Blaze of Glory (28 page)

“First, we want to bring you into the loop,” Smith said. His voice seemed a half-octave too high.

“Have a seat.” Mac motioned to a chair at the table. Tess did as he suggested. Both men continued to stand, which made her nervous.

“We received this a few hours ago.” Smith nodded at a man seated behind one of the monitors. Sound poured from overhead speakers.

“My employer wants his money returned.”

“I’m sorry, my friend, but a deal is a deal. We all took risks and knew that things might go wrong. It is the way in modern business. And please don’t threaten me again. It will do you no good.”

A pause.

“Stupid rich tourists.”

“Did you say something, El-Sayyed?”

“Nothing to concern you, Michael.”

“El-Sayyed?”

“Yes.”

“Two can play your game.”

“What does that mean?”

Tess heard an ear-pounding noise and nothing more.

“You’re kidding.” As soon as she uttered the words, Tess felt stupid. “I mean . . . Where did this come from? Where’s the rest of the conversation? What about—”

Smith raised a hand. “The conversation ended abruptly. You heard the thud?”

“Yes.”

“It was the sound of a rocket propelled grenade hitting El-Sayyed’s boat.”

“Someone attacked him?”

Smith nodded.

“They did more than attack him, Dr. Rand. They put an end to his sorry, worthless existence.”

“Killed? Someone killed El-Sayyed?”

“The Egyptian authorities have his body—well, most of it—enough of it.” Smith put his hands behind his back. “There were eyewitnesses.”

“Who is responsible for the assassination? And how did you record the phone call? It was a phone call, right?”

Smith smiled politely but said nothing.

Tess thought for a moment. She would never get a straight answer out of the portly spook, but she could make some guesses. The attack on world leaders may have opened a door of international cooperation—at least for one purpose.

“Where was El-Sayyed when this little mishap occurred?”

“On the Nile,” Mac said.

“They killed him in his own backyard?” Tess couldn’t believe her ears.

“Apparently, he crossed the wrong man,” Smith said.

“Who?”

“We’re still working on that. We do know the other end of the call came from Mexico.”

“You’ve been receiving briefings from my office,” Mac said. “You see the connection?”

“The woman . . . the hesitant bomber. She said her parents were being held in Mexico.”

“And?”

“And the team found evidence of video sent from somewhere in Mexico to a villa outside of Rome.”

“True. What you don’t know is the Internet routing from Mexico to Rome was nearly impossible to trace. The Italian intelligence agencies are working on narrowing it down, but there’s a good chance they’ll fail.”

“Mexico is a huge country, Colonel.”

“Yup, 760,000 square miles, more than 105 million people, and has the fifteenth largest economy in the world. I’ve done my homework.”

“I’m not getting the connection,” Tess admitted. “Mexico has been a supporter of the war on terrorism. Why would someone in Mexico want to kill or maim twenty . . . of . . . the world’s . . . Oh.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve should have known. Narco-terroism.”

Saying the word made Tess feel ill.

Mac stared at her. “What do you know about narco-terrorism?”

“It’s not my primary field, but I know some things. I know they are far worse than most people in this country know. If memory serves, they smuggle forty billion dollars worth of drugs across the border and smuggle U.S. weapons back across the border. Close to fifteen thousand people have been killed in Mexico during the drug war over the last few years.”

Unable to sit any longer, Tess stood and began to pace. “The attack on the world leaders in Naples had nothing to do with ideology. It had to do with money made on drugs. If that woman had been successful, she might have killed our president, the president of Mexico, maybe the Canadian leader as well.”

“It’s no secret that President Huffington is giving serious consideration to increasing our efforts along the border: fences, National Guard, and a few billion dollars into Mexico.”

“I recently read about a thirteen-year-old who was forced to kill a man. Later he told a reporter he enjoyed it and that he knew he could get away with it.” The details of the article burned in her brain. “But which drug lord could be responsible?”

“We may know that,” Smith said. “We’ve analyzed the voice of the man El-Sayyed called Michael. He’s a bad one. Rotten to the core. Killed his own parents when he was fifteen to prove he could be trusted by one drug lord.”

“Who?”

“We don’t have a name. For years there have been rumors about a man named Lobito—Little Wolf.”

“There’s nothing little about him,” Mac said. “I’ve been talking to the DEA and others. They tell me Lobito is well armed and doesn’t mind leaving bodies in his wake.”

Tess thought for a moment. “Why am I here? I know a little about this problem, but my field is—”

“There is someone I want you to talk to.”

The colonel’s words drew her up short. “Who?”

“The woman who tried to kill the world’s most important leaders.”

HERNANDO SOTO SAT BENEATH the shade of a large umbrella and sipped beer from a bottle. Spread across a concrete outdoor table decorated with hand-painted Mexican tiles lay several newspapers, three from the United States and two from Mexico. Ancient, handcrafted Mayan figurines held the papers in place against the gentle breeze that pushed through shade trees and over the lush lawn. Overhead, a blue sky created a backdrop for the one thousand species of birds who called Mexico home. Hernando could only name a handful of birds and had no desire to learn more. His had been a study of human nature—especially the human need for addiction.

