Public Enemy Read online

  The guards in the other towers came about as their own routines progressed. He bit his cheek waiting for a problem to arise, but there came no wave, shrug, or other panic-instilling gesture from his newfound comrades.

  He realized he’d need to stand the guard’s body against the railing and hope it would take a while before the others noticed he was dead in order for his harebrained scheme to work. Maybe I’m still the homicidal maniac who escaped torture by way of sheer murderous brutality-and chose this option solely because it would require me to kill the most guards possible.

  He had to wait longer than he wanted before making his move, but approximately nine minutes in, the other guards synched up their cycles and appeared to all be looking out at the mountains at once. He got the body propped up, clambered down the tower’s interior ladder, and strode across the fifteen yards of grass with as calm a nonchalance as he could muster.

  Then he rolled his way into the banana palm beds and crawled quickly away, out of the splash of the lights.

  Still no screams, whistles, shots, or sirens.

  Per his pre-mission conversations with Laramie and her guide, this was the moment when he was to report in by way of his sat phone. Made it inside the perimeter, he might have told Laramie. Taking a look at the type of video surveillance they’ve got on the exterior of the house but will need to get in ASAP. You won’t hear from me after I get inside.

  Unfortunately, because of the plastic shards in the pouch that had once been his sat phone, there would be no such conversation. He assumed the GPS homing beacon that marked his position on their monitoring equipment would, without battery or logic board, also have failed to work the minute he’d plowed into the tree.

  The radio he’d swiped from the shack-guard suddenly made a chuck-pfft sound that almost popped him out of his combat boots, but the noise wasn’t followed by any dialogue. He turned around and took in a view of the mansion that loomed above him, looking ominously like the Spanish fort it had once been.

  Cooper didn’t like the look of the place.

  He’d read that the fort had originally been built in the late-seventeenth century for the Spanish land baron overseeing the territory. Perhaps-but it looked, for Cooper’s tastes, too much like the same kind of seventeenth-century fort where those ruthless, mustached bastards had kept him locked in a subterranean cell almost twenty years ago now.

  He knew this place too would contain its own underground labyrinth of dungeon cells and related facilities-after all, no self-respecting Spanish land baron, acting more or less as imperial governor, could manage the savages without his own private chamber of horrors in which to enforce his reign.

  Cooper could practically feel the tunnels beneath his feet-the ghosts of those fucking Mayans, or whatever cousins of the golden princess statue had been tortured and killed beneath him, calling out from six feet under the endless emerald meadow. Oh, yeah, Cooper, those pals of the golden priestess screeching to him, welcome back, old friend. It’s been too long a time coming. But there’s no salvation waitin’ for you here-only pain. Pain and sufferin’ enough to last an eternity. Come share in our misery, you tired, drunken fool!

  He shook off the ghost-talk thoughts and checked his watch. It was almost a quarter to five. At best-unless President Márquez was as lazy as he, and preferred to sleep in-he had an hour to get in while Márquez was still asleep, and the sun had yet to rise.

  If not less.

  “All right, Island Man,” he said in a croaking whisper. “Time for the hard part.”

  His own voice sounded oddly unfamiliar to him.

  48

  Detective Cole let Laramie into Knowles’s room at the Flamingo Inn and closed the door behind her. She held in her hand another Styrofoam cup loaded with bad black coffee, Laramie utterly confused in her caffeine addiction: what had once been a two-cups-per-morning habit seemed to have graduated to a 24/7 unquenchable need that offered no real effect.

  They’d summoned her because there had been activity from one of the sleepers, but Laramie asked a different question first.

  “What about our operative,” she said. “Anything?”

  “No,” Knowles said, planted in his throne before an array of monitors that had multiplied yet again-the monitors alone now took up one entire wall in the room. “May or may not speak to his status, but I’d say that homing-beacon signal is gone for good.”

  Cole came over to join Laramie alongside Rothgeb and her guide in a loose semicircle behind Knowles and the ever-expanding computer setup. Seven additional monitors had been added; the largest offered a highly detailed but entirely static map of El Salvador. A few hours ago, when Laramie had last been in the room, a blinking set of circles, designed to resemble the outwardly expanding circles made by a rock hitting the surface of a pond, had kept the view on the El Salvador screen fairly entertaining. The graphic had represented Cooper’s whereabouts as he approached the drop point in his plane-the homing signal from his GPS device.

  Nineteen seconds after the pilot instant-messaged them that he’d “dropped his cargo,” the homing signal, and its accompanying on-screen graphic, had vanished.

  The other monitors displayed low-resolution digital signals from six separate videophones of the sort made famous by the embedded reporters during the war in Iraq.

  Five of the images were of the exterior of a house or apartment; it was dark outside four of the homes, with dawn just breaking on a fifth. The sixth feed looked like something from a tamer portion of an episode of America’s Wildest Police Videos, a shot captured out the front windshield of a car that appeared to be following another vehicle. The sun had risen already in this image.

