A second car with a backup driver would be stationed just ahead of them.
How could any of the citizens waiting in the cell-phone lot stop them? Most were probably armed only with cell phones and bad attitudes. Perhaps a couple of gangsters from South Central would be there, waiting to pick up one of their fellow thugs from Oakland or Chicago, but even so, they would drop quickly to the asphalt in a barrage of fire.
Samad and his men could thank the United States government and the airlines for doing nothing to thwart their plans. Equipping all commercial airliners with military-style countermeasures, such as white-hot flares (chaff) and/or infrared jammers, high-powered lasers to burn out the seeker heads on missiles, or using fighter planes to escort jets in and out of the highest-risk areas, were all extremely cost-prohibitive in view of what government officials called a “lack of actionable intelligence.” The Federal Aviation Administration did state that the government provided some “war risk” insurance to the airlines, but they were unclear if the program accounted for surface-to-air missile strikes. Samad could only chuckle to himself. While five-year-olds were being patted down at airport security checkpoints, nothing — absolutely nothing — was being done to secure planes against such missile strikes.
The Israelis had not allowed themselves to be caught in the legal and political quagmire concerning this subject, in part because they knew they would forever have targets on their backs. They had equipped their El Al planes with sophisticated antimissile systems that had already proven themselves in one notable case of a 757–300 managing to evade not one but two missiles. The Israeli government denied that the plane was equipped with any countermeasures, although it was the same one often used by the Israeli prime minister.
They drove toward the northeast end of the cell-phone lot. Their Hyundai had a wide-enough trunk to accommodate both the launcher and missiles if they were loaded at the correct angle. They pulled into a space where just ahead to the northwest lay the soccer and baseball fields of Carl E. Nielsen Youth Park. To their right stood a residential neighborhood that abutted the park. Samad got out and stood there, taking in the cooler night air.
Talwar parked the van a few spots down, got out, and joined them.
“The journey here was far more difficult than the actual mission will be,” said Niazi.
Samad grinned. “Look around. These people won’t even react. They’ll stay in their cars, and pretend they’re watching this all on TV.”
“Someone will have a phone camera on us for the second launch,” said Talwar. “And then we will be on CNN. And they can watch it all again.”
A car came around the row — airport security — and Samad quickly lifted his cell phone and pretended to talk.
The car paused before them, the window going down. “You need to get back in your vehicles,” said a bored- sounding black man.
Samad nodded, smiled, waved, and they headed back.
They’d return tomorrow evening for a true dry run, and then, the following night, the phone calls would be made, the teams positioned, and their destinies would unfold before them.
Towers turned over the flash drive to analysts at the office and was eager to remain with them to study Corrales’s purported evidence against the cartel. Moore told the man that the spirit was willing but the flesh had been shot at a bit too much, and he was happy to return to the hotel for some shut-eye. He didn’t actually fall asleep until nearly two a.m., and when he did, he found himself back on Zuniga’s roof, watching as bullets riddled Frank Carmichael’s chest and he plunged to the dirt. Sonia kept telling Moore to stop weeping and that he had a mission and that he’d saved her life and that had to account for something. Not everyone died around him. Not everyone.
She was a stunning woman, and he felt guilty over feeling that way, as though he were betraying Leslie. But Leslie was so far away, and they both knew in their hearts that what they had was no more than a fling, two desperate people trying to find happiness in a land with so much misery and death. He could easily fall in love with Sonia, her youth very much appealing to a man his age, and he hadn’t realized until now that saving her really did mean much more than completing a mission objective.
Towers called him at 7:30 a.m. “How’re you doing?”
“I’m doing.”
“I need you to get down here.”
“You sound exhausted.”
“I’ve been here all night.”
“Hey, you know, I appreciate that.”
“Just get here.”
Moore climbed out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and hopped in the rental car.
The girl at the Starbucks counter asked him if he was all right.
“Just had a bunch of people trying to kill me last night,” he quipped.
“My boyfriend does that all the time,” she said. “Stays up all night playing Call of Duty, and then he’s a grumpy asshat all day …”
Moore accepted his coffee and handed over his credit card. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll try not to be a grumpy asshat today.” He winked and rushed out.
At the office, he found Towers — who looked like death warmed over — sitting with a group of analysts. He rose, tucked a folder under his arm, then gestured that they head back into the conference room. Once they were inside, Moore asked about Corrales.
“We put him up in the same hotel, got a couple of people running security. We think we got a couple of Juarez spotters watching this place now, too.”
“No surprise.”
“Got some news about those police cars and vans from Calexico. They found the kid who did the painting. One of your guys was there to question him. He IDed your buddy Gallagher.”
“What’s Gallagher doing? Working for the cartel, the Taliban, or both?”
“You’ll find out. For now you boys have a major breach.”
“I just …they told me I could trust that guy, a good guy, a case officer for a lot of years. What happened?”
“Money,” Towers said curtly.
“I hope they’re paying him a fortune. He’ll need it to hide from us. Now, what about Rojas?”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Towers rubbed his eyes and glanced away. “The situation is … complicated.”
“What’s wrong? Corrales didn’t give us anything?”
“Oh, no, he’s got some great stuff. We’ve IDed the cartel’s main supplier in Bogota, guy named Ballesteros. We’re already working with the Colombian government to lock him up, but the timing is crucial. Corrales even got some intel on Rahmani’s location in Waziristan.”
“Nice.”
“We’re following up on that, too.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Towers pursed his lips and hesitated again. “Let me take it from the beginning. Jorge Rojas is one of the richest men in the world, and one of the most famous men in Mexico. He’s done more for the Mexican people than the government has. He’s a celebrity, a saint.”
“And he’s financed it all with drug money. His companies stay afloat with drug money. Thousands have died because of him and his drug money.”
Towers waved off the arguments. “Do you know who Rojas’s brother-in-law is? Arturo Gonzalez, the governor of Chihuahua.”
“Cut to the chase.”
“Rojas is also in bed with the chief justice of Mexico’s Supreme Court. He’s gone on vacations with the attorney general and is godfather to the man’s oldest boy.”
“So what? I’m sure he hangs out on weekends with the president of Mexico. He’s still a fucking drug
