The Insider Threat (33 page)

F
rom the back of the cabin, Jacob Driscoll watched the woman get on the train. Watched her load her luggage. Watched her fiddle around, getting comfortable, and wondered if she knew none of that mattered. She was dead.

He actually felt a little sorry for her. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. All she owned was a large set of breasts, and she’d plied them into a vacation in Venice. Unfortunately, those same assets she’d flashed at countless nightclubs, gaining nothing more than a free drink for a grope, were now going to cause her death.

He wished she’d taken a different path. All she had to do was go back to America, taking her lumps of rejection with her. The flight alone would have been long enough to ensure the success of his mission. Instead, she’d purchased a ticket to Rome.

He had no doubt she would attempt to make contact with Chris, and in so doing, she sealed her fate.

He’d spent the night in Chris’s room, conducting online checkout and tidying up various email contacts through Chris’s computer, informing the church and his family that he’d dropped his phone in a toilet and it no longer functioned. A partial truth.

Jacob had made sure that Carlos and Devon were on the first train leaving for Rome, using the forged passports and tickets from the boys, then spent the morning sitting in the lobby. Watching and waiting.

He’d decided that if she didn’t show, he would leave tonight, assuming she’d given up. Just before noon, she’d approached the front desk, and he saw she wasn’t the bimbo she appeared to be. She was both determined and smart, using guile, subterfuge, and an ample showing of cleavage to the concierge at Chris’s hotel. Without disclosing why she was asking, camouflaging her important questions in the cloak of those less meaningful, she’d learned that Chris had “checked out,” and had discovered the partner hotel in Rome where the church group had their next reservation. A reservation that would never be used.

He’d followed her from there, tracing her back to her hotel, where she’d purchased a ticket through her own concierge. To Rome.

She had no idea Chris was dead. And no idea that she was as well.

Sitting four seats behind her, Jacob wanted more than anything to kill her on the train, but he couldn’t. He would have to wait for a better chance, and knew time wasn’t on his side. He would have only a small window before she caused trouble.

He settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.

*   *   *

Omar knocked on the door and heard shuffling inside. He waited, letting Jacob use the peephole. The door opened, and he found himself looking at Carlos. Instantly suspicious, he said, “Where’s Jacob?”

“Still in Venice.” Carlos handed him a letter. “He told me to give you this.”

Omar opened it, saying, “Get my bags. Careful with the last two.”

Carlos shouted at Devon, then went into the hallway, lugging in a large, hard-sided suitcase. Devon followed with another. Omar pretended to read the note, but in reality assessed the pair of
shahid
. They showed no outward signs of deception, displaying fawning grins and gangly struggles with the bags. He turned to the note.

It was short and to the point. Jacob was tracking a woman connected to the identity of the man Omar was to assume. According to Jacob, she was a potential threat to the mission with a determination to find out what had happened to the church leader, and he was going to ensure she was eliminated. At the end of the note was a new cell phone number, purchased courtesy of the church leader’s credit card. A clean one.

Omar crumpled the paper, wondering if it was real. Carlos came back to the door, bounced from one foot to the other, eyes downcast, then said, “We had no trouble getting in. The envelope was in the locker you said it would be.”

Omar said, “And the guns? Were they here?”

“Yes. Two pistols and a sawed-off shotgun. Some bullets. Nothing more.”

“That’s fine. We shouldn’t need them anyway. Those suitcases have the real weapons.”

He pushed inside, getting off the cobblestone street and surveying his new home. Spartan, with a threadbare couch, a wooden kitchen table, one bedroom upstairs and one down. It would do.

Omar had coordinated for a contact in Georgia to rent an apartment from a service called AirBnB. Really just a clearinghouse on the web for people who wished to rent whatever space they had available, it listed everything from a tree house in Spain to a castle in Croatia. Anyone who wanted to list a room, no matter how small or strange, could do so. His contact had found a first-floor flat in the Trastevere area of Rome, south of Vatican City and just west of the Tiber River. He’d rented it for a month, placing the weapons in a closet and the keys to the flat in a locker in the train station. With no maid service or other bothersome intrusions, the apartment would work perfectly for the rehearsals they needed to conduct. But first, they had a more specific rehearsal.

