Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

Yeah, something wasn’t right, and he asked Mr. Fawkes to find out what that was. In truth, he wasn’t so sure that Arthur Booth wasn’t behind it to begin with. The entire cycle of events had begun when he’d captured the reporter at their initial meeting. Carlos would treat Booth as an enemy until he could prove otherwise.

His second call had been to South America. If the POLARIS protocol actually worked and wasn’t just some trap to cause the implosion of Sinaloa’s grasp on the Juárez plaza, then it would be worth money to others, and that was all Carlos had left.

They’d been approached on numerous occasions by Lebanese Hezbollah, and had actually helped them once or twice when it would pay off without risk, but for the most part, Sinaloa had stayed away from anything smacking of Islamic terrorism. The cartel’s fight with the government of Mexico was something they could handle, and they didn’t want to give the United States any reason to interfere, which is what would happen if they started assisting Hezbollah on a grand scale, but now Carlos’s fight was over. He would be dead if he ever went back to Sinaloa, and he couldn’t have cared less what the Americans did after he had his money. And so he’d called a Hezbollah contact, saying, “I have something that will help in your fight against the drones. You fear them in Pakistan and Yemen, but I can make that fear go away.”

Not having any insight at all into the phenomena of global jihadist movements, Carlos didn’t understand the difference between al-Qaeda and Hezbollah, and, like most of the world, assumed they were painted with the same brush. They’d agreed to meet, and now Carlos waited on their arrival outside the international terminal, hoping he didn’t see a group of foreigners wearing something that looked like a bedsheet, highlighting who they were and putting cross hairs on him.

He needn’t have worried. Three men exited, looked around, then focused on the sign in his hand. All appeared more Latino than like an Arab terrorist, wearing jeans and T-shirts with cheap rucksacks on their backs. They sported thick mustaches but no beards.

The tallest one approached and said in English, “You are looking for an investment in South America?”

Carlos replied, “Yes, I’m always looking for good investments.”

The man smiled at the correct answer and held out his hand. Carlos shook it, saying, “You have no bags?”

“Just our backpacks. We can buy what we need if we stay longer than anticipated.”

Carlos nodded and led them to the car rental counter, saying, “Who did I talk with on the phone?”

The tall one said, “None of us. We understand you have something that will help our brothers’ fight in Waziristan.”

Carlos had no idea what he was talking about, beginning to feel lost. “I have an ability to confuse the Predator drones. Is that what you mean?”

The man smiled and said, “Yes. That’s what I mean. So you know, we are but a conduit. Another man is coming, from Waziristan.” He said it in a condescending manner, as if Carlos was a child.

Carlos held his gaze for a moment, then said, “I don’t give a shit where he’s coming from. As long as he has money. A lot of money.”

29

Jennifer, her eyes behind a set of small binoculars, said, “Holy crap, Pike—that’s the cop!”

I jerked the binos out of her hands and focused. Sure enough, the target of the house we had left two hours ago was now leaving the residence of the kid on the document Jennifer had brought with her from the B & E.

What the hell? This whole thing was turning into a real-life version of The Usual Suspects. All I was missing was hearing someone say Keyser Söze was behind it. I wanted to turn the operation off but couldn’t because of Jennifer. She was hell-bent on finding her brother, and since she could play me like a violin, here we sat with her pathetic lead from the B & E. Only now, the damn thing had actually gone somewhere.

The one clue she’d taken from the house had been a photo of a document in Spanish with a picture on it. We’d sent it to the Taskforce and had found out the kid in the picture was the son of a textile tycoon and had been kidnapped yesterday. Just one more statistic in the multimillion-dollar ransom industry in Mexico.

The family lived in a wealthy area west of the city center called Polanco, where all of the houses were set behind high walls and gates. Why the cop had the kid’s picture we didn’t know, but Jennifer was convinced it was because he was in on it. Convinced it was a lead to her brother.

I, on the other hand, was convinced the whole thing was asking for a compromise of Taskforce activities but had reluctantly let it go since the Oversight Council had sanctioned further operations. I was a little surprised we’d been given clearance to explore the lead at all, and my heart just wasn’t behind it. For once, I wasn’t demanding to be allowed to do something because I thought the risks far outweighed the rewards.

It was a cold calculation, but Jennifer’s brother wasn’t worth Taskforce exposure, and I wasn’t as sure as everybody else that there was some overarching threat. Even though the Oversight Council flinched at the mere mention of my name, I understood when to push things and when to back off, and this was a case of needing to back off. Except Jennifer had looked at me with her damn puppy eyes. And the council had sanctioned it.

Jennifer said, “What do we do now? He’s getting away.”

“Do? What do you want to do? Run him into a ditch and demand answers?”

Her face grew dark. “Yeah, that would be fine.”

“Well, that ain’t happening. How about we ask the family what they know?”

“You mean go knock on the door? With what? They won’t even let us in.”

I tinkered with the idea a little longer, probing it like a tongue working a piece of meat stuck between the teeth. Yeah, that’s a gross analogy, but it explains exactly how I was feeling. Wanting to free the irritation in my mouth, but knowing the slop left over would be disgusting.

I said, “Let’s go. You lead the way. You’re much less threatening. Get them to let us in. I’ll take over from there.”

We called Knuckles, letting him know what was going on, then parked outside the gate of the mansion, punching the buzzer of the keypad outside. A man came on speaking Spanish, and Jennifer said, “We’re here to talk about Felix. We’d like to come in.”

There was nothing for a moment, then a woman’s voice in heavily accented English said, “Who are you? What do you want?”

Jennifer stared into the camera and said, “I’m here to help. Please. Let us in.”

She said, “Go away or I’m calling the police.”

I thought for a split second about pushing the issue as if we were the kidnappers, just to get me in the door. Knowing that would be cruel. Before I could lean over, taking control, Jennifer said, “My brother is kidnapped by the same savages who have your son. I know they’re together. Please, please let me come up.”

Her voice was dripping with emotion that couldn’t be faked. Instead of leaning forward, I leaned back lest they see me in the car and suspect a trick. The gates parted.

We drove up a circular path and parked out front, the mansion much larger than what could be seen from the gate. Two men exited the top of the stairs, not overtly threatening, but not friendly either. We walked up, and one motioned to me, telling me to spread my arms. I did so, and was thoroughly searched. Not in a sloppy way, either. He literally cupped my balls, which told me he was doing it for real, as that is the last place a man will put his hands and the first place a killer will put his weapon because of it. He wasn’t an amateur, which meant his employer wasn’t either.