The Black List (25 page)

Tex handed the case to him after he got into the car. “I think we have it.”

“You didn’t check it out?”

“Wasn’t about to take a chance. We need to burn a copy and figure out what the hell’s on it. Next stop. Safe house.”

41

Tex slid the DVD
into the drive as Donovan pulled up a chair to take a seat beside him. When the icon appeared on the computer monitor, Tex burned a copy, then set the original aside before opening the files. “Here goes nothing.” He double-clicked on the copy DVD, and accessed a folder containing files.

“You going to stare at them or open one?”

“You’re like a kid at Christmas. Let’s see what we have under the tree first.” What they had was a lot of photos, dozens, and way down at the bottom of the list one very large document file. He opened that first.

“What is it?” Donovan asked.

Tex scanned a few pages, clicking past each, trying to make sense of it. “I’m looking . . .”

“Not fast enough.” Donovan reached over, took the mouse from Tex and scrolled down. “It’s a refugee list.”

“I’m not seeing that as earth shattering.”

“Some of the names have an asterisk by them.” He scrolled down to the bottom. “It shows the office that issued the name, because they had no ID.” He scrolled even further. “The names they had when they came in . . . don’t match the names they ended up with.” Donovan pointed to the other computer. “Access the No Fly list. I have a feeling . . .”

Tex did as he asked. Donovan read off the first name. Tex ran it. “Clear.”

“What am I missing . . . ?”

“Criminal history?”

“Can we access this country?”

“Not from here. But we could get someone from MI6 who’s already over there. If they have someone.”

“Call.”

Tex did. The only number he had was Alice’s. “It’s Tex.”

“I guessed. How are things?”

“If this is what we think it is, we may have our first solid link on the first stop for the terrorists who are getting into the country.”

She gave him the number of the agent in Kenya. He called and explained the situation once more, and was finally put in contact with an officer of the Kenyan police agency, a man named Jomo. Tex read off the first several names, along with their birth dates.

He heard the sound of a keyboard clicking in the background as the officer ran them. “They’re all criminals,” Jomo said, his voice deep, his accent distinct. “Every one of them. Their crimes range from minor theft to robbery, and one is for attempted murder. Where did you get these names?”

“From a contact here in England.”

“Several of them have warrants for their arrest. Do you know where they are?”

“Not yet. But I’m beginning to think they’re not where they’re supposed to be.”

“We have long believed that some of these offices that are opening to help these refugees are . . . how do you say it? Suspect.”

“Suspect, how?”

“They receive grants of money from various charities to resettle these people in other countries. In theory, a good idea to help. In reality, when there is that much money changing hands, there is much graft and corruption, even within my own government, I’m sorry to say. The charities get paid by the body. No bodies, no money. To them, the background matters little. And for those eager to get out of a country that intends to prosecute, they are willing to pay even more. The icing on a cake, as you call it.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.”

“You are very welcome.”

Tex ended the call and repeated the information.

Donovan showed him the photographs. “The offices where this information came from.”

“That’s where Eve was supposed to be going.”

“Was.”

“Almost too bad they’re sending them home.”

“We better call HQ.”

Tex informed McNiel
of what they found and what the Kenyan officer had told them.

“You’re sure about the location of this office?”

“You mean where the one list of criminals was processed through under different names? Yes. There’s even a photograph of the book sitting on the office desk. Whoever prepared this was very thorough. In fact, there’s info on here that I’m not even sure what it belongs to. But it’s got that evidentiary look to it. And that’s not including the page with all the dollar signs on it. If I had to guess, there’s a lot of money being laundered through a number of black-list countries. The tip of the iceberg. Just the little we were able to make of it tells me that A
.
D
.
E. would not want this out there.”

“Send me what you have electronically. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“I just sent an encrypted e-mail of what I have. I’ll get MI6 to lock up the original. Since A
.
D
.
E. operates in both countries, I’m sure they’re going to want in on the action.”

McNiel called back
in less than fifteen minutes. “Change of plans.”

“Didn’t know we had any plans,” Tex told him.

“We didn’t, the CIA did. And now we’ve made some of our own after receiving the latest intel that Yusuf may have gone through the refugee contractor office on your list.”

“They’re not still thinking he’s in Africa, after all this time?”

“No. We’re fairly certain he’s here. But they
are
thinking that if you can find the office where he was issued his bogus ID, we may be able to figure out what name he came into this country with. If we can tie the evidence together to show the flaws in the system, we’ll be able to shut down A
.
D
.
E., and any charity running under them. More importantly, we’ll be able to stop at least that hole that is allowing the terrorists to enter the country through the refugee program. Which is why the CIA has changed their minds about calling Eve stateside. She’s heading to the Dadaab refugee camp.”

“That’s insane. It’s a friggin’ war zone there.”

“We’re not about to walk away from a lead that might give us Yusuf and the criminal element used to facilitate his entry into the U.S. She’s going. And since embedding journalists has become so common in this day and age, Donovan and Lisette are flying out with her as members of the press. Turns out the
International Journal for World Peace
is very interested in doing a feature article on Micah and his charity. I believe the editor will be calling his publicist with the good news as soon as the office opens.
You
get to tag along for good measure. We’re hoping no one notices there’s a third wheel.”

“East Africa . . . Lovely time of year.”

“Better than the rainy season.”

“And what about Micah?”

“Find a good hotel in Nairobi where he can drink daiquiris until you’re done. I have a feeling that once he gets his first glimpse of a real refugee camp, he won’t object to the suggestion of being Photoshopped into the pictures.”

