Nate had seen him go into the building—had actually looked into the son of a bitch’s expressionless brown eyes, he recalled—before it had vanished in a huge fireball. While they had uncovered evidence of an underground escape tunnel, there was no evidence that anyone had used it, and it was presumed that al-Kharzi had been vaporized along with the other terrorists. However, as Nate stared at a copy of the terrorist’s wanted poster, he saw a familiar name among the known aliases al-Kharzi used—Arsalan Hejazi.
Nate checked the date of the sent e-mail. Three months ago. He leaned back in his chair, absorbing the information. Flipping through the rest of the e-mails didn’t reveal an answer from the mysterious Yousef, nor any more communication from al-Kharzi, Hejazi or whatever he might be calling himself nowadays.
Nate got up and headed to Robertson’s office. His superior was on the phone, and held up a finger while he finished. “Yes, sir…no, everything was done by the book.
There won’t be anything of the sort. Yes, sir, I will, sir.
Thank you, sir. Goodbye.” He hung up the phone and frowned at Nate. “If that’s your report, it’s the fastest typing I’ve ever seen from you.”
“Yeah, you’ll have that soon enough. Look, I found something in the evidence from the bust, and wanted you to have a look.” He placed the printed e-mail on Robertson’s desk.
His boss picked it up and scanned the brief message.
“And?”
“Arsalan is an alias for Sepehr al-Kharzi, the terrorist.”
“Yeah—isn’t he the one that died in the warehouse explosion last year. So?”
“This e-mail is only three months old,” Nate pointed out.
“So one of his cronies has picked up his handle, trying to make people believe he’s still alive. You know this happens all the time, Nate,” Robertson said.
Nate put his hands on the desk and leaned forward.
“This doesn’t feel like a fake, Roy. My gut tells me this is the real thing. They’re talking about some mission, and one of the addresses was here in El Paso. And look at this parts list—including plutonium. I think he’s still out there, and still planning something.”
Robertson rubbed his hands over his face. “Shut the door, Nate, and take a seat.”
He complied and returned to the battered chair in front of the chief’s desk. “Look, we’ve just lost three agents in the last twenty-four hours—”
“What, who were the other two? What happened?”
Nate asked.
“Early this morning, Agents Morton and Delaney were killed in the line of duty by unknown persons, who also seem to have massacred at least twenty illegals.”
“Jesus, why ain’t I workin’that case right now?” Nate said.
“Dammit, Nate, you know you’re on administrative leave until your case is cleared. The person I was talking with on the phone was the deputy commissioner, straight outta D.C. Now, I’ve kept as tight a lid as possible on that illegal incident, but the shit’s about to hit the fan, and we’re all standing downwind. What I need from you right now is cooperation, and your word that the auto-parts bust went down legally and by the book.”
“Hell, yeah, it went by the book—the book that says agents will defend themselves when they are fired upon.
Menendez got killed, and Ryan is in the hospital right now as a result of our ‘by-the-book’ bust.”
“Right, and the drugs you recovered is the kind of press we need right now to counter this slaughter in the desert. If too much of a big deal is made out of that, everyone’s going to think we’re doing a worse job than some people already do. Our stats are up where it counts in all areas, but it just takes one of these incidents to blow out of proportion, and no one remembers the twenty good things we do every day—they just see the one operation that went wrong.”
“Yeah, I get that ‘the press is our best friend and worst enemy at the same time’ BS. Look, Roy, you know how wide-open the border is, even with the additional men and the National Guard people we have. A lot of guys think that it’s only a matter of time before someone sneaks something more lethal than immigrants through, and this could be it.
Do you want that to go down on your watch?”
“Jesus, Nate, you know that’s not fair—I’m doin’ everything I can, but the government wants us to do more with less every day, and I can’t have my men chasing down cold leads just because your gut says something’s going on.” He held up his hand to forestall Nate’s protest. “Look, there’s nowhere I’d rather have you be than out in the field, but that just ain’t gonna happen right now. If you say the bust went down clean, then I’m sure the clearance team will come to the same conclusion. But you know the drill—shots were fired and one of our guys died. Since those incidents with that pair of illegals a couple years ago—where he got shot in the ass, then turned around and sued us—”
“Putting two of our agents in jail for no goddamn reason, too,” Nate gripped.
“Yeah, that too. Anyway, the brass has been breathing down our necks about executing clean operations, and we need to do that as best as we can. So do me a favor—finish your report and get out of here. The minute you can come back, I’ll let you know.”
Nate ran a hand through his crew-cut, salt-and-pepper hair and sighed. “You’re the boss.” He rose and walked back into the office, only to find Travis leaning against his desk.
“Looks like ol’ Shootin’ Spencer was the one who got tagged this time.” Travis smirked as Nate walked around him and sat down.
“If I’d wanted any more shit from you, Travis, I’d squeeze that big greasy pustule you call a head and see what came squirtin’ out. Now get the hell out of here. I got work to do.”
Travis stuck his face right next to Nate’s. “Yeah, you get back to your real important report, buddy. Me, I’m headin’ out to work that slaughter case in the desert. I just wanted to tell you personally. Have fun holdin’ down the fort.”
Nate stared at the retreating back as Travis swaggered out of the office, willing the punk-ass agent to drop dead with his next step, but to no avail. The office was almost deserted, with only a few agents still finishing up their paperwork. Nate blew a breath out and dug in, as well, peck-ing out his report with two fingers on the ancient computer he had been handed down from God knew where. At least the damn thing had e-mail, although it was balky and slower than hell. He finished his report, then leaned back in his chair and snuck a peek at Robertson, who was still working at his own desk.
Nate considered his options.
He found the copies of the e-mails on his computer and attached the one from Arsalan, along with his thoughts on it, in a message to the Department of Homeland Security.
He hoped they’d give it to an analyst who’d be able to think at least halfway outside of the box. But this is going to Washington—what are the odds? he wondered. He shrugged and hit Enter, shaking his head as the message flashed into cyberspace.
“My God, some days working here is just like any other large corporation, except we’re supposed to be keeping three hundred million people safe every single day,” Tracy Wentworth said as she walked back to her cubicle at the ramshackle headquarters on Nebraska Avenue. She was annoyed after yet another pointless two-hour meeting on analyzing strategic weaknesses in America’s private infrastructure. Everything she’d heard was a repetition of things she already knew. They had just tried to package it in yet another new “assessment procedure.”
Only 1:00 p.m., and already her day was an exercise in futility. Two of her requested follow-ups on what she had thought had been promising leads had been denied due to
“lack of feasibility.” This was primarily due to her boss, a politicking butt-kisser who squashed anything he didn’t regard as a “slam-dunk,” to parrot a certain high-level intelligence chief’s unfortunate choice of words a few years back regarding WMDs in Iraq. Since then, Tracy suspected that all of America’s intelligence agencies had become paralyzed by fear—the fear of not connecting all of the dots fast enough, or even worse, getting something wrong, and having the press lambaste them for not doing their job properly. That especially went for the one she worked for, the Department of Homeland Security.
When she had come to DHS two years ago, Tracy had been filled with the desire to join a department that
