Oath to Defend (8 page)

18

The small inn Casey had chosen for their R&R turned out to be a five-star resort thirty minutes north of the San Diego International Airport. Drake had been too tired to argue with his friend when they’d checked in a little after midnight. After a restless night and being awakened at four o’clock by the sprinklers on the golf course, he was still in no mood to spend a day lounging around a swimming pool or playing golf.

What he needed was some evidence they hadn’t lost track of Barak, that the last three days hadn’t been a waste of time. He knew that someone smart enough to build an international security firm and train a cadre of assassins, someone bold enough to try to assassinate a cabinet member, could be anywhere in the world. But Drake didn’t think Barak was anywhere in the world. He would not run away and hide. He was here someplace.

With the drug cartel helping him, Drake reasoned, the terrorist was probably just across the border laughing at them. Drake’s imagination saw Barak taunting them like a matador waving his red cape in front of the bull’s nose. Like a mad fighting bull, Drake was feeling his anger crowding out the icy control that had kept him alive in Afghanistan and Africa. Maybe Mike was right, he told himself, maybe he did need to step back a bit and think things through. Barak had been one step ahead of them all along. As long, as they were chasing from behind, he would stay ahead.

Drake put on a pair of workout shorts and started through the morning exercise routine he used whenever he was away from home. Ten minutes of stretching were followed by twenty-two minutes of body weight exercises that included explosion pushups, squat jumps, reverse crunches, and shadow boxing until he was ready for a hot shower. After shaving and dressing, he called Casey’s room.

“What?” his buddy said. “I’m sleeping.”

“No, you’re not. We need to talk.”

“
You
need to talk.
I
need to sleep. Go back to bed.”

“It’s oh five hundred. Meet me in the restaurant and we’ll have an early breakfast.”

“They don’t serve breakfast until six. I checked. I’ll meet you then.” Casey hung up.

Drake knew nothing he could do or say would get his friend out of bed until six o’clock, so he called Liz Strobel in Washington, D.C. With any luck, she would be in her office with something new on Barak.

“Good morning Liz,” he said in his best cheerful voice. “Long night or an early morning?”

“Both. Thanks for asking.” Her voice was marginally less angry than in their last conversation. “You’re up early.”

“I didn’t sleep very well. We parked Mike’s plane here in San Diego and decided to hang around for another day in case you turn up anything on Barak.”

“Well, if that’s the only reason you stayed, you may as well go home,” she replied. “We have nada, zip, nothing on the man. Once he got beyond the focus of our satellite out over the ocean, we lost him. DEA’s reaching out to all of their sources in Mexico, but so far nothing has turned up. We’re still monitoring the phone of his friend from Cancun. That friend, by the way, made his roundabout way to South America and the Tri-Border Area via Stockholm, Berlin, Rome and Sao Paulo, Brazil.”

“Did he have business in all those places?”

“Might have, but he never stayed long enough for us to find out. He never left the airports, just moved from one plane to the next.”

“Liz, we need to know more about this guy. Whatever connects him to Barak, he sure went out of his way not to lead us back to the Tri-Border Area. There’s a big Muslim population down there. You think this guy’s involved in terrorism or drug smuggling?”

She gave a short laugh. “They’re one and the same today. That’s what’s going on in Mexico. Hezbollah is working with the cartels to fund their efforts. Helping them build tunnels under the border so they can use the cartel’s smuggling routes into the U.S. for human trafficking and getting Other Than Mexicans—that’s OTM’s—and other illegals across the border.”

“Do we know if Barak has any ties to Hezbollah?”

“Good question. But you know as much about Barak as we do at this point. Other than what we turned up from his offices in Las Vegas, we don’t know anything about him. Mexico did arrest the head Hezbollah guy in Tijuana not long ago. Maybe they can get someone to ‘talk’ with him and see if he’ll give us anything about Barak. Mexico is not real good at treating their prisoners well. He might want to trade information for a nicer cell.”

“It’s probably worth a try. I wonder if they’ll let me talk to the guy.”

“I don’t think the Secretary would approve that,” she said. “We let you go after Barak in Cancun so we didn’t have to ask permission to operate in their country. Asking permission to get you in to talk with their Hezbollah prisoner, well, that might get them curious about that dead body that turned up in Cancun while you were there.”

“Okay. Then how about getting Special Agent Cooper to talk with him? DEA has a legitimate interest in whatever he might know.”

“I’ll ask the Secretary and let you know. When will you be back in Portland?”

“Tomorrow, why?”

“The Secretary got a call from a firm that’s having a problem with cyber attacks. It’s developing technology to protect our infrastructure, mainly our electrical grid. They don’t want the FBI charging in and making waves. He thought you might be able to help them, like you did at Martin Research last month. Are you available?”

“Is this what he had in mind when he offered me a retainer to be his private trouble shooter?”

“Outsourcing is the future of ‘limited’ government… so yes, this is what he had in mind. The CEO of the company is an old friend who doesn’t want to lose the confidence of his shareholders if they learn he can’t protect their research.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “Send the information to my office. I’ll go see him if you’ll keep looking for Barak.”