Omar closed the door and said, “My identification? Do you have it?”

Devon appeared, holding an American passport. Omar opened it, seeing the name Chris Fulbright next to his picture. Looking closely, he could ascertain the damage to the passport, but it was slight. Something that might be noticed by a close examination, but he didn’t expect that. The bigger issue was that the name wouldn’t match his accent in any way whatsoever. He would have to hope for the blessed ignorance of the United States citizen, something he’d find out in the next thirty minutes.

Carlos said, “You want to clean up from your trip? We have hot water. It’s not much, but it’ll work for a single shower.”

Omar said, “That can wait. We have to be at a rehearsal in twenty minutes. Are you two ready?”

They both nodded. Puppy dogs wanting to please the master. He said, “Put on a button-up shirt and slacks. It’s time to start acting like altar boys.”

Twenty minutes later they had taken a cab to Vatican City. They passed by the entrance to Piazza San Pietro, Saint Peter’s Basilica off in the distance, and Omar saw the chairs being placed in the square. The preparations for the ceremony, and the Lost Boys’ rendezvous with destiny. It made him smile.

The cab continued on, stopping in front of what looked like a small theater, the doors out front solid and large, but the paint old. A line of young men milled about in front.

Omar waited until the driver had pulled away before saying, “You know the church, correct? You can speak like a Catholic?”

Carlos said, “Yes, yes. We’ve memorized the mass. We know when to cross ourselves and when to kneel. We’ve memorized all of the canonical rites.”

“Well, don’t try to prove you’re a genius at it. Just follow along. And whatever you do, let me speak. Don’t try to outdo anybody. We’re from a small parish in Florida. Act like that.”

Devon said, “What about Jacob? What will we say?”

“He’s at the hotel, sick. Let me handle that.”

They crossed the street and Omar walked up to the first adult he could find, a priest with a clipboard shouting names. Omar introduced himself as Chris Fulbright, and the priest looked at his clipboard, confused. He went down it, then said, “Florida? Sacred Heart? That Chris Fulbright?”

“Yes. That’s us.”

The priest smiled, saying, “Sorry. You don’t sound like you’re from Florida.”

Omar matched his grin, hoping it came out sincere. “I’m from Russia, but I’m an American citizen now.”

“No worries. We weren’t sure you guys were coming.” He stuck out his hand, “Father Patrick Brimm, from New York. I’m the guy who’s been put in charge of the American representatives for the ceremony, and we couldn’t get you on the phone. You were supposed to check in yesterday. Almost scratched you. I’ve got twelve different parishes represented, and didn’t have time to track you down.”

Omar said, “I apologize. I dropped my cell phone into the water in Venice. I bought a new one, but didn’t know I needed to pass the number. The schedule I had said today was the first day. We could have cut short our trip there if I’d have known.”

Father Brimm waved his hand, dismissing the problem. “You aren’t the only one. I’m still missing Alabama and Connecticut. They don’t make this rehearsal, and their church paid for a trip to Italy for nothing.”

Omar said, “So what do we need to do to catch up?”

“I need the passports for you and your boys. Need a photocopy of the page so Vatican security can run a background check.”

“That’s easy. There a copy machine around?”

“One inside.”

Omar turned to go, then snapped his fingers. “Father, one of my boys is sick. He’s in bed right now, at our hotel. I don’t have his passport and didn’t know you needed it.”

“He’s a no-go, then. Sorry. Security is an absolute. Crazies have threatened the Holy Father on a number of occasions. They won’t bend the rules. This ceremony has people coming from all over the world, even members from the Archdiocese of Kirkuk in Iraq and parishes from Jordan and Lebanon. You can see why the security would be harsh.”

Omar said, “You just need his information, right? You don’t need an actual photocopy, do you? I can call him. I can get the information and give it to you with our photocopies. Please. He’s traveled a long way. This is a special mission for him.”

