[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (33 page)

I was strapped in about the third row from the back, the only passenger, when Danny called on the sat phone. He told me I was famous—the SEALs had just rescued me in Yemen.

“And how did they do that?” I asked.

“Apparently you were kidnapped while sightseeing,” he said. “The word went out, and the navy came to the rescue. Couldn’t let the father of SEAL Team Six suffer, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. They haven’t officially identified the unit that grabbed you, but everyone knows who it was, nod-nod, wink-wink. Great human interest story. Blah-blah-blah.”

It was a good story, so good in fact that it left out al-Yasur, the power struggle, drugs, and the money trail. By the time I returned to the States two days later, the story had been enhanced, emboldened, and embroidered. Everyone but the White House janitor took credit for rescuing me. Everyone except for Six, which did the real work. Sound familiar?

Hello,
Good Morning America
and Bill O’Reilly. I was victim and father figure rolled into one.

The president wanted to have lunch. I respectfully declined, citing a prior engagement. You know how important teeth cleanings are.

*   *   *

Abdi returned to Mogadishu. The money we forwarded to his account at the bank there has been put to good use expanding the restaurant.

Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that he will be successful, let alone that the city or country he lives in will survive the painful hell it’s going through.

But then I’m told there are no guarantees in life except for death and taxes.

*   *   *

It took me about a week to get past the hubbub, and even then it only died down because one of the Kardashians was rumored to have punched out the favorite on
American Idol.
It was at that point that I arranged to have cocktails with the admiral.

Our sessions are always informal, and always held at locales where neither of us is likely to be recognized—God forbid the world knew that the head of the CIA deigns to talk to Demo Dick.

This session was held at a bar about thirty minutes away from Rogue Manor. The place had a heavy firemen theme, which may have been why it was called Firemen’s Bar. That may also explain why it had a ladder truck in the middle of the main barroom.

The admiral was lucky it wasn’t a pumper; I would have used it to hose him down. He came expecting trouble—usually he travels to our sessions alone, but in this case he had two of his bodyguard types sitting at a table within eyesight, undoubtedly with orders to shoot to kill if things got out of hand.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dick,” he said as he walked behind the truck to get to the table where I was waiting. “You weren’t a patsy. We might have used you, but—”

“
Might
?”

“Possibly.”

“You lied to me.”

“No. I withheld key information. Very different.”

“Fuck you very much.”

Our waitress approached. The strategically placed suspenders were cute, but I thought the fire helmet a bit much. The admiral ordered a light beer. I went with another Bombay Sapphire.

“You have to admit, you got yourself involved,” said the admiral. “I didn’t send you there. Magoo was very careful in what he let out. I knew if we laid out a few crumbs, you’d fill in the blanks. You put everything together. Tell me this: if I’d asked you to set up al-Yasur, would you have?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Sure it is. You went to rescue Garrett Taylor because you felt you owed his old man.”

“Was that part of your setup?”

“Hell no. You ruined that. Magoo wanted to rake you over the coals for that. I suggested that we come up with a way to use it. He did. You should be thanking him.”

“Tell him not to hold his breath.”

The waitress returned with our drinks and a large platter of the bar’s snack specialties—Pick-axe Pretzels, Five-Alarm Chili, Blazing Nachos, you get the drill.

“The owner loves your books,” whispered the waitress as she set them down. “So does my boyfriend.”

“Thanks.”

“See? You should be thanking me,” said the admiral. “Think of all the money I’ve saved you in bar tabs alone. Hell, you’ll never have to pay for a meal in this country again.”

“Garrett set me up?” I asked.

“No. Garrett passed along information that was legit, that he thought was legit, from Magoo. Magoo knew he’d talk—Mr. Garrett clearly has the hots for one of your people. Trace Dahlgren, I assume. He doesn’t go for guys.”

Having the hots for one of the guys would have been a lot safer. Trace was convinced he’d used her. I wouldn’t want to be his life insurance agent.
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“If you were sure I would have helped, why didn’t you ask?”