“You know we will. Stop by sometime and meet the team, and I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“The dinner would be a treat, but I need to get home. Rain check?”

“Sure, any time.” She paused. “I have a meeting in a few minutes, I should go.”

She sounded disappointed, he thought, but he wasn’t ready to cross that line, not even with someone as attractive as Liz Strobel. It just didn’t feel right. He wasn’t sure when or if it ever would. No one could replace the love he had just lost a year ago when Kay died, and right now he had no interest in trying. He was interested in only one thing at the moment, and that was finding the terrorist David Barak.

When Casey finally sauntered into the restaurant, Drake had already finished his second cup of coffee and was ready to order without him.

“If you were Barak,” he asked before his friend was even seated, “where would you go?”

“Let me guess,” Casey replied. “You couldn’t sleep and you decided to make sure my morning was ruined, too.” He signaled to a waitress. “Could I get some coffee, Miss? Extra strong please.”

Drake grunted. “No reason for us to waste the day waiting for something to happen. I talked to Liz this morning. DHS doesn’t have a clue where he might be.”

“Well, maybe we can order breakfast first. Let my mind catch up with my grumbling stomach. Then we can discuss the possibilities. I find it hard to think when I’m hungry.”

While Casey studied his menu, Drake watched a foursome of golfers getting ready to tee off outside. Stretching, taking their practice swings, and preparing to enjoy four hours on a picture-perfect day, they were enjoying themselves in a way he hadn’t been able to for a long time. Perhaps not since the day after 9/11, he thought, when he had enlisted in the Army or since his time in Afghanistan and the Middle East. Especially not since the day Kay was diagnosed with cancer. There was a war going on that men like those golfers didn’t think about, because no one was willing to call it a war.

How, he wondered, did a country forget that one of its first wars had been fought against Muslim pirates off the shores of Tripoli during the administration of Thomas Jefferson? How did a country forget that Muslim terrorists had brought down the barracks in Lebanon in 1983 and Pan Am 103 in 1988? Or that Muslim terrorists had bombed the World Trade Center two decades before they attacked the Twin Towers, and had vowed to destroy us every day of every year since then?

Drake knew who the enemy was, and he wasn’t afraid to say so. Nor was he afraid to do whatever had to be done. He was no longer a soldier, but his oath to defend and protect his country hadn’t expired when he left the Army.

He looked up. “Mike,” he said, “Barak was hiding in plain sight in Cancun and protected in Tijuana by one of the cartels. He knows we’re looking for him. Where does he go?”

“Why would he need to go anywhere? The cartel obviously has the cooperation of the police and the army. I’d stay in Mexico,” Casey said as he waved the waitress over. “Huevos rancheros, an order of ham, a fruit bowl, toast with some strawberry jam, and a refill on my coffee, please. I might also save room for a pastry later. What are you having, Drake?”

“Scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and grapefruit, thank you.”

“If he stays in Mexico, we’ll get him sooner or later,” Casey added as the waitress left. “We’ve had to be patient before. We’ve waited days for our target to appear.”

“I know. But this guy is different. He thinks big. I don’t see him backing off. He could have fled to anywhere in the world, so why Mexico?”

A few minutes later, when Casey was enjoying the huevos rancheros, Drake answered his own question. “Because it’s easy to get back here from Mexico. He’s not running away, Mike. He’s taking a time out. He’s waiting over there to hit us again.”

He took out his cell phone and opened his contact list to call DHS. He wanted to tell Liz to watch the border. Barak was coming at them again. He was sure of it.

19

As the Bell 429 approached the building site for the cartel’s new marina and hotel development in Rosarito, just south of Tijuana, Barak looked down and saw his team of eight men faced off against an equal number of cartel men. Both sides had their SUV’s and trucks positioned for a quick getaway.

At least
they were able to agree to the number of men each side would bring
, Barak thought as he considered the obvious truce both sides recognized.

“Verdugo,” he called from the rear passenger seat of the helicopter, “make sure your guys know we’re friends. They may be afraid of you, but you have many more reasons to be afraid of me. Make sure they don’t act stupidly. I will forgive your one stupid act, but not another.
Comprende
?”

“Don’t insult me,” Verdugo said without turning around. “They’re here to make sure I return safely. Once they see I’m safe, and you’re on your way, there will be no trouble. I am a man of my word.”

“As I am. Remember my promise. If I find you have tried in any way to interfere with my work, you and your entire family will regret it. Now let’s get down there and be on our separate ways.”

When the helicopter touched down on the improvised landing site, they waited until the dust settled, then got out, saying their farewells with tight smiles and handshakes. While Saleem stayed inside with the pilot to make sure he didn’t lift off with their precious cargo, Barak waved his men over and gave them instructions on how to carefully unload his nuke to secure it for transport.

“Saleem,” Barak said, as they stood together and watched four men lift the crate into the back of the waiting Suburban, “how do you put up with these cutthroats?”