Father Brimm pursed his lips for a moment. He said, “If he’s not here for the rehearsal, he can’t go anyway. My rules. It wouldn’t be fair to the others.”

“We’re here. How hard can it be? They conduct the ceremony, then we go single file up to the basilica, right? I could see if you had no one from the parish here, but we’ll put him in between my other boys. Monkey see, monkey do.”

Father Brimm relented, “Okay, okay. Stay for the rehearsal. If you get me the information before we leave today, I’ll turn it in, but I can’t promise they’ll grant him approval. I don’t know if the copy of the passport is a necessary requirement.”

Omar let out his breath in relief. “Thank you. Venice was fun, but tomorrow’s ceremony is the only reason he came.”

Father Brimm smiled and said, “I don’t suppose they’ll be too afraid of an American from Florida. He hasn’t been to Syria in the past six months, has he?”

Omar laughed and clapped the priest on the back. “Not that his passport shows.”

S
ir, I don’t know where they are. My gut tells me they’ve left Venice.”

The VPN connection on our laptop made Kurt Hale look a little like Max Headroom, with the small delay in the synchronization of the sound of his voice and the movement of his mouth adding to the effect. Behind him, I could see George Wolffe pacing back and forth. He was the deputy commander of the Taskforce, and an old CIA hand. It took a lot to ruffle his feathers, which wasn’t a good sign.

Drily, Kurt said, “Your gut is not exactly something I can take back to the Council. Tell me you’ve got some thread to follow. Airline tickets, cell phone trace, something.”

“I’ve got the woman. What’s her story?”

“Christine Spalding. A copy girl at a Staples in a one-light town in Florida. That’s it.”

“Florida? Just like the Lost Boys?”

“Yeah, we thought the same thing, but there’s no connection. She’s East Coast, they’re West Coast, up near the panhandle. We dug through her life six ways to Sunday. There is absolutely nothing connecting them other than being from the same state. I have a complete packet for you. Driver’s license, credit reports, past residences, mother, father, the works. The only unique thing is she applied for the passport she’s using less than six months ago. Before that, she’d never left the country.”

“Same as the Lost Boys. That’s an indicator. Anything on the man she was with?”

“No. We got nothing on him. We ran his surveillance picture through every database we have, and it didn’t trigger. The credit card used for Christine’s room was a pay-as-you-go. Nothing we can trace back; all we know is it’s holding about a thousand dollars. Might be his, might be hers.”

“She’s got something to do with the Lost Boys. We’re just missing the connection. If I leave right now, I can beat her train to Rome.”

“Pike, we have a full-court press on them. Their passports are in every port of call and police station in Europe, and they haven’t triggered. They’re still within the scope of your team, and our assessment is that Venice is the endgame. I need you to stay in Venice, at least until the reservation runs out on the room. I need you to find them.”

“Sir, we’ve been on it since we got here. I’m telling you they’ve left. They don’t need to show a passport to travel throughout the EU by train.”

“They came to Venice for a reason, and it wasn’t to shop. We know that Omar al-Khatami was facilitating their attack, and we assess he intends to conduct a linkup in Venice.”

“Sir, that makes no sense. Have you seen this place? I couldn’t pick a worse location to pass explosives. You’d have to transfer them about forty times from plane, train, and boat, and then do the reverse to get back out. Why not meet in the countryside?”

George Wolffe leaned in, saying, “Tell him what we’re hearing. Let him know the assessment.”

That caused me to sit up. “Boss?”

Kurt said, “Pike, we’ve got intercepts from Syria. ISIS is talking about an attack in the next two days. One that will cause ‘unimaginable harm to the heart of the infidel.’ If the timeline’s correct, they don’t have the space to get to America and set up an attack. They’re going to do it there, on the Continent, and it’s going to be close to Venice. You’ve got the only anchor. Their hotel room.”

I sat back, reflecting on what he’d said. In my heart, I believed that waiting in Venice was a waste of time, but I didn’t
know
. If I was wrong, and the Lost Boys did meet Omar here, I’d be responsible for their killing spree.

