Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (10 page)

Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

So far he’d sent thirty-six men to the United States. Eighteen teams of two. Only one didn’t make it.
At least he died in the process
, Ibrahim Haddad thought gratefully.

Haddad had everything that money could buy and none of what he really wanted. He lived like a recluse in Ciudad del Este. He wanted his wife and child back. That would never be. One day he would join them, welcomed by the Prophet, reunited with his family killed by an Israeli missile. That very fact shaped his life, dictated every action, and ultimately led him to Paraguay.

He first learned about what this country could offer him years ago through a chance acquaintance at a Beirut souk. There they were—Haddad, a well-respected businessman, and the stranger, a professor at Beirut Arab University. Two men unsure of what present to buy for their wives. They met at a counter displaying fine dining linens made of the best Indian cloth. Only one would see a great family dinner served on it.

“Ah, both of us with the same thought,” the Beirut professor offered when they found themselves together in line with their presents. “For your wife?”

“Yes,” Haddad happily responded. “The Prophet Mohammad bore witness of the goodness of his wife, for she was the first to embrace Islam. We honor the Prophet by honoring our wives.”

“That is so true.”

“And my wife reminds me of that on a daily basis,” Haddad said with a smile. I suspect yours says the same thing?”

The man laughed. “Yes. Exactly her words.”

“Then we shall both be rewarded when we return home,” Haddad said. His intent was quite clear.

The men continued their lighthearted conversation as they paid for the linens. Outside, the professor invited Haddad to tea. What began as small talk moved into global politics and the teacher’s own expertise. Haddad learned that Dr. Akbar El Deeb was one of the leading experts in a commodity that existed in far too short supply in the Arab world.

Haddad found the discussion interesting and well beyond any of his reading. They talked about the problems that faced each of the Arab nations and how they dealt with the need. Then Haddad’s questions turned to the rest of the world. “Is the resource as challenged in the West?”

Dr. El Deeb explained the difference. And in explaining it in such detail, Haddad learned as much about America’s vulnerabilities. Everything he said was completely fascinating. The history, the science, and the transglobal political ramifications.

Over the next two hours Haddad learned how little the Americans knew about the magnitude of the potential danger and how important a role a little country like Paraguay could play. The facts were absolutely amazing and worth further research.

The men ended the evening with a sumptuous dinner. Dr. El Deeb returned home near the university with his wife’s present. Haddad went the few miles south with his. He could just imagine his wife’s reaction. It would be the most magnificent weave she had ever seen. He would tell her, “We shall wait to use it for when we break fast on the last night of Ramadan, my love. And over a wonderful meal that I will prepare for you, we will pledge our love for eternity.”

Ibrahim Haddad loved his wife and infant daughter. But he would never see them alive again. They died while he was shopping. They died without his protection. They died without a gun in their hands. A bombing run, retaliation for a Black September attack, sealed their fate.

That night, with his daughter’s lifeless body in his arms, Ibrahim Haddad vowed the ultimate revenge. It would take years, a web of international coconspirators, foreign partners, and money.

Haddad plotted to bring down the Zionists. His goal required the complete undermining of support from America. They way to do that was attack the very heart of the political, moral, and constitutional power in the United States.

One plot had failed, but Haddad survived and escaped and immediately began to set things in motion that started the night he met Dr. El Deeb; the night his beautiful wife and daughter were killed.

It had taken years to plan and millions of dollars. He worked with research from old Soviet Union intelligence officers, disenfranchised scientists, Arab fanatics, and even Americans with a cause or a craving for power. It became his life’s work. Soon the United States would have to stop worrying about the rest of the world and take care of its own needy citizens. Israel would be alone and fall.

All of this because of a chance encounter with a college professor in Beirut and the primer he got on a most vital natural resource.

Gulfton, Texas

Manuel Estavan used 13-30 for his own personal gain. While the people who served him lived just above the poverty line, making money by killing civilians and their countrymen, Estavan had some $870,000 in a high-yield account with Citibank. The deposits from the Syrian came easier than cash on the streets. Typically, 13-30 dealt in drugs, stolen cell phones, prostitution, racketeering, and hard-core extortion. All of it required management and huge risks. On the other hand, the kind of immigrant smuggling he was now into was easy money.

His biggest challenge was competition. There were MS-13 gangs throughout the United States and an ever increasing number of 13-30 branches.

Only a decade earlier the gang had numbered a few thousand. Today, as many as fifty thousand. Manuel Estavan was finding that running a gang was much like running a business. He had to stay ahead of the competition and provide better service.