“Because knowing you, Dick, you would have left nothing to chance. And that means that instead of spending the past week smiling knowingly but admitting nothing at diplomatic receptions, the State Department would have been fending off a dozen UN resolutions and on my butt about the Geneva Convention.”

“That’s the one that says prisoners are allowed one beer a week, right?”

He didn’t think that was very funny. “Why are you complaining? You got you all sorts of publicity.”

“I don’t need publicity in my line of work.”

“Bull. It helps you sell books. It helps your company. Besides, it gave you a chance to work with SEAL Team Six—you’ve been telling people you’re a proud papa, and here was some proof.”

“Making me look like a dumb tourist who stumbled into trouble didn’t exactly boost my image.”

“Who believes that? Every blog I’ve seen hints that you were on some sort of top-secret mission, which we’d all read about in your next book. Right? Right?”

It took two more refills and another plate of nachos before we agreed to disagree. My actual purpose in coming to the meeting was to find out if the bank had been involved in the admiral’s little plan to take out al-Yasur. His comments to that point seemed to say no. Of course, having just been played, I couldn’t trust anything the admiral said or implied. We talked in generalities for a while, then he surprised me.

“We’ve been having trouble with some of our operations in the region,” said Jones, swirling his drink. “Almost as if al Qaeda and the other bad actors have been tipped off.”

“Is your operation compromised?”

“I don’t think so. But that was another reason we had to be … circumspect in your case.”

“I assume you’re trying to figure out what’s going on,” I told him.

“You might say that.”

“And you don’t need help from me.”

“Internal matter. But it is nice to know there’s someone outside the agency I can count on.”

That’s about as close as the admiral has ever come—and will ever come—to a compliment. My feelings were somewhat assuaged by his offer to pay for our expenses in Africa as a token of his gratitude. And of course he did the usual contract dangling—the next job would be bigger, better, bloodier, etc.

“What about the drug operation?” I asked.

“We hit all the connections to Allah’s Rule. Most of them weren’t part of the movement.”

“You’re calling it a movement now?”

“A bowel movement.” He smiled. “See? I can make a Rogue Warrior joke. Maybe I’ll write my own books.”

The bootleg factory in Bangladesh had been shut down as well. The admiral wasn’t particularly interested in the prescription drug angle. As far as he was concerned, medicine in the States cost too much money, and the only losers were the pharmaceutical companies, who deserved to lose. He didn’t see the terrorists as a big beneficiary, another point on which we disagreed.

I made a few hints about the bank, but didn’t get explicit enough for him to figure it out. By the time we said good-bye, we were back to our relationship of friendly antagonism.

I called Veep later that afternoon and gave him a preliminary report, noting that the CIA had closed down Allah’s Rule and therefore “tentatively” it looked like there were no other compromised bank accounts. He was happy to hear that—so happy that he promised to cut Red Cell International a check immediately.

“You can hold off until the final report’s done,” I told him. “We still have some t’s to dot and i’s to cross.”

It pained me to say that, and not just because I was purposely making a bad joke to divert his attention from the fact that I was arranging to remain in the bank’s employ. Turning down a promise of cash in hand is only slightly less painful than one of Mongoose’s kicks to the throat.

Nor did we have anything in the offing that would guarantee to increase our fee. Ten days of trying to penetrate the bank’s computer records had failed to get Shunt any tangible evidence of embezzlement. Shunt had also gone nowhere with his attempts to make connections to the drug company.

But the connection between the bank and Allah’s Rule still bugged me. While I’d made a case to the admiral that I wasn’t altruistic and that I didn’t do things because they were the right thing to do, in this case, Red Cell International was continuing to look into the American International Bank because … it was the right thing to do.

In the past, terror organizations became what the accountants call “cost effective” by necessity—they spend very little to blow up very much. The USS
Cole
bombing is a good example. Depending on how you figure it, the average U.S. Navy destroyer costs in the area of $1.8 billion to build and launch. The average speedboat capable of carrying some seven hundred pounds of explosive runs two hundred thousand if it’s fresh out of the showroom, waxed and shined. A terrorist on a budget can pick something up for much less. The cost of explosives
might
be as high as twenty bucks a pound if you use the good stuff.

