the Dominican Republic usually meant the arrival of wealthy tourists, so inspections were perfunctory at best. No one with any sense was smuggling anything
into
the country, and the government had no interest in what you might be taking out.

Once the brief inspection was concluded, Adina told the pilot and copilot to get some rest. They would be leaving soon.

“I’ll need to file a flight plan, sir. This is an international airport.”

Adina nodded. “We’ll find you in the lounge and let you know. Leave the air-conditioning on in the cabin.” It was clear he wanted the crew off the plane, so they went on their way. When they were gone Adina took a seat in the cabin, facing Alejandro and Jorge. “You are both satisfied the cases will not be found?”

“They did a good job modifying the storage bins,” Alejandro told him. “They replaced the lining with removable panels, then made it look like there’s fabric sewn on top of that. The cases are airtight and
the goods are odorless. If they try and run any sort of interior detection, the plastic cases will blend in with the fuselage.”

“And we’re just three visitors from the Dominican Republic,” Jorge chimed in, reaching into his pocket and holding up his counterfeit passport.

Adina nodded thoughtfully. “They’re looking for a container ship from Mexico on its way toward Newark. Whatever those agents discovered in Reynosa, they’ll assume the goods are traveling by sea and cannot arrive before day after tomorrow, more likely the next morning.”

“Which means they’ll be too late.”

“We hope so” Adina said. “Alejandro, go tell our young pilot he has three gentlemen who would like to fly nonstop to Stewart Airport, in Newburgh, New York.”

S
ANDOR HAD TO
get to New York. With time running out he knew the best place for him now was at the point of attack. He also knew that chasing Adina from behind was not going to get it done. He needed to get in front of the situation.

On his way to Manhattan, however, he had a couple of stops to make.

Commandeering an Agency car, he took Craig Raabe and Dan LaBelle and drove toward Arlington, Virginia. Whatever he was going to do when he got there—which he had not yet decided—these two men had earned the right to be present. As he approached his destination he contacted the teams Byrnes had in place. Sandor told them he was going to meet with Joseph Cleary and that they should remain at the ready but take no action unless he called them in.

A few minutes later he arrived at Cleary’s home, pulled into the driveway, and turned the car off.

“You two wait here. I’ll let you know when I’m ready for you.”

Raabe placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “I still think this is a lousy idea.”

“Me too,” Sandor admitted, then got out of the car.

As he strolled up to the front door he had a look around. The house, an old-style split-level, was situated on a quiet suburban street. At this time of night there was not much going on, which was for the best. If Cleary had allies watching the people who in turn were watching Cleary, the two NCS teams would have spotted them.

Sandor rang the bell and waited.

When Cleary came to the door he was still in his work clothes, although his jacket and tie had been removed and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. The man looked as if he was busy. “Sandor,” he said, not hiding his surprise.

“There’s been a development. We need to talk.” Before Cleary could respond, Sandor walked past him into the small foyer.

Other than the overhead Cleary had switched on when he answered the bell, the lights in the house seemed to be off, except for a room off to the left.

“Family asleep already?”

“My wife took the kids to see her sister. With everything going on I figured it was a good time for her to get away.”

“Get away?”

“I’m up to my eyeballs with the situation we have here. Thought it would be best.”

Sandor nodded. “No distractions. Makes sense.”

“Look, I’m in the middle of pulling some data together. What’s the new development?”

The two men were facing each other beneath the harsh glare of the brass and glass light fixture. They stood about the same height and Sandor had positioned himself directly in front of Cleary, so they were eye to eye.

“No small talk, Cleary? No offer of a drink or anything?”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he glanced toward the front window. In the darkness he could not see if there was anyone else in Sandor’s car. “What are you up to?”

“You know the old expression, ‘Lie down with dogs and get up with fleas’?” Cleary did not respond. “Looks to me you’re as flea-bitten as an old hound.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m having a conversation with a dead man walking.”

“I’m calling your boss right now,” Cleary said, then began to turn toward his office.

Before he could complete the about-face Sandor grabbed him by the wrist, spun him back around, and was showing him the business end of his Walther PPK.

“Like I said, I’m here to have a conversation, then you can call whoever you want.”

Cleary did a reasonable job of maintaining his composure, actually managing a sneer as he said, “I know all about you, Sandor. You’re a renegade with a terminal discipline problem, and right now you’re way over the line. Pulling that weapon on a senior government official is going to earn you time in federal lockup.”

“You’re scaring me to death, Cleary. Is that an intimidation technique they taught you when you went through the initiation rites for the Sinaloa Cartel, or did you work up that little act on your own?”

Cleary glared at him without speaking.

“I have to admit, I may be a little myopic on this issue, but I simply cannot see how a man in your position can betray his own country.”

“Betray my country? You’re insane.”