Now he needed to keep his new client happy.
Refund the deposit on the dead guy before it’s demanded.
That’s what Estavan decided. Show that he could be trusted no matter what.

Though he lost one “package” at the airport, his young followers had successfully retrieved others. They were not the typically poor El Salvadorian farmers that other 13-30 gangs transported across the Mexican border. These men were well-dressed, professional-looking travelers on their way, he thought,
to conduct some serious shit.

Al Qaeda?
Estavan didn’t know. Moreover, he couldn’t even spell it or explain why we were at war with terrorists. However, he knew they were involved in something
muy grande.

So, Manuel Estavan wanted to demonstrate his loyalty and be first in line for more work. Two successful pickups. One already delivered to Maine. Another on the way to Montana.
Two for three. Not the contract,
he thought.
But not my fault, either.
Estavan called a number on his phone; a number he was told not to use unless it was “vitally important.”

But this is extremely important
, he presumed.
They’re going to need help bringing more people in.
As he punched in the international telephone number, Estavan allowed himself to think of the money. Tens of thousands for the handling of each “package,” based on degrees of difficulty, and a bonus for sacrificing his drivers. That money came to him separately. Twelve thousand five hundred dollars per. That’s where the profit really was.

Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

The cell phone rang. The number that only ten people had. The one that he never wanted to answer. He was amazed the batteries were even charged. Yet, he could hear the ring tone coming from a bureau drawer beside his bed.

Ibrahim Haddad wondered who was calling and why? There was only one way to find out, but picking up had its own risks.
The Americans can listen
. That fact had been publicly established with the 2005
New York Times
investigative article on the Bush administration’s controversial eavesdropping on telephone calls. For that reason, he sat up in bed, but didn’t move. The ringing stopped.
Good. Wrong number.

Less than a minute later the phone rang again. Haddad tried to ignore it. On the fifth attempt, he grabbed the Samsung phone off his dresser. On the seventh set of rings, he finally answered it…carefully.

“
Hola
.”

“
Hola, Solon
,” the caller replied.

“
Esta es Manuel
.”

Haddad didn’t say anything.

“I know you said not to call you unless there was a serious problem. There is. U.S. Customs pigs killed one of your…”

Haddad threw the phone on the bedroom floor. The battery popped out and the device broke. His display of anger alone didn’t quell his fury. He flung the bedroom bureau from the wall onto the phone. “Imbecile!” he screamed. It was followed with more.

One of his body guards instantly ran into the bedroom suite. Haddad waved him away.
Just like that stupid maniac in Libya!
he told himself. He was remembering the late night calls more than a year ago from Abahar Gharazzi, the son of the Libyan dictator. Those calls very well contributed to the discovery of his plan to put his own man in the White House.
Now another incompetent.

He calculated the time they were on the phone. Ten, maybe twelve seconds. Possibly not long enough for the Americans to establish a trace. Then he replayed the conversation in his mind. Were there any words that the NSA’s Echelon computers would pick up on even in Spanish?
There was a problem? Return the money?
Hardly.
U.S.
Customs? Houston?
That began to worry him more.
Killed your…
That phrase could positively connect him.

Haddad wished that he could contact the one man who could take care of the gangbanger. But as he surmised from the cable news, his number one assassin had been cut down in Washington by the FBI
.
He’d have to put the job in someone else’s hands. A lesser assassin. But it had to be done.
Manuel en Houston
, Manuel Estavan, had violated his express order and put his life’s work in jeopardy. For that he would die. Any number of people in Ciudad del Este could do it. However, the job wasn’t a priority right now. Other things were more urgent.

The White House

“How’s the market?” President Taylor asked his chief of staff. He wanted to judge what the Wall Street barometer had to say about the political climate.

“Surprisingly good,” reported John Bernstein. “The Dow and NASDAQ are both up again. Some profit taking at Boeing after the 777 sales to the Chinese. Tech is soft.”

“Ford?”

Bernsie nodded his balding head. “Up more. GM, too.”

John Bernstein had been a friend, associate, and confidant since Taylor served in the Senate. He was ten years older than Morgan Taylor and much the political curmudgeon that most people could only take for short periods. But Bernstein was shrewd, knowledgeable, and daring. He ran the White House and had a direct line to corporate leaders across America. That made him an influential fund-raiser and a good pulse taker. The joke around Washington was that John Bernstein never slept. Just when people thought they were returning phone calls too late into the night to reach Bernsie, he would pick up. He was, in fact, the man Morgan Taylor relied on the most, even though they rarely agreed on anything. That was part of the attraction. He would willingly engage the president on policy and philosophy. Their differences made Taylor think twice about every critical governmental decision and three times on political ones.