“I put up with them because they serve our purpose. They have learned to make vast amounts of money in America. We need to do the same. They use their money to indulge their vulgar ways, while we use the money we take from America to buy the weapons we need.” He gave an elegant shrug. “It works for both of us.”

“Well, watch your back, brother,” Barak growled. “They remind me of Jews. The only thing you can trust is their greed. How long will it take us to get to your tunnel?”

“From here, two hours. We use a distributing business and its delivery trucks to move things to the warehouse. We’ll transfer the crate to one of the trucks in south Tijuana and then drive along the truck’s regular delivery route until we get to the warehouse.”

When Barak’s men were ready to leave, he signaled the helicopter pilot to take off and joined Saleem in the lead Suburban for the ride up the coast to Tijuana. The town of Rosarito was trying hard to remake itself into a classy resort by drawing tourists to the Pacific Baja coastline. It was beginning to look as if the effort was paying off. Tall hotels were being built and new golf courses lined the highway to the east. How much of the cartel’s money was involved was unclear, but he guessed a substantial amount was being washed clean in these new developments, just as it had been in Las Vegas when organized crime built its oasis in the Nevada desert.

But Tijuana was another story, he saw as they passed through the ugly border town’s industrial district a short time later. Even though it was one of Mexico’s largest cities, it lacked character and any semblance of class. Like so many of the creations in the Western world, it was just another spot on the earth without purpose, without soul. Barak wasn’t a devout Muslim, far from it, but when Islam had ruled the world many centuries ago, great cities had been built and great inventions had been made. What did the West have to show for its two hundred years of supremacy? Disneyland? Television? Texting and Twitter? He wouldn’t be around to see the world change, but it was worth fighting and dying for.

At the distributing company’s headquarters, Saleem directed them around the building to the loading dock and a delivery van parked beside the cyclone fence surrounding the back lot.

“Back up to that truck and unload the crate,” Saleem said. “The drivers are out making other deliveries, so no one should see you. I’ll go in and let my manager know I’ll be using the truck for a while.”

Barak watched his men move the crate from the SUV to the delivery van. He beckoned them to gather around him.

“When we head to the warehouse,” he said, “one of you drive the delivery van. We’ll let Saleem lead in one Suburban with me, and the other Suburban will follow behind the delivery van. I trust Saleem, but we’re still in cartel country, so stay alert. If anyone tries to stop us, we’ll fight our way through, understood? Allah has entrusted us with this work. We will not fail him.”

Eight of his best men stood silently in front of him until Walid spoke.

“Malik, why are we using Hezbollah men to get this crate across the border? We have our own ways. Why them?”

Barak appreciated that Walid, the youngest of the eight men he had chosen for this part of the mission, used the honorific Malik, or Leader, when he asked his question. He was disappointed, though, that a question had been asked at all. He wasn’t prepared to explain how the Alliance was using Hezbollah to create chaos in the world they would profit from once the devastation they were planning was blamed on Hezbollah. And he wasn’t about to tell Walid why he wanted the crate to be smuggled into the country by someone else in case they were caught. All he could do in front of the others was put Walid in his place.

He stepped in front of the young man and slapped him in the face. “Don’t ever question me again. I trained you better than that. You’ll sit in the van with the crate until we get to the warehouse. Don’t make a sound. We’ll talk when this is over.”

When Saleem returned, the convoy of the delivery van and two SUV’s set out and drove for an hour, taking the same circuitous route the delivery van took every day until it reached a metal building located north of the main runway of the Tijuana International Airport.

“Honk three times, then three times more,” Saleem directed the driver. “A guard will come out. When he waves us in, drive to the far end of the warehouse.”

Barak watched from his Suburban as a guard dressed in combat fatigues walked out, carrying his assault rifle across his chest, and motioned for Saleem to lower his window. After a quick exchange of Farsi passwords he recognized, the guard spoke into his lapel mic and the overhead door slowly opened, revealing a concrete floor and largely empty warehouse.

At the far end, another guard stood next to an enclosed office, waiting for them.

“The stairs down into the tunnel are in the office,” Saleem said. “Back the van up to the office and get your men to carry the crate inside. There’s a hydraulic lift they can use.”

At the bottom of the tunnel entrance, forty feet down and next to a hydraulic lift, a flatbed cargo car sat on railroad tracks hitched to what looked like a small locomotive engine. The tunnel had electric lighting and cool air circulating through it.

When the crate had been lowered and secured on the cargo car, Barak asked the guard how long it would take for it to reach the warehouse across the border in the Otay Mesa industrial district of San Diego.

“The mule, as my men call it, travels at thirty miles an hour. Your crate will be across in a couple of minutes.”

Barak nodded. “And when it reaches your other warehouse, how long before the crate will head north?”

“You and your men will drive the crate through San Diego to the meeting place we agreed upon. As soon as we load up, I’ll leave with my men and head out. It should take thirty minutes or so.”

“Excellent. We should go now.” Barak waved to his men and sat on the front of the cargo car beside Saleem. “Take me across.”