“Am I?” Sandor gestured with his weapon, pointing toward Cleary’s office, then gave the man a shove to get him moving. He followed him into the room, then had the man from DEA sit behind his desk. Sandor remained standing as he poked through the papers that were spread out.

Cleary smirked at the effort. “You’re delusional.”

Sandor moved beside Cleary and opened the top drawer. A revolver sat atop some documents. Sandor removed the gun and stuck it in his waistband.

“I think it’s time for me to make that call to Mark Byrnes,” Cleary declared, a touch of arrogance having returned.

When he reached for the phone, Sandor slammed down hard with the butt of the Walther, nailing Cleary’s hand. “Not just yet,” he said as the man yanked his arm back with a pathetic yelp. Sandor pulled out his cell and hit a button. Raabe answered on the first ring. “Come on in, both of you. The front door is open.”

When Raabe and LaBelle joined them in the small room, Cleary could do nothing to hide his surprise at seeing his agent from Dallas. “What is this?” he demanded.

LaBelle stared down at him without answering.

Cleary turned back to Sandor. “If you claim to have some right to
be here, I want to see a warrant and I want to call my lawyer. If not, the three of you need to get the hell out of my house right now.”

LaBelle was still looking at his boss as he said, “You were the only one I told about Bergenn and Raabe going to see Felipe. You were the only one who could have given them up.”

“Other than you, that is.”

No one replied as Raabe removed a digital recorder from his pocket, hit
PLAY,
and they all began listening to the recordings of the three phone calls Cleary placed just a few hours earlier.

Halfway through the first conversation Cleary said, “I want to call my lawyer. Now.”

“Sorry pal,” Sandor said. “This is a matter of national security. You’re not making any calls to anyone. You told your friends that we’re looking for the shipment to arrive in Newark, that Baltimore is the safe bet. That was our play, and it suits us fine. You’re not meeting with some shyster who’ll be passing along any messages. We don’t even want your friends down in Mexico knowing you’re in custody. You’re being held incommunicado until this is over.”

“I have rights.”

“Of course you do, although I voted to take you out right here, but some people think you’ll be more valuable alive. We’ll go visit them and see about your rights.”

For a moment no one spoke as the tape of Cleary’s phone calls continued playing.

“You’ll hear it all enough times, believe me,” Sandor told him as he reached out and turned off the machine. “So what was it all about? Greed?”

“Greed?” Cleary’s voice was thick with anger. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, you pathetic little policeman. You have no sense of what it’s like to spend your life fighting a battle no one will ever let you win.” He shook his head, as if the truth were so obvious. “People want to use narcotics, it’s a fact of life. No one can stop the demand and it’s too profitable to shut down the production. So I spend my days shoveling sand against the tide, and for what? My agents are murdered, the governments in Colombia and Mexico sabotage every viable plan to stop these criminals, and at the end of
the week I take home less money than some twenty-six-year-old punk banging computer keys on Wall Street who doesn’t produce a single useful thing in the world.”

Sandor burst out laughing. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? A speech about the poor frustrated bureaucrat who couldn’t deal with the harsh realities of the world for another day?” Cleary started to move, but Sandor leveled the barrel of the automatic at his face. “Ah, ah, ah,” he said.

Cleary stopped.

“So that justifies you joining their side?”

Cleary responded with a look as cold as death. “You can’t prove a thing. Those calls don’t mean anything.”

“We’ll see. Meanwhile, I still haven’t heard how you can justify the murder of thousands of innocent people. How does that factor into your mantra of self-pity?”

“Your fairy tale about anthrax, you mean?”

“Fairy tale?”

“Why would the cartel risk polluting a cargo of narcotics worth millions of dollars to import biological weapons?”

“You tell me.”

Cleary stared at him as if he were speaking to a moron. “They wouldn’t.”

“But Adina would.”

Cleary began to say something, then stopped.

“Gentlemen,” Sandor said to his colleagues, “please give us a moment.”

LaBelle turned to leave, but Raabe hesitated. “Jordan . . .”

“It’ll be fine. I think Mr. Cleary wants to tell me something privately.”

Neither Sandor nor Raabe paid any attention to Cleary’s protests.

“I’ll be right outside,” Raabe said, then followed LaBelle out and closed the door behind them.

“So,” Sandor said as he turned back to Cleary, “you want to tell me about the anthrax?”

“I already told you. The Sinaloa Cartel is not in the business of terrorism, except to the extent it protects their business interests.
There’s no reason they’d be transporting biological weapons into the United States.”

“So you say, but I don’t believe you.” Sandor had been holding the automatic at his side. Now he pointed it at Cleary’s face. “You know about the toxins, and I want you to tell me about them right now. By the way, I’m not interested in any long-term interrogation.” He cocked the hammer on the PPK.