Bernstein’s personal life was another matter. He was twice divorced, overweight by forty-five pounds, and ordinarily wearing fairly rumpled suits. His appearance, however, was part of his personal deception.

“But something feels wacky to me. There’s a lot of activity at Nestlé. Coke is going through the roof. PepsiCo, too. Apparently, the new distribution deals they were making in South America are beginning to pay off. Don’t know if it’s the cola wars or what, but why now?”

“The Latin market is huge.”

“I guess,” Bernsie said, not really willing to leave anything to a guess.

“Okay,” Taylor continued. “The fact that the stocks didn’t take a nose dive after the press conference was encouraging. Let’s keep a sharp eye on those sector leaders, though,” Taylor added.

“If there’s the hint of a blowback, I want to hear immediately.”

Bernsie agreed.

The president was ready to move on to other topics. He opened a new water bottle. He didn’t really have a favorite label. They were all the same to him. Furthermore, the White House chef didn’t play favorites. The shelves were stocked with Dasani, owned by Coca Cola, Arrowhead and Calistoga from Nestlé, and Pepsi’s Aquafina, which were all experiencing a run up in the stock market thanks to some insider trading.

Gaylord, Michigan

5 January

“One-oh-three point two. We’re going to work on getting that down, Mr. Mooney.” Dr. Sheila Gluckman noted the temperature in the patient’s chart.

“Well, give me what you need to give me,” replied the sixty-three-year-old farmer. “Then I gotta get going.” He started to stand up.

“Ah, not quite yet, Mr. Mooney. We need to check a few more things.

“Just the flu. Give me the prescription and…”

“Take your shirt off, please.” The hospital’s senior physician in internal medicine was quite insistent.

Mooney was not in the habit of going to doctors, let alone disrobing in front of a woman physician. He unbuttoned his red flannel shirt slowly, but left his shirt on.

Gluckman gave a reassuring smile. “All the way off.” She handled the man’s modesty well. “It’s easier to listen to your breathing.”

“I can breathe fine.”

“Good. Then it will only take a few moments.”

Mooney continued to unbutton and slipped his arms out the sleeves.

“The undershirt, too.”

It was almost comical until Gluckman saw the red blotches on the man’s chest. He winced as soon as the doctor’s stethoscope came in contact with his skin.

“Sorry,” she offered. “Now, breathe in and exhale quickly.”

Mooney did as asked. He had a hard time and coughed.

“Again. Big breath, then push it out.”

She didn’t like what she heard or saw. She returned to her desk and wrote more in the farmer’s chart.

“You got a prescription for me?”

“We’re going to try some things, Mr. Mooney. But I’m checking you in for more observation.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You really have to stay.” She explained why.

Montana

Interstate 15

Reality began to set in with Ricardo Perez. He was an illegal from El Salvador with no business in Montana. It might as well be the moon.

His clothes were charred. He had no way to get back to civilization except on foot. If he made it back, he’d need help. And money? The five thousand was gone, and he had only a few hundred crumpled bills in his pocket. Most of all, he didn’t have a reasonable story that would keep him out of trouble.

Ricardo Perez was weak, hungry, and lost. His own people had double-crossed him; sold him out. The hatred that burned through his veins had kept Ricardo Perez alive through his cold sleepless night.

He was supposed to die. He realized the bomb was intended to kill him. Like the driver of the other car, he was some sort of loose end.

If he ever made it to the main road and found help, he certainly couldn’t go to the police. Not with his poor English and gang tattoos. Not as an MS-13-30 member with a record. No doubt he’d be arrested and held for the death of the driver who got killed.

Mas opciones.
Perez couldn’t return to Houston; not easily. Probably not ever. Manuel Estavan, his gang leader, sold him out.
And for what? Hundreds? No
, he reasoned. He was worth more dead.
Thousands.

Why?
he wondered.

Perez gathered up everything that might keep him warm. A yard of fabric left from a smoldering blanket, even maps and papers that had been scattered from one explosion or the other. He stuffed them under his clothes and then wrapped everything else around him the best he could and hobbled back toward the road at first light.

Ricardo Perez had to find transportation, shelter, and food or he wouldn’t survive another night. As he walked, every step made him stronger rather than weaker. Every yard filled him with greater revenge.

He would make it. He just wished he had his gun. That was lost in the explosion.

The ride from Interstate 15 where Perez was supposed to die was twenty-two minutes. His walk back to the off-ramp, over the hills and against the wind, took five hours. The El Salvadorian was smart to have started early in the morning.

