The Polaris Protocol (21 page)

T
he
sicario
finished taping Booth’s ankles to the metal rod he’d broken from the towel rack, pinning them to the bar. He pulled the feet until they hung over the bathtub, then taped the bar to the ceramic edge. Now stretched out like a calf for slaughter, his hands chained to a cast-iron pipe that jutted out from under the sink, Booth began to writhe up and down, but he’d waited too long. His eyes wild, he grunted through the gag in his mouth, only growing still when the
sicario
turned to face him, a demonic vision that caused instant compliance.

“You understand the reason I have you like this, correct?”

Booth shook his head violently side to side.

“I want to know who those men were who chased us. What they represent. I don’t expect you to tell me the truth right away, but you will. Everyone does when I start peeling the soles of the feet. It’s very, very painful.”

The
sicario
pointed to a bottle of bleach on the counter. “I prefer the bathtub because it’s much easier to clean. The bleach flushes all traces of blood down the drain, but I’m told it burns like fire on open wounds.”

A low moan escaped Booth’s throat, barely penetrating the rag stuffed in his mouth. The
sicario
jerked it out and said, “Well?”

“I have no idea! Please, dear God, I don’t know. Why would I? I’m from America! Maybe they’re friends of Carlos! You killed him. Not me.”

“If that’s true, then there was no reason to bring you here. I should have left you dead like the other man on the roof.”

After shooting their way clear of the team following them, the
sicario
had dragged Booth down a rickety flight of metal stairs to a balcony and pushed him through into a shabby apartment. The family inside never even saw the pistol in his hand. They took one look at his visage and disappeared into another room.

They reached the street unmolested. The
sicario
jabbed Booth in the kidney with the barrel of his weapon, pushing him back into the crowded market. Burrowing through the mass of people, they left the street vendors behind and entered a warehouse district. The
sicario
saw two men carrying a pallet toward a dingy, beat-up van and waited until they’d finished loading. When one moved to the driver’s door, he approached and did nothing more than show his pistol. The men fled, running down the street toward the market. He’d thrown Booth in the back, spending a minute tying his hands with loose cord. Satisfied Booth couldn’t interfere, he’d driven to a run-down hotel five miles away.

While he weaved through the traffic the gunfight had spun relentlessly in his head, rattling around like a loose marble in a can. Initially, when the shooting started, he’d thought it was a setup by the Koreans, but they’d allowed him to leave without incident, instead sending men to the gunfire in the market. They’d also seemed genuinely pleased at the car he’d brought, along with the loot.

That meant it was someone from Sinaloa or Los Zetas, but the man and woman on the roof were gringos, and the woman could
shoot
. The people chasing him had skill. They had reminded him of his Special Forces unit in Guatemala, one calmly firing while another moved under protection. He’d never seen such a thing with the brutish killers employed by Sinaloa and instinctively knew there was no way it was a cartel. It was something else.

Which left the fat gringo taped to the bathtub.

The
sicario
said, “You gave me the answer I expected. All that remains is to see how much I peel before you tell me the truth.”

He pulled a folding straight razor from his pocket and opened it, watching for a reaction. His captive saw the blade and began trembling as if he were having a seizure, causing the chain on his hands to rattle against the pipe. He fixated on the blade; then his eyes rolled back in his head and his body grew still.

The
sicario
sat back and tapped the razor against his palm, considering. While he had no compunction about mutilating the man, such work was tiring and messy, and should be done only with a purpose in mind. He knew the power torture held and had used it many times to elicit confessions. In this case, he needed real information, and the time and trouble of the work had to be measured against what he would gain. The gringo clearly had never been in any bit of danger in his entire soft life. The sight of the blade alone caused him to pass out, like a woman seeing blood.

But that may mean nothing.

He stuffed the rag back into Booth’s mouth, then filled a glass with water and splashed it into his face. When Booth awoke, he rolled left and right as if he was confused, then saw the
sicario
standing over him. He began to shriek through the gag. The
sicario
raised his finger to his lips, and Booth went silent. The
sicario
removed the rag.

“You ready to tell me what I want to know?”

