Extreme Measures (17 page)

CUBA

K
ARIM stood near the tailgate of one of the pickup trucks and watched as the last of the cocaine was loaded onto the two speedboats. On the flight from the Triple Frontier to Cuba they had stopped in Venezuela to refuel. There, the men got rid of their jungle fatigues and were given civilian clothes. The rifles were stripped down and packed away but the pistols were kept and shoved into the waistbands of jeans and khaki pants.

Karim half expected that when they landed in Cuba their plane would be surrounded, the drugs seized, and they’d be thrown in some hot, humid jail where they would rot for years. Hakim had repeatedly reassured him that everything would be fine. Aiding drug trafficking was a way for the Cuban military to both supplement their dismal pay and stick it to the Americans. Hakim had carefully plotted every step of the journey. He’d spent nearly a half year flying around the region, meeting the right people and gauging whom he could trust. Never did he discuss Islam or the jihad. This was about drugs, something that the United States was far more tolerant of than Islam.

Karim stayed away from the soldiers who had met them at the airport and ordered his men to do likewise. They could all speak Spanish to a varying degree, but nowhere near as well as Hakim, who was fluent in the language. There were ten of the soldiers. All Cuban army. An officer and nine enlisted men. They were heavily armed, but Hakim had warned him in advance not to be worried. That was simply the way of the Cubans. They carried AK-47s around like most people carried a cell phone. Most of them weren’t even loaded. The entire thing made Karim extremely nervous. For a man who was used to being in control, who had to be in control, this was the worst part of the journey. He had to simply trust and leave it to fate.

Hakim and the Cuban officer were smiling and laughing about something. Karim assumed it was that the man now had in his possession three times more cocaine than he had originally been told he would. The officer’s take of ten percent was now worth more than a million dollars if he could unload it through the right channels. Hakim had played it perfectly. Every step of the way he had told these people that he was an advance man for a drug cartel which was looking for new trade routes to get drugs into the United States. If they knew this was a onetime deal, Hakim feared they would simply take the drugs and throw them in jail or worse. Hakim talked a big game. He told them they were not interested in a onetime deal. They were looking for partners who could help them build their business. They were going to test several routes and then begin running shipments every two to three weeks. With those kinds of numbers, any man who was not grounded in his religion would be tempted.

The Cuban officer and Hakim were now saying good-bye. Karim watched as his old friend reached out and hugged the man, kissing him once on each cheek, and then announcing for all to hear, “
Viva la Revolución
!”

The rest of the Cuban contingent repeated the chant and shook their rifles in the air. Hakim took a moment to thank the rest of the soldiers. Clasping an arm here and shaking a hand there, he went down the line flashing his infectious smile and looking each man in the eye.

Karim had always been in awe of his childhood friend’s ability to charm virtually anyone who crossed his path. He was a chameleon, capable of socializing with wretches and princes alike. He was never idle and always interested in what other people were doing and how they got from point A to point B. How they made their laundry business work, how they had become a professor, how they’d started their construction business, how they took care of their fishing boat, how they became a bond trader… the list went on and on. If it weren’t for their years of loyalty, Karim would have probably been threatened by the ease with which Hakim walked through life, but he wasn’t.

Their loyalty to each other stemmed from having been childhood friends. A healthy competition that had grown into a deep respect. It also helped that Hakim was one of Karim’s biggest believers. Always the better student and his equal athletically, Karim was looked up to by Hakim. It was Hakim who was the first to believe that Karim had a destiny that would make him a historic figure in the fight to save Islam from yet another assault from the West. As teens they had dreamed of greatness. They had dissected what was good and what was wrong with the various jihad groups and they had set their own course.

Hakim had been the one to first suggest setting up their own network. Both men had grown suspicious of all the infighting between the Taliban and al-Qaeda. The infighting was disgusting, and they both feared that it had led to various factions intentionally sabotaging their brothers by leaking information to the Americans. Karim had not liked the idea of sending Hakim off on his own to explore other options, but his old friend had been his usual persistent self. After Zawahiri had saddled him with his moronic nephew, Karim decided he could with good conscience turn Hakim loose.