  Laramie knew this last monitor to represent Scarsdale, New York. The other images were in the central and Pacific time zones, but live, just like the Scarsdale camera. The video was being shot by private investigators, selected jointly by Cole and Laramie’s guide. The PIs were working in teams of two outside the homes of each of the six probable sleepers. The last time she’d seen the sixth feed, it had shown the front of a single-story ranch sandwiched between a pair of nearly identical houses. There had been no apparent activity, outside of a strobing blue light they assumed was the man’s television.

  Knowles turned from the monitor showing the map of El Salvador.

  “If our operative’s alive,” he said, “there’s a pretty good chance he could be inside the residence by now. We’ve been over it, but seven here is six there-be dark or close to it for another half hour based on the Almanac’s sunrise schedule.”

  “Fine,” Laramie said.

  She’d left the room once Cooper’s signal had come up blank for an hour and a half. She hadn’t done anything since but sit and stew.

  Something was bothering her about all this-the whole scheme as ordered by Ebbers, from the assassination order to the method they were using to perform surveillance on the six potential sleepers-including the plan that would kick into effect once any of the sleepers began to engage in some form of suspicious activity. Laramie hadn’t been able to put her finger on what it was that was bothering her, but after thinking things over in frustration in her room, she’d begun to figure it out. Now it seemed one of the sleepers was up to something, perhaps no good, and that meant one of the parts of the plan Laramie was beginning to have a major problem with would need to be put into effect.

  She blinked herself back to the situation at hand and jutted her chin at Knowles.

  “Let’s get on with this,” she said. “What’s the story here?”

  She noted that the car being followed by the camera was an SUV-same as Benjamin Achar. The ultimate assimilation disguise.

  “You got it,” Knowles said. He spun around in his seat and clicked away with one of his mouses. The moving image on the screen zoomed in a notch. “As you can probably guess from the video feed, our boy in Scarsdale’s on the move. Took off around five till seven. In case you’ve lost track, which we all have more than once, today’s Saturday, s
o he isn’t headed for work. Usually leaves at seven-thirty anyway when he does.”

  Rothgeb chimed in. “Based on what we know from the private investigator about the neighborhood, we’ve got a pretty good idea where he’s headed.”

  “Ought to see it coming up in a second here,” Knowles said.

  Laramie saw Knowles was working the mouse again, making circles with the cursor in the upper right of the video image, where Laramie noticed something vague and orange begin to materialize. It started to look like a sign-and then the sign became legible.

  “He’s going to The Home Depot,” she said.

  The car-looking to be a Ford Explorer, though Laramie couldn’t be completely sure-turned into the massive parking lot. She could see the store’s rectangular building, somewhat out of focus, in the background of the shot.

  “At seven A.M.,” Rothgeb said.

  “That’d be the time they open in Scarsdale on Saturdays,” Knowles said. “We checked online.”

  The Explorer pulled to the side of the building that appeared to house the garden supply portion of the store and parked there. Laramie saw the quick flash of the white taillight indicators signaling the driver had thrown the vehicle into Park, and then the door opened and “probable sleeper number six” emerged in jeans and a T-shirt to walk into the store.

  Twenty minutes later, the sleeper and his Explorer left the parking lot-his SUV loaded with a heavy cargo of what Laramie counted as twenty-five bags of something that they were all assuming was fertilizer, or some mix of fertilizer and something else like grass seed or topsoil that might help disguise the purpose of the purchase.

  He didn’t make any other stops-at least not until returning home. They had to watch from a longer-range shot but could still see pretty clearly as he pulled the Explorer into his garage, closed the door behind the SUV, then, seven minutes later, reopened the garage and pulled out again. This time he headed to a gas station-a Citgo-where they watched him fill a number of red canisters with gasoline at the pump. The private investigator’s surveillance distance was growing with every stop, presumably to keep from being seen.

  “That’s about all you need,” Cole said, “for a fertilizer bomb of the yield used by Achar.”

  “Correct,” Knowles said. “And we’ll have to wait and see, but I wonder whether the others do the same thing when the sun pops up in their time zones.”

  “This is not a good thing,” Rothgeb said.

  “No,” Knowles said. “And if there are more than six out there, it’ll start to be a much worse thing real quick.”

  Laramie thought some more about the things she’d been thinking about in her room.

  “Either way,” she said, “we’re going to need to get the tip phoned in.”

  The major piece of the plan she didn’t like was the way Ebbers-through instructions relayed by her guide-had told them they were to “blow the whistle” on the sleepers if they spotted anything like they were seeing from sleeper number six now. Rather than order the FBI or local authorities in to apprehend the sleepers, they’d been instructed to arrange for anonymous tips to be phoned in to both the local FBI office and the local county sheriff’s or police department. The tips were to include great detail but would remain anonymous nonetheless.

  Cole had expressed his reservations first, and Laramie agreed-it wasn’t even certain such tips would be acted upon once phoned in, and if FBI agents and the local cops did respond to the tip, who knew how the bust would go down? Would the sleeper panic and set off his bomb?

  What was certain, Laramie thought, was that neither she, her guide, nor Ebbers were “sending in” anyone directly to apprehend the sleepers. Something was beginning to taste fishy and she didn’t like the flavor one bit.

  On the monitor, sleeper number six climbed back into his Explorer and, barely visible due to the distance the surveillance man was keeping, simply returned home. Once the sleeper tucked himself away inside his garage he did not reemerge.

