and key members of the black panel to review each case before a kill order was issued. It was the process by which American citizens Anwar al-Awlaki and Samir “Sammy” Khan, one a senior al-Qaeda figure and the other coeditor of al-Qaeda’s terrorism magazine, were placed on the kill list and taken out in Yemen. No one in the administration had any idea that Bremmer had been padding the list. Need-to-know, especially when colored with the patina of ongoing counterterrorism operations, was an amazing tool for shutting down any questions in a city like D.C.
“So how soon?” Middleton repeated.
The Colonel looked at his watch. “Probably by this time tomorrow. They’re going to need imagery, though. Either drone or satellite.”
“No problem. I should have a preliminary file in about an hour. I’ll make sure you get a copy.”
“I’ll watch for it. Anything else?”
“What about the job in Spain? Do we have any confirmation yet?”
“Negative. Nothing yet.”
“Why the hell not? It’s already daytime there,” said Middleton. “The operation should be complete by now.”
“They’re professionals and they’ll follow the protocol. They’re not going to make contact until they’re safely out of the country.”
Middleton wanted to inquire as to whether they were more professional than the first team the Colonel had dispatched to Paris, but he let it go. The word
The President would fight it at first, of course, but as soon as the reports started feeding into the situation room about the panic and the chaos, his resolve would begin to leach away. The death counts were what would really unnerve him. That’s when he’d realize that he needed to gather up the first family and go.
For a moment, Middleton thought about filling Bremmer in the rest of the way, of giving him a warning and thereby a chance to make preparations for his own family, but as quickly as this spark of altruism was ignited inside him, it was extinguished. He didn’t care if Bremmer and his family survived what was coming.
Taking out Carlton and his people was a sensitive assignment that required highly specialized labor. There were very few people who could handle the job. Until the list was closed out, Middleton had no choice but to put up with Bremmer. But as soon as Blue Sand launched, everything would be different.
Smiling as he rose from the table, Middleton looked at him and gave him a final word of caution. “Just make sure your people haven’t screwed the pooch in Spain.”
“Don’t worry about my people,” the Colonel replied as he stepped over and unlocked the SCIF door. “One way or another, they’ll get him.”
CHAPTER 26
MONTERREY, MEXICO
SATURDAY
Padre Peio’s airline contact made all Harvath’s travel arrangements and booked the tickets under the name on his Italian passport.
Using the car Eyebrows and Scarface had been driving, Harvath navigated his way back to Bilbao and abandoned it near the train station. He caught public transportation to the airport, where a ticket was waiting for him at the counter for the first leg of his journey.
He flew from Bilbao to Madrid, where Peio’s contact, an older man named Gomez, met him at the gate. He escorted Harvath to the “Sala VIP” lounge, checked him in and then led him to a quiet corner to finish transacting their business.
Gomez provided Harvath with forms and two padded FedEx shipping envelopes, then left him alone while he fetched them each a coffee. When he returned, Harvath had the packages ready to go.
The first envelope contained Gomez’s fee. Harvath had sealed the cash inside and scribbled down an imaginary address in Barcelona. The second envelope contained his real passport, as well as Riley Turner’s, along with the handful of other personal items that had been in her backpack. Harvath addressed it to one of his aliases in care of a fly-fishing resort in Alaska owned by a buddy of his. The man had received packages for Harvath before. When he saw the name on the label he would simply take it and put it in his safe until Harvath contacted him for it.
After accepting the two mailers, Gomez handed over a small wheelie bag that had been packed with clothing in Harvath’s size and a small toiletries kit. Traveling from Bilbao to Madrid with a small backpack was one thing, but traveling all the way to Mexico City without any real luggage would definitely arouse suspicion and added scrutiny. Gomez had agreed to supply the bag, probably liberated from the airline’s lost luggage department, as well as to handle Harvath’s FedEx drop-off for an additional fee.
Peio had vouched that Harvath could trust Gomez completely, which was good, since Gomez was the only man who could provide what Harvath needed.
When their business was concluded, the Spaniard wished Harvath a pleasant flight and left the VIP lounge. Harvath finished his coffee and then took his newly acquired luggage into one of the private shower rooms, where he unpacked the entire thing and stripped it all the way down. He wasn’t about to board an international flight and then attempt to clear customs in Mexico, of all places, carrying a bag someone else had given him.
Satisfied that there was nothing in it that could get Harvath in any trouble, he turned on the shower and cleaned himself up.
When his flight to Mexico City was ready to board, he shuffled out of the lounge with a Spanish daily newspaper tucked under his arm and attached himself to a group of businessmen as they made their way to the gate.
Onboard, Harvath studied the passengers around him in the business class section as he stowed his bag. No one appeared the least bit interested in him, which was just the way he liked it. Informing the flight attendants that he didn’t want to be awakened for the meal, he donned the headset from the seat pocket.
He had no idea what awaited him in Mexico, but he knew he needed to be rested for whatever came. It was much easier said than done. As the plane sped down the runway, his mind was overrun by the same questions that had been plaguing him since Paris and which had only been compounded in Spain, foremost among them—who had accused him of treason and why?
And while he didn’t want to believe he might have been betrayed, he had to ask himself how the Old Man was involved. Had he set him up? It seemed almost impossible. There were so many other ways he could have gotten to him if he had wanted. But Carlton was like a father to him. The idea that the Old Man would ever want to “get to” him at all was insane. No matter what charge anyone could ever trump up against him, the Old Man wouldn’t blindly issue a kill order. He knew Harvath too well. They had history together, a bond.
The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. None of it made any sense. He couldn’t get a handle on any of it, and each time he tried to fit the pieces together he only got angrier and more confused.
He knew alcohol normally wasn’t the answer, but sometimes it could be. Feigning a fear of flying, he talked a flight attendant into leaving him with several mini bottles and a glass of ice. As the liquid warmth spread through his body, it soon worked its way into his thoughts, disconnecting him from his mind in a dull haze, which allowed him finally to drift off to sleep.
It wasn’t one of the best chunks of sleep Harvath had ever had, but it was better than nothing. He awoke quite a few times, uncomfortable even in the business class seat, but was able to fall back asleep.
An hour before the plane touched down in Mexico City, he awoke again when the lights were brought up and the crew came through to serve a final meal. Harvath was hungry and downed two cups of coffee along with his food.
Despite the fitful sleep, he felt more exhausted when he stepped off the plane than when he had gotten