Booth began crying, weeping so hard his lungs starting hitching, the tears mixing with his sweat and the phlegm rolling from his nose. He choked out, “All I came here to do was to give up the POLARIS protocol. I don’t know anything about what’s going on between your cartels. I don’t know who those people shooting at us were. I met Carlos in Colorado. He was supposed to pay me money if I gave him the protocol, but you killed him. You can have it. You take it. Just let me go.”

The
sicario
gazed down at the blubbering mass of humanity and decided he was telling the truth. He’d heard what Carlos had discussed with the three men from the airport. He knew Carlos was trying to sell what this man was bringing. Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with drugs, which raised doubt in his mind that the man and woman who chased them were working with Booth.

Why would the US government set up some elaborate sting in Mexico for something that had none of the trappings of the drug trade? No guns, no precursor chemicals, no transfer of aircraft or boats, and certainly no actual drugs. Just some weird protocol that was worth money to foreigners. It was too complex a trap even for the Americans, and this man was clearly way out of his league. He didn’t even pretend to know a script to recite.

It didn’t answer the question about the team who had chased them, but ultimately that didn’t matter. Time was all that counted now. The quicker he began his run to America, the better. He had captured Booth for the cash he represented, but in so doing he had somehow drawn the focus of another group. Leaving behind all of this as soon as he could gave him his surest chance of survival, even without any money. It was too bad for Booth, but at least the
sicario
would now make it painless. If anything, Booth should have felt thankful that he didn’t experience the flaying of his feet before he died.

The
sicario
peeled the tape from the bathtub, leaving Booth’s ankles trapped on the towel rod, then unlocked his hands from the sink pipe, cinching the handcuffs behind Booth’s back once he was done. Booth did nothing to resist, simply staring at the
sicario
with wide eyes. He rotated the body around and hoisted him into the tub, grunting with the exertion of getting Booth’s pudgy carcass over the edge.

He dropped Booth on his back in the tub, his head against the far side and his legs bent at the knees, his feet hanging over the edge and touching the tile of the bathroom floor. The
sicario
moved his head until it was resting near the drain, then raised the straight razor. Booth began grunting through the gag, twisting his head side to side.

The
sicario
hesitated, then pulled the rag from his mouth, a string of drool trailing from the cloth to his lip.

“You have something you wish to tell me?”

“Yes! Yes! Please don’t do this. I came because Carlos asked. I understand he was your enemy, but that doesn’t make me the same. Please. You kill me and you lose the POLARIS protocol. My laptop is encrypted. I am the only one who can work it.”

The
sicario
gazed at his beast for slaughter, considering, then grabbed the hair of the head and twisted until the neck was exposed. Booth began shrieking, “You wanted money from the BMW, but you didn’t get it. Sell the protocol! Sell it! You kill me and you’re killing more money than you would
ever
have!”

The
sicario
paused again. The sacrificial lamb was only trying to save his miserable life, but what he said was true. He’d lost all money for the journey north with the interrupted transfer of the BMW and other trinkets he’d taken from the Zetas house. The only things he had were the two bundles of bills from the office, and that would last about a month, provided he lived frugally. He’d heard Carlos talking about a great deal of cash for the purchase of the protocol. Maybe a day or two to investigate would be worth it, even with the mysterious team on the loose.

“Where is this transfer? How was Carlos going to sell it?”

Booth’s eyes grew wet, and his head lolled to the side in defeat. “I don’t know. Please, I don’t know. All I did was bring the protocol. Carlos was supposed to pay me outright, but you killed him. He was going to sell it to someone else, but he knew all that, and he’s dead. Please, please, don’t kill me. I don’t
know. . . .
”

Waste of time.
But the
sicario
hesitated still. He had hunted men who had taken great care to survive, and he had always proven the precautions they took were worthless. He had been given hard targets with nothing more to go on than a photograph and had brought the head home dripping from the neck. All of those men had been Mexican. People who understood the terrain and how to hide. People who knew they
needed
to hide. Not like the three foreigners. He had a great deal of information from the meeting with Carlos, and he knew he could find them again.

The
sicario
put away his razor. “You will show me how to work this protocol. You will give me the keys to unlock it. Understand?”

