And this clearly meant Riley and the North Koreans were involved as well. No one knew who the other ten men were, but if this had something to do with the attack on Jack Ryan, Sr., it seemed likely the Hispanics in the mix were Maldonado gunmen.
Clark said, “We are not calling this in to Mexican law enforcement.”
A universal agreement was reached immediately on this. No one was confident the Mexicans could take this place down before the men inside escaped. Then Clark added, “We could call Hendley and have him notify Mary Pat. She would contact Justice and they would put together an FBI package. Surely they have assets staged in Mexico City after what went down yesterday.”
No one spoke.
“Or we go after him now. There are a dozen men in there. Riley I’m not too concerned about. The RGB trains some decent combatants, but we’ve dealt with several in the past few weeks.”
Ryan said, “The other guys must be part of the Maldonado cartel. As a fighting force, they suck.”
Clark replied, “We don’t know who they are for sure. Best possible scenario is they are Maldonado men. If that is the case, I like our chances hitting that residence.”
Sam was the first to speak up. “We don’t know who all Riley is working with. All it’s going to take is for him to call up a friendly helo to land on the lawn to fly that guy away. That happens, we’re left with pictures only.”
Jack Ryan, Jr., had already decided he was going to hit that house in front of him, with or without the rest of The Campus. Those men had tried to kill his father, and they’d come damn close. The discussion on the commo net among his colleagues was academic to him, although he knew that without any help his chances for survival would be nil.
Clark said, “Okay. We are going to take that building down. We don’t have breaching charges, body armor, long guns, intel on the OPFOR, or an exfil plan. We probably don’t have much time, either. We do have pistols, the element of surprise, and a need. I want to hear everyone’s ideas, and I want to hear them now.”
The team spent the next five minutes on a plan. While they were doing so, Dom Caruso dropped over the eastern wall of the property, two hundred yards from Ryan and Driscoll on the northern side.
He found excellent cover by low-crawling through some flowering jacaranda. When he was in position he called over the network, “How are we going to cross all that open ground?”
Domingo Chavez answered this. “You need a distraction, and I’ve got an idea.”
Edward Riley was impressed with the Iranian’s ability to deal with pain. Certainly by now his jaw and nose were broken, the orbital bone of his skull looked like it had been cracked, and several of his teeth had been knocked out. Blood flowed easily from his mouth and nose and the swollen blackness under his left eye. But he’d said little more than “Allahu akbar” and some words Riley took to be curses.
The Englishman looked at his watch. He wanted to have this entire episode behind him in a day, but it wasn’t looking good. Even if the man talked right now, and that didn’t look likely, Riley would still have to go check out the location of this alleged computer where Zarif uploaded the file. He didn’t know if the man had any confederates here in the country, or if he’d simply gone to a library or an electronics shop, or even if he had loaded the video onto a mobile phone and mailed it to some random address. Somewhere, Riley was convinced, was evidence that could link North Korea to the assassination attempt the day before.
Suddenly there was a disturbance upstairs. Someone was calling out in Spanish from the balcony over the front door. Riley looked to the Cubans around him.
A Cuban who spoke English entered the room and addressed Riley and Kim. “They say a car is approaching up the drive. Mercedes. The driver is the only occupant.”
That didn’t sound like a threat to Riley, but it did sound like something he needed to deal with. He headed to the front door with the Cuban who spoke English. Zarif would remain out of sight because the front door was in a large entryway with wraparound stairs that shielded the expansive living area.
Riley opened the front door in time to see a well-dressed Latin man in his mid-forties climb out of his black Mercedes with his keys in his hand. His necktie was loose and his shirt was unbuttoned, and he staggered a little as he climbed up the steps.
“May I help you?” Riley asked.
“¿Qué?”
The Cuban spoke to the man. He was all the way in the entryway before he responded.
The Cuban said, “He’s asking where his uncle Óscar is.”
“Óscar Roblas?”
“Sí,” said the man. He was clearly drunk; Riley could see his Spanish was slurred. “Tío Óscar.”
“Tell him Óscar Roblas loaned this house to us tonight. He can call him if he wants, but I invite him to do so outside. We have an important business meeting under way.”
Riley put his hand on the man’s chest and started to push him toward the door. The man staggered some more, and then said something.
“He asks if he can use the bathroom before he leaves. He says it is an emergency.”
Riley looked at the man for several seconds. Finally, he said, “Yes. Of course he can.”
The Latin man nodded and began heading toward the hallway to the back rooms; he had made it about ten feet when he heard the distinctive click of the hammer of a pistol two feet behind his head. The sound echoed in the sterile and spartan entryway of the modern house.
“Good evening, Mr. Domingo Chavez. How lovely of you to drop by.”
68
Chavez turned around slowly, his hands in the air. Riley faced him now, an excited smile on his face and a Beretta 92 pistol pointing at Chavez’s chest. Riley had apparently taken it from the man next to him.
From the moment Chavez walked into the house forty-five seconds earlier, two very bad things had happened. One was obvious; Riley had recognized him, though Ding didn’t know how the man knew about him in the first place.
But the other was potentially worse. The instant the Hispanic man began talking in the doorway, Chavez realized he was not some poorly trained cartel cowboy from Mexico’s west. No, he was Cuban, he was educated, and by virtue of the fact he was here involved with North Korean spies, Iranian terrorists, and a New York — based privately contracted British operative, there was no question in Chavez’s mind but that this man and his nine buddies were DI, Cuban Intelligence Directorate. Ding knew the Cubans turned out some skilled shooters, and he also knew his team of four men outside would be walking into a buzz saw.
Riley brought Chavez into the main room and stood him next to the seated Zarif. He then looked to the two other Cubans standing around. “Secure the building, tell the others. This man is CIA, and he probably has friends close by.” There were two men with guns left, both pointed at Chavez: Riley, who stood just six feet in front of Chavez, and the Cuban who answered the door, who had pulled a small backup pistol and was now ten feet away on Chavez’s right. The North Korean was also there, standing by the sofa, but Chavez did not see a weapon in his hand.
Riley addressed Kim now. “This man was following me a couple of weeks ago in New York. He was with others at the time. American operatives. If they are here, then we need to go.”
Kim said, “Let’s get in the cars.”
“First, we must deal with Zarif.” Riley pointed his gun at the badly beaten Iranian. Zarif seemed only peripherally aware of what was going on. “Running out of time, mate. I’m going to start shooting now. Kneecaps. Ankles. Privates. Then the head.”