  “In a minute,” Knowles said, “we’ll get a text message report from the tail. He’ll probably tell us pretty much what we just watched.”

  Laramie looked over at her guide.

  “Call it in,” she said.

  He nodded and retreated to the other room.

  “I take it,” Laramie said to the others, “we’re stuck at six-that you haven’t found any others in the four hours we’ve been apart.”

  Cole shook his head.

  “We got lucky to get these guys,” he said. “It’s a pretty safe bet from the images Knowles dug up that most or all of the sleepers, whether it’s six, seven, or fifty, got dumped here the way Castro emptied his prisons into the state of Florida. They came by refugee boat. But no way were all of ’em photographed, let alone caught on tape. I think we’re tapped out.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not fifty,” Rothgeb said.

  Laramie nodded. She eyed the detailed topography map of El Salvador on the widescreen monitor. There was no sign of Cooper’s homing signal.

  Decision made, Laramie strode into the room where her guide was on the phone. She didn’t like the way things were going at all, and it was time to pull this charade to a close.

  She glared down at her guide until he looked up from the call he was making.

  “I need to talk to Ebbers,” she said.

  “This is bullshit, and you know it,” Laramie said.

  The electronically garbled sound of Lou Ebbers chuckling came from the phone’s tinny speaker. Her guide had set up the spiderphone in her room again. She’d asked that he leave her alone this time and he had.

  “At least this time around,” came Ebbers’s voice, “I know you’re not asking me whether it’s an exercise.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt it’s real,” Laramie said. “It’s all too real. That’s why I’m calling you-or calling you out, I should say. You’ve been taking me for a ride, Lou. Answer me this: why aren’t we sending in FBI arrest teams directly? By our order? Controlled by us? By you? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Ah,” came his reply.

  “‘Ah’? Sir, with all due respect, please quit your ahing and give me an explanation. I just risked the life of a member of my team-a friend of mine, I might even say. In fact, I think there’s a pretty good chance I just got him killed, considering that he’s MIA as of nineteen seconds into his mission. Add to this the fact that the sleepers we’ve ID’d are kicking into gear. One of them, at any rate. The shit is hitting the fan. And I’m finally realizing you’re not being straight with me-about any of it. Please answer my question.”

  More chuckling ensued.

  After the easy chuckling subsided, Ebbers’s voice said, “I say ‘Ah,’ Miss Laramie, because of how well I realize that I know you.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. I do. And I’ll tell you why: I predicted, even told our mutual friend the guide, that you would put it together quick.”

  Laramie didn’t say anything in the brief pause that followed.

  “The answer to your question,” Ebbers said, “is, first, that we would not want the FBI to know of our operation-our ‘cell’-because we are, as discussed, running a clandestine counterterror unit, one that by its definition must remain clandestine within and without government.”

  “But there could be mistakes made by the law enforcement teams raiding the sleepers’ homes if they’re not supervised,” Laramie said. “Maintaining the unit’s cover is a trivial concern when you consider what’s at stake. Among other factors, an anonymous tip does not assure us that the FBI or the local-”

  “Part two of the answer is that we do not have the authority,” Ebbers said.

  As soon as Laramie had digested what Ebbers had just told her, she began nodding slowly, a quiet fury welling up within.

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You don’t have the authority to tell the FBI to conduct a series of raids-you can only do so by phoning in an anonymous tip-but you can order the assassination of a sovere
ign head of state?”

  In Ebbers’s silence, the rest of the puzzle came together for Laramie.

  “You can’t order an assassination,” she said, answering her own question.

  “Whether or not I can,” came Ebbers’s voice, “I did. Do you not believe it to be the correct strategy?”

  “You did. That doesn’t mean the people you work for did. And I may believe it’s the correct strategy, but the people you work for may not. So if they haven’t been made aware-”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  Laramie took in some air.

  “I assure you,” Ebbers said, “that the people I work for knew of my decision. And authorized it.”

  Laramie said, “But it’s an illegal tactic, there is no way anyone in the federal government who…”

  She stopped herself midsentence as the point that Ebbers was trying to express finally dawned on her.

  A little too slowly, she thought. Very carefully, she said, “So all this time, you’re telling me you-and I-haven’t been working for the federal-”

  “Some things are better left unsaid,” Ebbers said, managing to effectively interrupt her even over the encrypted phone line. “And as I told you, I had every confidence you would come around to this in due course. Now that we understand each other, I’ll repeat my question to you: do you agree we’re taking the appropriate measures?”

  Laramie began counting out the Mississippis in her head. She got all the way to eight, rather than her usual three, before she’d sorted through all her potential follow-up questions-namely, Who the hell is it we’re working for then?-along with the accompanying concern of whether to ask such questions, and what the answers might possibly mean, presuming she’d even get any answers out of Ebbers if she asked. By the time she’d finished thinking these things through-by the time she hit eight-Mississippi-Laramie decided the wisest course was to zip it. She’d be better served by storing this knowledge for later. She could then use it, or make inquiries as she saw fit, to her advantage-rather than under the stress of the current crisis.