The human cost multiplier is even more ferocious—figure two bombers in the boat, against seventeen dead aboard the
Cole,
with another thirty-nine injured.

The math is fierce. But what happens if you give the terrorists a lot more money than they’re used to operating with. They’re not going to spend the money on building a big destroyer; they’re going to stick with what they know, and buy a lot more speedboats.

You were worried about Freddie Mac going bankrupt or the euro collapsing?

It’s one thing for terrorists to use a drug network to fund their operation; there are inherent risks involved, and police agencies have another way of getting at them. But working with a bank to stabilize and extend their finances could put tangos, al Qaeda affiliated or not, in an entirely new category.

Flip the problem around: imagine a banker with his own private terror group. Oh wait, that’s what Congress is for.

Admittedly, I didn’t have any real evidence. Banks have been duped by drug dealers since rolling papers were invented, and terrorists have used them to move money since the silk trade. So when Shunt hit a cyber-brick wall and Danny suggested we follow our bank security expert in hopes that something would turn up, I agreed. The day before my meeting with the admiral, I’d told Danny we’d follow Veep for a week and then reevaluate.

Danny put together a mix of some of our younger bulls to man the surveillance squad. Among the people he wanted to use was Junior.

I wasn’t entirely sure of Junior’s mental state, given what I had seen in Bangladesh. I talked with Danny extensively about what had gone on and what I had seen. The crux of the conversations was a question both simple and devilishly tricky: Did Junior belong as a shooter, or should he be moved to the bank bench?

Personnel evaluations are never handled by just one person. While I have the final call—the “buck stops here” theorem—it takes a number of people to really get a good perspective not just on how someone is performing, but how they fit in with the group. Knowing their mental state and how they may (or may not) handle stress is absolutely critical to a smoothly operating team, and it’s not something that one person can decide. I’ve learned to rely on people like Danny, Trace, and Doc for their opinions.

Of course, every so often they give the green light to fruitcakes like Shotgun and Mongoose, but none of us are perfect.

Danny’s assessment was that Junior had changed—he was quieter, more to himself. What that really meant in terms of dealing with pressure remained to be seen.

“Let him work with me for a while,” suggested Danny. “There’ll be some pressure, but it won’t be life or death. I’ll watch him closely, stick nearby, and we’ll see how he does. I think he’d be more relaxed with me than with you. No father-son thing.”

I couldn’t argue with any of that, and in fact I thought it was a good idea. But when I told Junior about it over the phone, he reacted as if he were being fired.

“You’re pulling me out of the field,” were the first words out of his mouth. These were followed by a string of adjectives and adverbs that aren’t included in most grammar school dictionaries.

“I’m not pulling you out,” I told him. “Danny needs help.”

“I was supposed to go on an op with Sean
35
in Iran,” he said. “You’re taking me off that to do this.”

“This is where I need you.”

“At home. Under your thumb. Send Mongoose or Shotgun.”

“You’re under Danny’s thumb. And you’re still a trainee. You’re still learning the ropes. Don’t go comparing yourself to people who have more experience.”

“I’ve been on ops. Important ops. If it weren’t for me, Cuba would have been a total goatfuck. India—we would never have figured that out.
36
So I’m more than just a new guy. I’ve earned something. More than just hanging out trailing people. Damn, Dad—that’s gofer work.”

I let him vent for a while. I don’t want anyone on the team who doesn’t want to be in the middle of the action, and following a banker around New York City isn’t exactly the bleeding edge. But dissent has its limits; Red Cell International is
not
a democracy.

“I need you to work with Danny. End of story.”

“You think I lost my cool because of what happened with that kid and the guard,” said Junior. He was so mad he was having trouble getting the words out of his mouth. “You think I can’t handle pressure. That bastard deserved to die. I did what you would have done.”