“Good-bye, my friend,” he whispered to the darkness.
37
The rising sun cast a light that seemed harsh and unforgiving. The three agents were exhausted. Coffee mugs and scattered boxes of Chinese food and donuts littered the desktop. Hernandez brushed his long hair out of his face to better see the screen. Savas thought his computer whiz looked like a particularly disheveled tumbleweed after a windstorm. Cohen rested her head on her hands, her mouth pursed.
The eyes he saw reflected in the screen told a different story. Dark circles and bags hung under them, yet each pair burned with the intensity of a hunter on the chase, catching the scent of prey. Their bodies were slung at angles showing fatigue, but they willed their minds into focus after an elusive target that was for the first time coming into view.
“I'll be damned,” said Savas.
Hernandez whistled. “Yeah, man, crazy shit. I thought it was too much that those records connected the dealers to GI, but this…” He chuckled. “Husaam hit the jackpot.”
Cohen nodded. “I'd say we now have motive with the means and opportunity.”
Savas agreed. “One hell of a motive. I didn't think it would be like this. You two did some good work digging this out.”
“So, what do we do now?” asked Cohen.
Savas straightened up and sighed. “It's time to bring this to Larry.”
“He's got a big powwow with the CIA this morning, dude,” said Manuel.
“I know. All the better.” Savas stood up, still staring at the photograph of a woman on the computer screen. “This changes everything.”
“John, what's going on? I'm in the middle of a meeting!”
Kanter stood up from his desk with a look of intense displeasure on his face. Across from him sat Richard Michelson, the lanky and pale head of the CIA's Crime and Narcotics Center. At Kanter's right was Mira Vujanac, who looked startled and concerned. Next to Michelson sat a thick black man in a white robe and kufi — Husaam Jordan. Jordan seemed fatigued, sporting a sling and a cane beside him.
“Larry, this can't wait, and it's for everyone present to hear,” said Savas, casting his gaze across those gathered. He ushered in Cohen and a nervous Hernandez. Kanter let out an exasperated sigh.
“This better be important, John.”
Savas stared back. “It is. Manuel, can you pull up the data on Larry's screen?”
The wall beside Kanter was essentially one large LCD monitor. Savas knew his boss was an information junkie, constantly monitoring the work of Intel 1, especially during a crisis. He hoped to fully engage him now. Hernandez activated the touch screen, and Kanter enabled access. Soon a list of cargo manifests and other shipping records were displayed, along with photographs: a man with silver hair and a stunning woman in her late forties.
“Let me just clarify this for you,” began Savas, as the others in the room strained to decipher the details on the screen. “As you know, both of our agencies have been poring over the records obtained from the Dubai arms dealers.”
Jordan rumbled, “The CIA hasn't made very much progress.” Savas saw Michelson's face tighten. “I'm glad Mira's efforts have helped distribute those files. I was beginning to think I'd taken metal in vain.”
“No, not in vain at all. It's buried, but it's there. A clear connection. The S-47 was sold in bulk three times over the last five years. In each case, a maze of shell business and offshore bank accounts, all essentially untraceable and bearing the mark of a highly organized operation, transferred money to our recently deceased arms dealers.”
Irritably, Michelson interrupted. “Yes, this is nothing new. The CIA has identified these money-laundering fronts as well. They've buried their tracks in that labyrinth.”
Savas smiled. “Not well enough, Mr. Michelson. Guess they didn't count on anyone turning Rebecca loose on the data.”
Cohen smiled a little shyly as Savas continued. “It took some doing, but together with Manuel they found their way through the false accounts and companies. The sales are linked to something very real. Bottom line: these explosives were moved to cargo ships flying various flags, but each and every one of them was sailing under the management of Operon Shipping.”
Kanter frowned. “What's Operon?”
Savas walked to the screen beside Manuel. “That's where this case takes a big turn, Larry. Operon Shipping is a company wholly owned and managed as a subsidiary of Gunn International, the single most powerful defense contracting corporation in the world.” For emphasis he tapped his index finger next to the photo of the man on the screen.
Eyebrows across the table were raised. Everyone had heard of GI, or Gunn International. GI handled everything from weapons shipments to aircraft design, a multibillion-dollar enterprise headed by the reclusive William Gunn, a man legendary for his iron-willed governance and secrecy. Linking GI and William Gunn to the terrorist attacks was like shaking a can of nitroglycerin. The stunned expressions from everyone in the room reflected this.
“GI?” said Kanter, as much to himself as to Savas. “Wait a second. John, that's a big jump from Operon to Gunn International.”
Michelson nodded. “Based on circumstantial evidence.”
“There's more. Manuel, pull up the construction site images.”
The screen filled with satellite images of desert lands. Two photos, dated more than a year apart, were juxtaposed.
“These are images from the Nevada desert, taken of identical sites. Notice the buildup and subsequent erasure of structures?”
Kanter nodded. “Yes, and so? Why are you focusing on these? What led you to these images?”
“The phony shell companies. Once we had the link to Operon Shipping, we searched for any other activity from these entities. Turns out they outsourced several construction projects in the American Southwest, but the records are another wild goose chase. Nothing tied to anything concrete. Oh, to be sure, there's work that was done. Up pop buildings and landscaping a year or so ago, but now it's all gone. Erased. Like it never happened.”
“What the hell, then?” asked Kanter, perplexed.
“Military exercises.” It was Jordan.
Savas smiled, exchanging a glance with Cohen. The man was quick!
Michelson stared at his employee. “Military exercises?”
Jordan shifted his weight to reposition his healing leg. “What do you do before you rig international monuments with S-47? To pull those missions off — complicated, secretive missions of high precision — you have to be prepared. You have to run simulations. These people are military-level precise in what they do, and I'll bet you that they train like Special Forces as well. For all we know, most of them are ex-Special Forces troops.”
“I'll be damned,” Kanter whispered absentmindedly, staring at the images.
“What are you saying?” Michelson asked with poorly concealed irritation.
Savas turned to the CIA official. “That these ‘construction jobs’ are terrorist training sites. Like those in Afghanistan used by al-Qaeda, but right here at home, hidden in our own backyard, run by Americans, and at a far higher skill level.”
“That's crazy,” began Michelson.
Jordan decided to up the ante. “And, furthermore, funded to the hilt by none other than Gunn International. I think you'd find, if there were any trace left, which there won't be, that these construction companies were all assembled, equipped, and run by personnel from former GI subsidiaries.”