He reached the Interstate a little after 11:00 a.m. Now he needed a ride.
But to where?
Wherever he could find food and a warm place to sleep.

As he stood along the side of the road, with his thumb out, he remembered the first time he hitched into Santiago de Mara, El Salvador. That was merely ten years ago. Perez was a playful child looking to catch a fast ride into town to visit his uncle’s
groceria
. He thought of the handful of candies that would come his way along with the vegetables and chicken his mother sought.

That day an old beat-up Dodge truck stopped for him. It had been dark green before rust took over. Now it was basically down to the metal with replacement doors and bumpers lashed on. It spewed a cloud of deadly exhaust. But the driver wouldn’t die of lung cancer. “Need a lift?”

The young Ricardo knew he shouldn’t have gotten into the truck. From the moment the pickup pulled over and he had a good, hard look at the driver, he was scared. The 260-pound man behind the wheel reeked of a horrible combination of beer, sweat, and piss. The boy tensed, but there was no time for second thoughts. The driver locked the door and flashed a terrible, toothless, telling grin as he drove.

“Come here,” the fat man said, unbuckling his pants. The boy slid far right, into the smallest space, as far from the man as possible. Not small enough.

The driver grabbed the back of Perez’s head. Ricardo struggled, but the man was far too strong, too insistent, too drunk, too horny. Once the man had the boy where he wanted, he slowed the truck and then came to a stop farther down the dirt road.

Convinced he wouldn’t live through the next few minutes unless he did something, Perez suffered indignity for only a moment—enough for the man to lean back and close his eyes.

That’s when Ricardo Perez left his childhood behind forever. He pulled a switchblade from his right pants pocket—a present from his older brother.

He ended the crime in a most brutal, unforgiving manner. The slice from his switchblade was so quick, so surgical, that the man first thought he was feeling the delicious sensation of the boy’s mouth. But when Perez squirmed out of the vice-like hold, the rapist realized the warmth was blood pouring from his own crotch.

He looked up with utter dismay. His cock was in the boy’s hand.

Perez threw it at him and opened the passenger door. He scrambled out of the truck, fearing that the man would be on him in an instant.

Panicked screams reverberated from the truck. But Ricardo did not look back. He ran as fast as he could. Seconds later, he heard the pickup start again and steer over the gravel. The screams, mixed with an unholy litany of curses, came closer. The truck gained on him. Perez prayed as he scrambled up a hill. Yet, the faster he climbed, the faster he lost his footing in the dry dirt. He slipped and had to hold on to a rock in order not to slide under the truck.

The boy stood up, but he had nowhere to go. The truck was inches away. The boy looked into the most hate-filled eyes he’d ever seen. But they came no further. The truck began to slip on the loose soil, rolled backwards, picked up speed, and crashed into a tree.

The sharp whiplash broke the man’s neck. Ricardo Perez sat frozen for fifteen minutes. His life was changed forever. The last thing he did before leaving was to spit on the driver through the open window of the truck. The coyotes, bugs, and buzzards would do the rest.

Perez resumed his walk, far more grown-up than when he started. His knife was gone, but he felt he could kill anyone now.

That’s what he thought of as he crossed onto the Montana highway. The first dozen vehicles passed him by. An 18-wheeler signaled and pulled over. When the driver examined Perez, he saw that the haggard youth was covered with blood. He gunned the gas, and swerved back on the road.

A cold half hour later, another long-haul driver slowed to a stop. Perez cautiously walked toward the truck. When he was at the door, he looked in. The driver rolled down the window. He was fifty, maybe older. Perez really couldn’t judge.

“Well, you comin’ or not?” the man offered through a bad smile.

Perez tried to size him up. He’d done some hard living, but the man was soft-spoken.

“Up to you?” the man said.

Perez made a quick decision. He nodded. It looked safe, but nothing was safe.

“Okay,” Perez replied in his best English. He opened the door and climbed up. The semi was back in the speed lane seconds later.

Perez said nothing, but he studied the driver. He had a close-cropped beard, some sort of cowboy hat, and a checkered shirt and jeans under a long leather coat. His belly spread over his belt just like the man ten years ago.

“Looks like you’ve been to hell and back,” the driver noted.

Perez nodded.

“None of my business. Right?”

No response.

“That’s okay. You’re a little out of your element. Just tell me where you’re going.”

The young man didn’t really know. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, Helena’s up the line.”

When it was obvious that the young Hispanic didn’t know what he was talking about, the driver explained more. “Helena. Helena, Montana. A city. It ain’t big, and they haven’t seen a lot of people who look like you, but you’ll be able to get a good night’s sleep and some new clothes.”