Karim looked around the small marina and felt great pride in his friend. He had never fully understood the word
irony
. He wasn’t sure, but he thought people often confused it with happenstance. Whatever the case was, he found it rather amusing that as a teenager Hakim had been completely enamored with the American author Ernest Hemingway. He so admired the man’s sense of adventure that at age thirteen, after reading
The Old Man and the Sea
, he’d hitchhiked on his own to Jeddah and convinced a fisherman to take him out for a day. At nineteen he’d climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, and at twenty-one he’d fulfilled what he’d said was his greatest thrill of all, catching a swordfish off the Florida Keys. Hakim had confided in him one cold evening that the real reason why he had come to fight in Afghanistan was because Hemingway had run off to be an ambulance driver during the Spanish Civil War. He felt that a man had not lived until he had experienced the raw thrill of war.

Hakim ambled over with his disarming grin. He placed an arm on Karim’s shoulder and said, “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

“You amaze me.”

“Even after all these years?”

“Yes, even after all these years.” Karim looked nervously back over his shoulder at the soldiers. “So we are free to go?”

“We are encouraged to go.” Hakim made a motion toward the men in the boats and they fired up the engines. “They do not want us to loiter.”

“Good, so we are leaving?”

“Yes.” Hakim pointed west at the setting sun. “I have rations on the boats. We will leave now and sail around the western end of the island out into international waters. Then we’ll set course for the Florida Keys.”

The two men stepped onto the old wood dock, careful where they put their feet since the planks were rotten and uneven. “Are you sure that this is the right spot?” Karim had always thought they should try to enter the country farther north. Up toward Tampa or even the Panhandle.

“I’ve told you before, my friend. It is a numbers game.”

“I know… more coast, more boats…”

“Yes. They can’t tell the difference between drug runners and fishermen. We take our time tonight and then in the morning we meander out into the Keys.”

“And if their Coast Guard shows up?”

“Then we run like hell.” Karim pointed down at the two dull gray fiberglass boats. Each vessel had three 250 hp Mercury outboard motors on the back. “These boats are as fast as anything they have.”

“As fast but not faster?”

“No, but don’t worry. We have a secret weapon.”

The creases on Karim’s forehead deepened. “What secret weapon?”

“You and your men. They are not used to being shot back at.” Hakim laughed and pointed at the second boat. “Stay two hundred meters back and follow in my wake. Everything is programmed into the GPS, and if you have any questions, just call me on the radio.”

Karim reached out and stopped his friend. “Wait. That is the extent of your plan? We run?”

“Essentially, yes.”

Karim felt the symptoms of one of his anxiety attacks. “After all we have been through… after all the preparation… this is what it will all come down to?”

“No, my friend, it will come down to more than just this, but we cannot control everything. At some point we must make our leap of faith.” Hakim could see his friend’s agitation. The eyes darting from left to right, focusing on nothing. His breathing becoming quick and shallow. “Would you rather try to fly into the country with all your weapons?”

Karim did not answer.

“You wanted me to find a way to get us into America with all the weapons and your detonators. There is no easy way, my friend, and you knew that going in. At some point we must put our faith in Allah and move forward.” Hakim reached out and grabbed him by both shoulders. “Look me in the eye. Take a deep breath. Trust me to get you through this part of your journey. We are so close. America lies just beyond the horizon. When the sun comes up, I will have you there.”

“But what about…?”

Hakim cut him off, saying, “Now is not the time to hesitate… to question. Now is the time to act. Remember, you have always told me that victory favors the brave. Now is our moment to be brave. Trust me. Get in your boat and follow me. I will lead you on this leg of your crusade, and I will not fail you.”

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

N
ASH parked his minivan next to a beat-up Ford Taurus and walked into the Safeway Food and Drug. He grabbed a cart and began to amble through the produce section. The only thing he really needed was milk for Charlie, but he had other reasons to be at the store. He grabbed a half dozen bananas, two large grapefruits, and a cantaloupe. A few aisles down he grabbed some peanut butter because he’d learned in the past that they could never have enough peanut butter. In the next aisle he saw the guy he was looking for waiting for him in front of the taco shells. His blond hair was poking out from under his Washington Nationals baseball hat.

Nash pulled up beside him and looked back down the aisle to make sure the other shoppers were out of earshot. Keeping his eyes on the taco shells, Nash said, “How are you, buddy?”

“Better than you.” The man was about the same size as Nash, although maybe a little thinner and a decade older.