The easy answer would be to just sit back and follow orders. Rotate the team through the hotel and run random patrols around the area, hoping to hit the jackpot. If the attack succeeded, I would have followed orders like a good soldier and it wouldn’t be my fault.

At least that’s what I told myself. Right up until Shoshana came into my mind’s eye, with her saying someone would pay for her being alive, and
I
was responsible for that, when I’d chosen her over the Lost Boys. She was determined that it wouldn’t be an innocent civilian, and she was headed to Rome. It wasn’t much on the logic train, but it felt right, and it was enough to snap me out of my cowardly desire to just sit back and follow orders.

“Sir, I think they’ve already made linkup. I think I missed them with the Prairie Fire call for Shoshana. I let Omar get away, and at the same time let the Lost Boys slip through.”

He said, “Pike, that’s bullshit. We didn’t know what Omar was up to until
after
your hit. We didn’t know he was involved with the Lost Boys. Don’t put that on yourself.”

“The Lost Boys were still in Venice. I could have stopped them.”

“And Shoshana would be dead. You made the call, and I stand by it. Shit, you’re not the only game in town. I could have pulled Johnny’s team out of Istanbul, but I didn’t because I felt the same way you did. I didn’t think the timing was critical, and pulling Johnny would have destroyed the mission he’s executing. In hindsight, I should have, because his pissant target is just a financier—like Panda in Nairobi—but I didn’t.”

I appreciated the sentiment, but it didn’t alter the facts, or my culpability in them. I said, “Let me go to Rome. I can beat the woman’s train. She’s connected. She’s a thread to the target. We have two days, and the Lost Boys aren’t here.”

I saw him slowly shaking his head and pressed forward. “Sir, you saw the tapes. Jacob was following her. If she’s in Rome, maybe he is too. Maybe that man with her is the contact for Omar. Maybe that’s why they came to Venice.”

He looked behind him and said, “George?”

I waited. George leaned into the screen, saying, “I don’t know. Pike, how will you even find her? All we have is a name.”

“She’s no terrorist mastermind. Whatever she’s doing, she’s an unwitting linkage target. She’ll pay with the same credit card. You can track that and tell me the hotel. Best case, she’s there with the man in the picture. Even better, she’s there with the Lost Boys.”

He said, “Why don’t you leave a footprint in Venice? If all you’re going to do is interview the female?”

“I need my team. It’s all or nothing. If I split forces, I won’t be able to conduct an operation at either location. If I find something in Rome, I won’t be able to action it. Yeah, I’m just interviewing a woman, but I have to be prepared to find Jackpot.”

I saw him rub his face and knew I was losing the argument. I backpedaled, remembering I had a team I could call on if I needed it, and they were already headed to Rome. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave a two-man element here with eyes on the hotel. If I find something in Rome, I’ll pull them in. If they trigger in Venice, I’ll haul ass back here. Will that work?”

George said, “Can you execute with that timeline?”

I gave him the truth. “Probably not. You’re asking me to split my forces until neither is capable.”

He took that in, then said, “You feel strongly about this? Rome is the thread?”

“Yes.”

He looked at Kurt and said, “Let him go.” He returned to the screen, saying, “Billings hates his ass, which probably means he’s right. We could use a little Pike magic on this. We’re getting too close to the flame.”

Kurt said, “Okay. Get in the air. I’ll shoot you the credit card report as soon as I can.”

I said, “Yes, sir,” and reached my hand up to shut off the VPN, but Kurt cut me short.

He said, “Pike, if this decision is wrong, and we miss an attack because you’re in Rome, we’re done. There will be no justification.”

I paused, my hand over the disconnect button for the call. I said, “Sir, there
never
is. Shoshana told me someone would pay for my time spent rescuing her. She knew the implications, just like we do. If it’s any consolation, she said it wouldn’t be me.”

I saw his eyes narrow, and he said, “Shoshana? What do you mean it won’t be you? What the hell does she have to do with this?”

“Nothing. And everything. She’s hell-bent on preventing the Lost Boys from killing anyone. She feels it will be on her head. And she’s in Rome.”

“Rome? Doing what?”

“Making sure the payment for her rescue is given in terrorist blood.”