Booth nodded over and over again. “Yes, of course. It’s all yours. I’ll show you everything about it . . . then you’ll let me go?”

“Perhaps. But, to maintain our relationship of honesty, I’ll most likely kill you tomorrow.”

K
urt said, “We’re going to need the entire council for a decision. I’ve got a thread to work, but it’s unorthodox, to say the least.”

Alexander Palmer said, “Look, give us what you have and I’ll determine if it’s worth bringing the president and everyone else back into a room.”

Kurt had already sent a report on the safe rescue of Jack, along with a preliminary analysis of what he knew. Since then, Pike had done a thorough debrief and the Taskforce had translated what was on the digital recorder that Jack’s kidnapper had taken.

Kurt said, “Here’s what I know right now: Jack went with the kidnapper—we’re calling him Baldy—on two separate occasions to the Mexico City international airport. His purpose was to identify a Caucasian man who was bringing some software package down to Mexico to sell to the Sinaloa cartel. Both times he was unable to complete the identification. On the second visit, Jack’s original kidnapper—a man named Carlos—showed up at the airport and met three men. When the Caucasian smuggler didn’t show for reasons unknown, Baldy decided to follow Carlos and recorded a meeting in a park with the three unknown subjects. They discussed something called the POLARIS protocol, which is apparently an undetermined method to defeat our GPS constellation. Some time later Baldy took Jack back to the airport, where he was able to identify the Caucasian smuggler. Baldy followed him to a meeting with Carlos, where he was apparently going to transfer the protocol. Baldy interrupted the meeting, killed Carlos, and took the Caucasian with the protocol. Pike managed to track their location and rescue Jack, but lost Baldy and the man with the protocol. These are the facts that we know right now.”

The director of the CIA said, “So it’s a real thing? Someone has the ability to interdict our GPS constellation?”

“Yes, apparently. Unfortunately, he’s still loose in Mexico, in the hands of the Zetas drug cartel, either willingly or as a captive.”

“Who were the three men Carlos met in the park? Who’s trying to get it? Another drug cartel?”

Kurt shook his head. “No. It’s much worse than that.”

The secretary of defense leaned back and rubbed his face, saying, “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

Kurt said, “I guarantee you don’t. Baldy took a recording of the meeting with Carlos using a directional microphone, and it came in crystal clear. Most of the conversation is in English, discussing monetary terms for transfer. Some time during the meeting Carlos left, and the three men began discussing the purchase of the protocol. In Arabic.”

The D/CIA said, “Are you telling me it’s the Hezbollah crew? They’re tied into this?”

“I can’t confirm one way or the other, but the Arabic translation indicates that, yes, they’re working for Hezbollah. They discuss bringing another man in. A money guy, and they talk about him as if he’s from a different organization. They say he’s coming from Waziristan, Pakistan, which indicates al-Qaeda. Because they mention the organization being different from theirs, it means they
aren’t
al-Qaeda. Which, understandably, could mean a hundred other Arabic terrorist organizations, but given the Hezbollah team movement the CIA tracked, I’m betting it’s them.”

The SECDEF exclaimed, “Are you saying we have a Hezbollah crew that’s working
with
al-Qaeda? And they’re both going to get this protocol?”

“Whoa,” said Palmer, “Hezbollah is Shiite. AQ is Sunni. Why would they cooperate? They’re on the opposite sides of the fight in Syria, so why would they be on the same side here?”

Kurt said, “Well, they
have
cooperated in the past, but in this case, it looks like the usual animosity is still in play. Apparently, the guy coming is a moneyman for AQ, and he thinks he’s getting the protocol for use against our drones in Pakistan. Hezbollah wants his bankroll, but on the tape they talk about using him to buy the protocol, then killing him because they want to keep the protocol for themselves. They know we’ll figure out how to defeat it given enough time, and they don’t want some backwoods Taliban bullshit triggering it too early. They want it for their Iranian masters in case we strike them. To give them an edge in the fight.”