He set down the
New York Times
and gazed over the panorama before him. He owned everything his eye could see, including the two towns, each fifteen miles from his compound. He provided each town with protection and employment the citizens could find nowhere else. Less than two thousand people occupied the villages, but each person was dedicated to him. They had to be. Most worked in growing and processing the heroin, cocaine, and marijuana that had made him the wealthiest man, not only in Mexico, but Central America as well.

He was not the only drug cartel leader, but he was the most powerful. Over twenty years Hernando had unified several cartels under his leadership and eradicated those who refused to cooperate. His real genius lay in his ability to transport drugs across the U.S. border. His heroin was distributed to the western U.S., Colombian heroin to the eastern part of the country. Not only had he made riches in creating the drugs others would sell, but he took a cut from other cartel leaders by transporting the drugs along his well-developed channels.

He had three rules: one, complete every promise; two, remain anonymous; three, eradicate anyone who wronged him.

Motion caught in Hernando’s periphery vision drew his attention. A large man with a larger belly swaggered to the table. He held a cigar in his teeth.

“Is it done, Michael?” Hernando returned his attention to the
Times.

“It is, brother. The television news is starting to carry the news about a terrorist attack on a wealthy Egyptian.”

The irony made Hernando smile. “A terrorist attack on a terrorist. You did give him an opportunity to do right by me?”

Michael sat at the table, removed the cigar from his mouth, and stubbed it out on the ground. “Yes. I told him you wanted your money back. He refused.”

Hernando shrugged. “Pity. I liked the man. He did some good work for us.”

“Apparently, when it comes to money, he has no honor.”

“When it comes to money, brother, no one has honor.”

“Perhaps you are right. What now?”

“That depends on what the authorities do next. Our anonymity should still be in place. I doubt El-Sayyed ever revealed who he was working for.”

“He can’t now. They fished out some of his body, but it won’t be talking.” Michael laughed at his macabre joke.

“Was he alone?”

“No, our men saw several other people on the boat.”

Hernando thought for a moment. “Could they identify anyone?”

Michael shook his head. “They took video footage. They will send it to us for analysis as soon as they are out of country and can arrange a secure Internet connection. They’re a little busy fleeing for their lives.”

“I imagine.” Hernando put the paper down. “We lost a precious opportunity to send an unforgettable message. Now the U.S. and Mexican presidents live and continue to hinder our work.”

“At least the world thinks it was Islamic terrorists who committed the acts.”

“Maybe,” Michael said.

“Never underestimate your enemy, Michael. They are usually smarter than we think.”

“I’m not so sure, brother. No one has ever connected any of our . . .
work
with you, and even if they do, finding you is nearly impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible these days.”

Michael pulled another cigar from his shirt pocket but didn’t light it, and Hernando knew he wouldn’t. “I wish you would try one of these. They are fresh from Cuba.”

“Smoke pollutes the body. You know my feelings about consuming unhealthy substances.”

“Beer isn’t unhealthy?” Michael pointed at the beer bottle with his cigar.

“Moderation in all things, brother. Beer has many healthy qualities; cigars have none.”

“If you say so, brother.” Michael changed the subject. “What shall we do with our guests?”

Hernando looked up at the sky again. “Keep them safe a little while longer. We may need them.”

“Need them? For what?”

“Do we know why the primary suicide bomber’s vest did not explode?”

Michael shrugged. “I assumed that El-Sayyed’s men failed to set it up right.”

“Perhaps, but what if she found a way to keep it from exploding? We have to assume she is still alive.”

“So what? She knows nothing about us. She might know a few things about El-Sayyed’s team, but your plan kept us at arm’s distance. She knows nothing.”

Hernando frowned. Even as a child Michael worked hard at not working. He worked equally hard at not thinking.

“Do as I say, Michael. We keep the others alive until we have a better handle on all that has happened. What did El-Sayyed do with the other girls? He only used three for the mission.”

Michael shrugged again. “El-Sayyed did nothing with them. As usual, he left long before the plan went into action. He was already on his way to Egypt before the first move was made.”

“That was part of the plan. We knew he’d do that. How else would I know where he was so I could have him killed?”

“You are right, of course, brother.”

“Have you learned anything about his lieutenants?” Hernando took another sip of beer.

“Our spies in Naples kept track of them. We know the one named Nasser took the boat out—the one meant to ram the hotel marina. You already know what happened to the boat. The Naples media was able to talk to several of the people who had been on the boat. They said Nasser jumped overboard after he set the yacht on its collision course. If there is any justice in the world, then the propellers chopped the man into fish chum.”

“But the world has no justice, so we must assume he escaped. Not that it matters. He was just a flunky.” Hernando folded the newspaper. “What about the man that was with the girl in the hotel? Did he escape?”

Michael hesitated. “Our men lost him.”

“Lost him?”

“There was great chaos after the explosions. Police and military were everywhere. He presents no problem. He will learn his master is dead and disappear into the sunset. I know these kinds of people.”