Search teams from both the FBI and the CIA had already been deployed to find those police cars and vans. Meanwhile, Moore said he’d call his best contact in the tribal lands to see what the old man in North Waziristan knew.
He was about to do that when he received a text message from Leslie. She wanted to know why he hadn’t replied to several of her messages. He just sighed. If he chatted with her now, his depression would seep through, and he’d rather have no contact than bad contact at this point. He accessed his address book to find Nek Wazir’s number, which he had coded as nw33. The old man picked up after the third ring.
“Moore, it is good to hear your voice. And this is something, because I was going to call you tomorrow.”
“Well, then, I beat you to it. And I’m glad you’re still awake. It’s good to hear your voice, too.”
Indeed, it was. Something had happened between them. Wazir was not just another paid informant introduced to Moore by Rana; they now shared something — mutual grief over Rana’s murder, and a question that Moore had yet to answer: “What is the most difficult thing you’ve ever done in your life?”
Wazir hesitated, then said, “I wish I could bring good news.”
Moore tensed. “What is it?”
“I’ve received information about your man Gallagher, the one you said was missing.”
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Then they’ve got him. How much do they want?”
“No, Moore, you don’t understand.”
“I guess I don’t.”
“I’ll send you some pictures I received yesterday. They were taken about a week ago. They show your friend Gallagher up near the border. He is meeting with Rahmani.”
“I’ll have to check on that. He could be deep cover.”
“I don’t think so, Moore. I don’t have evidence. I only have the word of the men I pay, but they tell me they heard that the American, Gallagher, is the one who killed Rana. Again, I have no evidence. Only rumors. But if this is true, then he is not your friend, and I worry about the damage he could do to you and the wrath he could bring upon this country.”
“I understand. Where’s Gallagher now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you find him for me?”
“I will press my people harder.”
“Thank you. I’ll be waiting for the pictures.”
“Of course. If there’s nothing else?”
“Actually, there is. I was calling because I think we’ve had a breach. The Taliban might’ve moved through a tunnel from Mexico into the United States; they came from a city called Mexicali into California, a city called Calexico.”
“I am familiar with those cities.”
“I think one of them was wearing a pendant, the Hand of Fatima. I’ll send you a picture. I know this might not mean anything, but could you review the intel you have to see if any of the Taliban in your intel photographs is wearing the same pendant?”
Wazir chuckled under his breath. “Don’t look now, my friend, but your biases are showing. What if it was a party of Jews running late for a bris?”
“What am I missing here?”
“The Sephardic Jewish community calls that very same pendant the Hand of Miriam.”
“Aw, shit. Am I in over my head here?”
“Not as long as you have an educated Muslim for a friend. Most likely your first instincts are correct. I will look into this. And I’ll send those pictures of Gallagher now.”
“I’ll take care of the compensation.”
“Thank you, Moore. Try to be safe. I will call you as soon as I know something.”
Moore thumbed off the connection, then immediately uploaded the picture of the pendant he’d taken with his smartphone. He sat there at the cubicle, trembling over the news about Gallagher. He waited for Wazir’s message that would contain the pictures of …a possible traitor.
Towers came rushing over. “We found the police cars!”
At the same time, Moore’s phone rang.
He recoiled at the number: Zúñiga. He motioned for Towers to hang on, showed the caller ID screen to his boss, who nodded and waited, eyes widening.
Moore answered in Spanish. “Hola, Señor Zúñiga.”
“Hola, Señor Howard,” he answered, using Moore’s cover name. “As much as I want to kill you for what you’ve done to me, for the losses I’ve incurred because of you, I have a very lucrative proposition.”
Moore’s phone beeped with an incoming message: Wazir’s e-mail. He winced and said, “Go ahead, señor.”
“Sitting in my living room right now is Mr. Dante Corrales. He tells me the cartel killed his woman and that he wants to join me. He says he has secrets about the cartel. He says he can help me undermine them and bring down Rojas. He says he has the evidence to do that.”
“Then he’s a very valuable asset — to both of us.”
“Ah, more so to you. I will deliver him to you under two conditions. In this economy, I think he’s worth about one million dollars. And I want the assurance that neither myself nor my people or organization will be touched.”
Moore held back his grin. No way in hell was the American government going to hand over $1 million to a Mexican drug cartel. At this point Moore would determine if Corrales was worth anything, and if he was, then other arrangements would be made to extract him from Zúñiga, a thug who’d already been paid well enough.
“Señor, that’s a lot of money, and we don’t really know how useful Corrales will be, so here’s what I suggest: a meeting between the three of us. We need Corrales to prove his value to us, and I have several methods we can use to better vet him. If all goes well, I will arrange payment and take possession of the man. If we both agree that he is not as useful as we thought, then we might turn him over to the authorities and consider new plans to take down the Juárez Cartel. What happened in San Cristóbal was nothing we could have anticipated. You need to believe that.”
“I’ll decide what I need to believe. And I want to remind you that we can’t turn over Corrales to the Federal Police. He has too many allies there.”
“We’ll turn him over to the Mexican Navy. I’ve heard they’re the only ones who can be trusted.”
Zúñiga chuckled. “I’ve heard that, too. How soon can you be here?”
“By tonight. Let’s say eight p.m. I’ll meet you at the usual place for the transfer. Their spotters will still be watching us.”
“Very good, señor. I’ll have my people meet you there.”
Moore thumbed off the phone. “Corrales went to Zúñiga. We might have a deal — and a key witness.”
“Excellent.”
“Let me finish before you tell me about the cars. Better yet, let me show you something.”
Moore opened up the message and enlarged one of the photographs taken with a long lens and clearly showing Gallagher sitting outside a tent in the hills of Waziristan beside Rahmani. Wazir’s people had gathered remarkable intel, all right, and the image sent chills through Moore, who’d known Gallagher for years and had even run a few joint operations with him, including their mission to take Colonel Khodai into their protection. Wazir had said that Rahmani’s people were responsible for murdering the colonel; consequently, Moore might’ve been set up from the beginning by his “buddy” Gallagher.
“The guy on the left is a colleague of mine. I need to send this to O’Hara. This guy might be dirty, and if that’s the case, he’s got access to our intel. Not sure how much he’s feeding them, but this is …” Moore gasped as the enormity finally hit him. “This is fucking huge.”
Towers swore to himself in disbelief. “Send those pics up the pipe, then we’ll talk about your meeting with Zúñiga.”