“Excellent,” Fisher said.
“Well, other than some blunt trauma to her face, she seems to be doing okay,” said the doctor. “She’ll need to have the new stitches removed in a week or so. If there’s nothing else, I guess I’m ready for my blindfold.”
“We appreciate your cooperation,” Fisher said.
Grim called to one of the analysts to escort the doctor out. As she strode away toward the control center, Fisher drifted back into the infirmary, where Nadia had just rolled over to face him.
“Is it over?” she asked.
“Yes, we removed the chip. Your plane should be here very soon. I’m sorry about the wait.”
“Are you really going to help my father?”
“I work for the President of the United States, and she tells me that we’ll be doing everything we can. That means something. Those words come from the most powerful woman on the planet. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“The president wants to speak to you, when you’re ready.”
“All right. I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Sam. And to be honest, you remind me of my own daughter.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
A shadow passed over them.
“Hey, Sam, my guy in Lima just called back,” said Kobin. “Oh, sorry to interrupt. But hey, don’t you think she’s a little young for…”
Fisher closed his eyes, trying to contain the explosion forming at the back of his throat.
“Sorry, yeah, well, anyway,” Kobin stammered, “My guy in Lima’s got intel that’ll blow your mind.”
21
“That’s him,” said Briggs.
Fisher zoomed in with his trifocals on the man entering the Corporación Minera Ananea’s tin-roofed office lying in the shadows of the towering, snowcapped peaks of La Rinconada.
“You get a shot of his face?” Fisher asked.
“Got it,” Briggs answered. “And uploaded.”
“Charlie, transfer that photo back to the safe house in Virginia,” Fisher ordered. “See if Nadia can ID this guy.”
“Already done. You want fries with that?”
“Nice. Get me confirmation ASAP.”
Fisher eased back along the mountainside, slipping behind the ice-covered boulders along the cliff that overlooked the mining headquarters, which was no more than four double-wide trailers lying in the cowl of the glacier. The buildings were identified by a small sign bearing the company’s tiny blue logo. Seven dust-covered SUVs were parked near one trailer, their off-road tires pinpricked with chips of stone.
Fisher and Briggs were perched at more than eighteen thousand feet in the Peruvian Andes, the wind like knives across their cheeks, the night washing away into a saffron haze to the east.
The past sixteen hours had felt like only two, and ironically, Kobin — once the selfish, self-absorbed, egomaniacal crackhead smuggler — had come through for them in spades.
“Follow the money, find the man,” he’d said.
Trouble was, Igor Kasperov was too damned shrewd to make mistakes. Kobin believed that he’d rely upon favors, stashes of cash, or other such underground or even illegal means to procure both transport and living quarters, and to pay off those who needed to remain quiet regarding his whereabouts. Sure, he’d attempt to limit his contacts as much as possible, but he couldn’t do everything alone.
And he couldn’t pay off everyone.
That’s where Kobin came in. He always boasted that he was the go-to man with a direct line into the seedy exploits of smugglers, cartels, mercenaries, and guerilla-backed incursions across the globe. Sometimes the hype outweighed the facts, but not this time.
“Okay, teammates, prepare to be schooled,” he’d told them, holding court in the control center as though he owned the plane.
“Teammates?” Briggs asked, as though the word had gone sour on his lips.
“Shuddup, Action Jackson. So… I’ll put it to you this way. La Rinconada’s gold mining operation is a money-laundering wet dream for the cartels. Here’s how it works. The cartel-backed banks use American dollars to buy the gold from the mining company at one hundred and ten percent over current gold spot prices — that’s the standard fee for money laundering. The cartels have a team of gold and silver bullion traders, and these greedy little fuckers sell the gold in the open market, and you know with the volatility we have today, they usually recoup more than their premium fee. So my guy in Lima has run guns, drugs, and even gold for these guys, meaning he’s tapped into what’s going on up there. His contact at the mining company office says that somebody’s been drafting checks drawn against some Swiss and offshore accounts to buy untraceable U.S. dollars, ten percent over face value, which is the fee for what we call remote and discrete ATM services.” Kobin began to gesticulate wildly, a half-crazed glimmer flooding his eyes. “Boys and girls, think about it. Who the hell but a rich man would be drafting off of Swiss and offshore accounts? Sam’s right. Kasperov is up there, and he’s no dummy. He’s doing more than just lying low. That fucking Russian is picking up some serious cash so he’s untraceable and good to go for his next trip.”
Fisher drew back his head. “Holy shit, Kobin. Nice work.”
“I plan to verify all this,” said Grim.
“Be my guest,” said Kobin. “I keep telling you fuckers how valuable I am. When are you dumbasses gonna learn? Schooled? Oh, that would be you people.”
“I don’t think so,” said Briggs.
Kobin ignored him and faced Fisher. “You see? You never want to turn me over to Kestrel. I’m way too valuable.”
Grim stepped between them and said, “I hate ’im. But he’s earned his keep — for now.”
“Agreed,” Fisher said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
After transferring Nadia to the CIA charter, they had taken off. The flight from Incirlik to Juliaca, Peru, was over 7,300 miles, meaning they had about 2,700 miles between each midair refueling. With a cruising speed of about 515 miles per hour, the flight had taken more than fourteen hours, giving them ample time to sleep and prep.
In the meantime, Grim had coordinated with the Special Activities Division. They sent a paramilitary ops officer to Juliaca to reconnoiter the airport, searching for any spotters Kasperov might have planted there.
Grim had also pointed out that Paladin’s arrival might raise a few suspicions, so they’d planned to land at about 0200 local time and have the plane met by refueling services to make it appear as though this was only a brief layover.
Presently, they displayed bogus tail numbers along with the letters “AETC” and additional markings for the 97th Air Mobility Wing out of Altus AFB, Oklahoma. Altus AFB was the Air Education and Training Command, or AETC, for C-17s and KC-135s. Mission permitting, Paladin’s tail markings were changed every ninety days, and it was imperative that the transport always displayed them, lest they be immediately pegged as a spec ops unit.
Their CIA contact in Juliaca had reported no signs of spotters at the airport or its environs; however, there was still no way to tell if Kasperov had someone on the inside who worked at the airport and who’d been overlooked.
Charlie’s research on helicopter charters up to the mountain was inconclusive because several companies operated daily, ferrying, he assumed, mining executives, engineers, and reps from equipment manufacturers. None of those records indicated anything more than the numbers of passengers, not descriptions, names, IDs, or anything else useful. Some of the companies might’ve kept hard-copy files of that data in their offices, but Charlie found none available electronically. This was, after all, Peru.
Once they’d landed, Fisher and Briggs had rented an old 2003 Toyota Tacoma crew cab pickup. They headed up for the seventy-five-mile drive to the city along a road notorious for bandits who preyed upon miners returning with their pockets stuffed with cash.