42

The Greyhound to Washington,
D.C., took slightly less than three days. The bus, Yusuf found, was cleaner than the one he took up to the Mexico border. He did not talk with any of the passengers when they tried. His conversation with the border patrol guard had spooked him enough to make him realize there were nuances of speaking this American language that one couldn’t learn from watching old movies, and he still worried about the police car that showed up at the storage facility. If anyone put it together, they might figure out what was going on, and the last thing he wanted was to be memorable. When he started throwing up, spending more time in the bathroom than in his seat, few people wanted to talk to him, so it really didn’t matter. By the time he arrived in Washington, D.C., the only one who paid him any attention was a little old lady who had been seated on the bus in the aisle across from him, until she finally moved away on the last leg of the trip. As it was, his right hand felt odd. He was weak, from vomiting and diarrhea, and had difficulty holding the backpack that contained his few clothes and the capsule.

He did not like Washington. Far too cold. Even the leather jacket he had purchased in Mexico was not warm enough. He waited outside the bus station for the man who was supposed to pick him up, but his fingers hurt from the cold and he was shivering. Eventually he had to return to the terminal to wait. Not too long, though, before the car described to him in the phone call—a green Chevy Impala—stopped in front of the terminal.

He walked out, saw the Kenyan flag decal in the window—they’d decided it was safer to fly a Kenyan flag instead of Somalian—then opened the vehicle door. The driver, a dark-skinned man with short black hair stared at him a second, saying, “You have come a long way.”

“For God’s work.”

“Good, good. Hurry, then. It’s cold out there.”

Yusuf got in, closed the door, and immediately felt the heat from the car blasting against him.

They drove for several minutes in silence, both of them instructed not to discuss the other’s business. The man stopped in front of a brick apartment building. Yusuf exited the vehicle and then the man drove off.

Yusuf looked around him, feeling very much like he’d been dropped on some other planet. The air was cold, crisp, and his nose was running like a faucet as he hurried across the street, nearly slipping on a patch of ice as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He entered the building, which stank worse than the refugee camp in Dadaab, eventually found apartment 203 on the second floor and knocked.

The door opened slightly, a chain barring the way. “Who are you?”

“I am here from home. I have come a long way.”

The man lowered the chain and opened the door wide. “Come in.”

Yusuf entered. The apartment was sparse, the carpet threadbare, the walls a dingy gray from about waist-level down. Four men sat around the table, eyeing him as he eyed them. He heard the door closing behind him, turned to look, and the man who had let him in indicated he should join the others at the table. He did, grateful to notice that the smell inside this apartment was not as bad as outside.

“How was your trip?”

“Long.”

“Did you have any trouble getting into the country?”

He’d been told that if there was any indication that anything had gone amiss, they would be scrapping the plans. Too much rode on the success, and they would far prefer waiting, replanning, and he thought about the incident at the border. If they were looking for anyone, it would be a student at UCLA. No one would think to look for him here in Washington. “None. Everything went smooth.”

The man nodded. No one there used their real names. He didn’t know them, and they didn’t know his. Just as well. “Do you have the item?” the old man asked.

He nodded, then took the heavy capsule out of his backpack, handing it over.

“Did you make the calls when you arrived?” he asked Yusuf.

“Yes. San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, and Washington, D.C.”

The old man nodded and the others smiled. The four targets would be hit simultaneously, the venues chosen due to the heavily populated areas. Only theirs would have the capsule. But theirs was the most important, with its proximity to the White House, and it would instill the right amount of panic in the entire country.

“We should get started,” one of the men said.

“Patience,” the old man replied.

Patience? Yusuf had no time for patience. He seemed to be getting sicker each day. If they waited too long, he intended to strike out on his own.

43

Sydney’s ex, Scotty, was
hovering outside Pearson’s office in the morning when she arrived to give her statement of the accident and shooting.

“I just heard,” Scotty said. “My God, why didn’t you call?”

“I didn’t think about it. It all happened so fast.”

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“To think I was there last night. I—” He cocked his head, saying, “I never did find out why you wanted to meet?”

She glanced toward Pearson’s office, then drew Scotty away. “Have you heard anything about an investigation into Wingman Squared?”

This time it was Scotty who looked around to make sure they weren’t overheard. “What do you know about that?”

“Nothing. The girl I introduced you to last night mentioned that everyone in the bar was talking about a political corruption case involving them.”

“Political corruption?” He took a deep breath, the whole time looking at her as if coming to a weighty decision. “See me when you get done with Pearson. And do me a favor. Don’t mention Wingman Squared to him. Not if you know what’s good for you.”

“Why?”

“Can you please just trust me on this? For once?”

“Fitzpatrick?”

Sydney turned at the sound of Pearson’s voice. He stood in the doorway, watching them. “Coming.” She looked back at Scotty. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, more that she wondered what his agenda was. “How about coffee later?”

“Sure.”

She left him, walked into Pearson’s office, closing the door behind her.

“How are you this morning?”

“Not bad, considering.”

“So what happened?”

She thought about what Scotty had said, not mentioning Wingman Squared. It seemed counterintuitive, since Pearson was aware she and Griffin were working an investigation outside of the FBI’s influence. A quick decision, and she decided to start the story where they were being followed. “Griffin and I were walking back from the restaurant after having dinner with McNiel, and he caught some college student following us. The kid said someone paid him, and the next thing I knew a car was coming out of nowhere and plowing them down. When it came back around for a second try, I shot at it.”

“Did you see anyone? A description? Anything?”

“No. The headlights were on.”

“Any ideas as to why they singled you out?”

Trust me,
Scotty had said, and it seemed she could feel the staccato beat of her pulse in the space of her hesitation. “No.”