“No doubt,” Nash said as he remembered Monday night was taco night. He took a box just in case.

“How are the kids?”

“Good.”

“Charlie?” he asked as he read the back of a box.

“He uttered his godfather’s favorite word this morning.”

The man turned his head and looked at Nash. “You fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I was.”

“That’s great.”

“No, it isn’t,” Nash said seriously bothered. “He’s only a year old.”

Scott Coleman began laughing silently to himself. He’d known Nash for a little more than seven years and they’d grown very close. Coleman had been the one who brought Nash to the attention of Rapp. That was back when they were running around the mountains of Afghanistan having the time of their lives hunting Taliban and al-Qaeda. Now the pussies were hiding on the other side of the border and the Pakistanis wouldn’t let them come over and finish the job.

Smiling and talking out of the side of his mouth, Coleman said, “You need to lighten up, buddy. I’ve told you before, the key to this shit is to never take it too seriously. The moment you do that, you lose your edge, you lose your nerve, and then you’re going to fuck up.”

Nash had heard the lecture many times before. Coleman, almost ten years his senior, was a former SEAL, and had been running his own security and consulting firm in D.C. since just before the attacks. The deluge of money that had been pumped into security firms had made him a wealthy man, but not as wealthy as he could have been. Coleman made the conscious decision to stay small. He had no interest in running a big company and managing hundreds of people.

Nash asked him, “You read the paper this morning?”

“Yeah.” Coleman grabbed a box of shells, set them in his cart, and started moving. “You’d better hope those pricks on the Hill don’t dig too deep, or you’re fucked.”

“I just left a hearing with the Intel folks. It was a real joy.”

“Any idea how this Commie reporter got his info?”

Nash turned the corner and grabbed a bag of Doritos. “I have a short list.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“In a moment. This reporter… Joe Barreiro… you have any problem setting up passive surveillance on him?”

Coleman scanned the next aisle and said, “Nope.”

“Good. Check the nearby pay phones first and then the e-mails. You still have your back door into the
Post
’s server?”

Coleman laughed.

“What?” Nash asked wondering what he’d done wrong now.

“Look at you. All grown up and telling me how to do my job.”

Nash looked embarrassed. Maybe even a little beaten. “Sorry, I know you know what you’re doing. This is more for me, so I can just cross it off my list.”

“Fair enough. I don’t want you to burn out.”

“Scour his hard drive as well as his editor’s, and check the people who sit by him just to make sure. And his kids… don’t forget to look at their phones.”

“If you give me the list of suspects it’ll be quicker,” Coleman offered.

“Let me think about it,” Nash said, his eyes narrowing.

“If they’ve met face-to-face, I can look at the cell tower records and find out if they overlapped at all in the last month.”

Nash thought about it for a moment, weighed the pros and cons, and decided he really didn’t give a shit. He needed to unload some of this stuff, and who better to trust than Coleman. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, “Glen Adams.”

Coleman nodded slowly at first and then more enthusiastically. “It figures. The fucking narcissist. He’d hate anyone who was good at your job. He wasn’t worth shit back when he was operations.”

Nash agreed and said, “I need you to move quickly. I need to know how much they know and how they know it.”

“I’ll get on it tonight. You going to be around for Rory’s game on Saturday?”

Coleman was referring to Nash’s fourteen-year-old son. “If I’m not in jail.”

“Come on… don’t be so morose. Your one-year-old son is well on his way to mastering the greatest word in the English language.”

Nash smiled. Thought of Charlie dropping the F-bomb at the breakfast table. The look of absolute horror on his wife’s face. “I’ll tell you the story about it some time over a beer. It’s pretty funny. If you’re in the neighborhood this week, stop by for a drink.”

“I don’t know, things are pretty crazy and now you want me to get on this…”

“Maggie and the kids would love to see you.”

Without missing a beat, Coleman said, “I know Maggie would.”

“Why are all you SEALs such pigs?”

“Oh, and you Marines are such a dignified lot.”

Nash grinned. “We are charming bastards, aren’t we?”

“You look good in your dress blues, but that’s about it.” Coleman turned down the next aisle and over his shoulder said, “Keep your dobber up.”

Great,
Nash thought as he stared at Coleman wheeling his cart down the aisle.
Just what I need, another reminder about last night.