The principals committee sat in stunned silence for a moment, then began talking among themselves, ignoring Kurt, the chatter rising as the implications settled in. The secretary of defense, arguing with the secretary of state, finally exclaimed, “You don’t get it! It gives them more than an edge. It’ll even up the fight at any time. They don’t have the reliance on GPS that we do. Our systems depend on it, and losing it means much more to us than them. It’ll put our force back to Vietnam. Maybe worse, because we’ve ditched all the Vietnam-era equipment.”

The secretary of state said, “But surely we can find it. Get rid of it like a computer virus at home. Right? I mean, we know it’s there now.”

“I hope we can. But hope is not a method. It’s just that: hope. We don’t know how it works, so we’re having trouble finding it. Boeing and Second SOPS have been going around the clock since this started and found nothing. The software upgrades are all clean. Nothing’s standing out, and we might have to wait until it’s triggered to find out how it works. Because of that, we’ll have to take the damn thing into account for any military operation. Prepare for not being able to access GPS in every OPLAN we have.”

The D/CIA said, “Operation Gimlet. What do we do about that? We only get one shot, and if the GPS is disrupted, it won’t work.”

Kurt said, “What’s Gimlet?”

Palmer held up his hand. “Nothing. Not Taskforce business.”

“Screw it,” said the SECDEF, “read him on. He deserves to know what’s at stake.”

Palmer looked at the D/CIA, who nodded. He said, “We have an asset deep in the Syrian army. He’s tasked with placing a beacon on the chemical-weapons stockpiles hidden around the country. Gimlet is the operation to take them out. We need to have precise locational data because some of the munitions are hidden in urban areas. Others are in hardened underground bunkers, requiring a precision strike with massive ordnance.”

Jesus. So that’s why they were pushing so hard. Why they’re willing to risk the cover. Hezbollah gets POLARIS, and Gimlet ends up in disaster.
Kurt said, “What’s the timeline?”

“Most of the beacons are in place. The asset is conducting a tour of the facilities and has two left. The problem is the beacons only have a battery life of five days, and the asset will not get the ability to execute a second time. We don’t even know if the munitions will be in the same place a week from now. We’re set to execute in forty-eight hours, right before the beacons begin shutting down, but without GPS we’re not going to be able to. We can’t afford to end up slaughtering a bunch of civilians, or worse, only incinerating half of a target and releasing the other half of the nerve gas on the population.”

What a mess. But it makes this sell a little easier.

Palmer said, “So, now you know. We’ve got a critical operation in play, and it’s time-sensitive. What’s your next step? Do you have anything on Baldy or the Hezbollah guys?”

Kurt said, “No. Nothing. No phone numbers, locations, or anything else, and Mexico City is one of the biggest cities on earth. We could spend ten years there and get nowhere without a lead.”

“So you’re saying we’re screwed? All this time spent on building the capability, all this effort developing a super-secret surgical strike force, and we’re now helpless?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying. Pike has an idea, but it’s pretty extreme. Like I said, we’re going to need the full council for this decision.”

“Well, spit it out. I’ll determine if the president calls a council meeting.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “The potential killing of the AQ courier is an edge for us. We know the name he’s using from the recording, which means we can locate him when he flies and take him out.”

“What good will that do? He doesn’t have the protocol. The Hezbollah guys will still get it.”

“You remember the Ghost? The terrorist we captured in Dubai?”

“The guy who tried to kill our Middle East envoy?”

“Yeah. Pike thinks we can use him. Get him involved to help us.”

“What? How the hell can he help? Isn’t he in the Cloud?”

“Yeah, he is. Pike wants to take out the AQ courier and inject the Ghost. Have him go to the meeting with Baldy and the Hezbollah guys. They’ve never met, so they won’t know the difference, and the Ghost can talk terrorism like a master. He can lead us to the meeting, then we take them all out.”

Kurt saw nothing but shock at the idea. Palmer said, “Are you saying you want to use a terrorist we captured to penetrate another terrorist cell?”

Kurt smiled. “Does this meet the criteria for a council meeting? Like I said, it’s out of the box, but in my mind, it’s the best chance we have. Unorthodox, I know. But that’s it.”

“How on earth are you going to get him to agree?”

“That’ll be up to Pike.”