After a moment’s thought, Perez spoke up. “Okay.”

The driver sized up his passenger more. “Don’t suppose you’d like a bite to eat?” He motioned to a cooler behind them. “Help yourself.”

Perez didn’t need a second invitation. He was hungrier than memory allowed. And thirsty. The driver also offered him a bottle of water, which he took without complaint. After that, the one-sided conversation got even quieter.

Sixty minutes later, the driver pulled his truck up to a gas station. He opened his door and started out, then leaned back in. “There’s a bus station down the street. Just before the next light. You might want to know it’s near a police station, though.” He said it like a warning.

The man turned to pump gas and tipped his hat to his passenger. Perez opened his door and looked up and down the street. Then he walked around to the back where the driver was and said two words he hadn’t said to anyone in a decade.

“Thank you.”

Moscow

Tonight, he’d start at Cult at 5 Ulitsa Yauzskaya. This was Gomenko’s favorite watering hole. The bar was housed in the basement of a liquor store; full of noise and the intoxicating mixture of the cheap vodka and heavy smoke from the imported Lucky Strikes. He opened the red door and stepped in.

The bartender welcomed him. “Arkady! Come in!”

Unlike many of the other establishments, where the help changed with the seasons, Cult had its regulars on both sides of the bar. Gomenko decided on a stool dead midway along the bar opposite the largest assortment of vodka bottles in all Moscow.

The bartender, an ex-Russian paratrooper named Igor Solchev, often set up dates for Gomenko. Never hookers. But they also weren’t sexy young secretaries looking to get laid. It was more likely they were divorced, mid-to-late forties, horny, and hoping. All Arkady’s speed. He didn’t want a relationship. He wanted a good fuck. Anything more than that would get in the way. When he had enough money saved, maybe then he would try to settle down again. At least another year or two of pushing papers for Yuri Ranchenkov by day and bar hopping at night.

Solchev gave Arkady a high sign from his side of the bar. “Good to see you, Arkady.”

“And you, my friend.”

“The usual?” Forty-proof Dovgan on the rocks.

“Please.”

Solchev poured the drink and leaned forward. “To your left. At the end,” he whispered. “The brunette. She’s been here for almost an hour. I mentioned I had a friend.”

“Oh?” Arkady asked.

Arkady raised his eyebrow. He liked what he saw. “Thank you.” He slapped a few bills down and slowly walked along the bar.

Solchev smiled. Cash tips made living in today’s Russia so much easier. Gomenko was very good to him.

The not-so casual repositioning was noted by a sports fan at a table behind him. He never had eye contact with the man, but he saw everything in the mirror. The conversation with the bartender, the more than ample tip slapped down before the bill came. The nods and smiles. And now the conversation being struck between the Gucci saleswoman and the FSB researcher. He knew what she did. He’d overheard her talking to the bartender. And he certainly knew what Gomenko did. That’s why he was there.

The White House

“How do you rate this report of Bessolo’s?” President Taylor asked.

“Scary,” FBI chief Robert Mulligan said. General Johnson, Jack Evans, Norman Grigoryan, and John Bernstein listened. “Thanks to FERET, we’ve got a number of very clear photographs that link up to a couple of identities for this character. Abdul Hassan for one. Aka Musof al-Mihdhar is another. Forget the name on his passport. It was forged for the trip. But the first name, his real name, matches up with a Syrian geologist.”

“A geologist runs from customs agents?” the president asked.

“There’s more,” Mulligan continued. “Look at this picture. It’s enlarged from the original. See the three men we’ve circled?” The FBI chief handed it to the president. It would eventually work its way around to everyone.

“Spectators at a soccer game at Westfalenstadion Stadium in Dortmund, Germany. But not just any fans. Abdul Hassan is on the left. Next to him, we have a positive hit on a Saudi biologist and a possible ID on the third. Another chemist out of Hamburg. These guys are all scientists. What’s most disturbing, customs posts in Miami and Atlanta recorded their entry into the United States ten days ago. But with no reason to stop them then, they all cleared without a problem.”

“So, we’ve got an invasion of geeks,” piped in John Bernstein, the president’s resident contrarian. “I mean, three middle-aged eggheads. Come on.”

Bernstein pretty well described himself. The group laughed except for Taylor and General Johnson. The national security advisor brought the room back to reality with a sharp reminder. “One of those eggheads killed a father at the airport. That means everyone we can connect him with has to be considered dangerous and deadly, too.”