Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

He saw three men approach, and a discussion ensued. He wished he could hear what was being said, but the directional microphone was in the BMW, too large to use unobtrusively here.

He sidled up to the journalist and said, “Did you see the man? Is he here?”

His face white, he said, “No. No, he hasn’t come through.”

Sure he would tell the truth if the man appeared, if only to save his life, the sicario said, “Who did you see?”

The journalist ducked his head and said, “No one. I thought I saw him, but it wasn’t the right guy. He’ll come, though, right? He’ll come.”

Carlos and the men began walking to the rental car counters, and the sicario had a choice: continue waiting here or follow them. Maybe Los Zetas’ information was only partially correct. Maybe someone was coming, but it wasn’t the man the journalist knew.

He made his decision, pulling the journalist with him to the car and circling around to the exit for the rental lot. When the three men appeared in a yellow Toyota, he waited. Soon enough, he saw Carlos drive up in a dented, beat-up American sedan like he was accustomed to using in Juárez. He let them get a few cars away before beginning to follow, knowing the traffic would keep them from eluding him.

After winding through Zona Rosa they pulled over at Chapultepec park and exited, walking toward the lake that fronted Paseo de la Reforma Avenue. The sicario parked as well, pulling out the directional microphone and saying, “Do as I say and you may yet live through the day.”

When the journalist didn’t respond, he said, “Do the right thing. Follow me.”

The park itself was very large, with paths intertwining throughout and food vendors hawking their products, giving the sicario plenty of options to approach without being seen. He passed the lake without finding his quarry and looped around a strip of food vendors, searching the tables. He came up empty. He was preparing to go deeper into the park, away from the lake, when the journalist said, “There. At the paddleboats, on the bench. Are those the guys you were following?”

The sicario looked at him curiously and the journalist said, “Please remember that when we talk to the leader again.”

They settled onto a bench screened by a row of shrubs and the sicario placed the headphones on his ears as if he were listening to music. The microphone looked like a black tube with a pistol grip on the bottom, connected to a small box with two dials. He laid it alongside his leg and angled it toward his target.

He fiddled with the gain on the box for a second, then adjusted the volume. Satisfied, he began to listen, turning on the digital recorder.

Within seconds, he knew he had made the right choice.

32

I was driving as fast as I could in the traffic, weaving in and out, trying to get a handle on our target. And a handle on our authority.

Jennifer was on the phone, talking to our pilots, getting them to feed the number the father had sent into the embedded collection capability hidden in the aircraft, and Knuckles was working the trace of the cell phone for the cop.

I jerked the wheel to swerve around a jackass who had decided to stop in the middle of the street, causing Jennifer to slap her hand against the door and me to start cursing. The only good thing about the dumb-ass drivers in the Federal District was the fact that I couldn’t do anything bad enough to get pulled over, because everyone here treated all traffic rules as advice only. Lanes, red lights, whatever, it was only a guide and not something to be followed if you didn’t feel like it.

I heard Jennifer talking to the pilots and wanted to snatch the phone away from her. “Yes, that’s the number. We need you to suck that thing in… . No, it’s not a blanket. We aren’t trying to prevent it from talking. We need to draw in an SMS text… . No, we’re not conducting unauthorized surveillance. It’s sending a code. We need the code. What do you mean you don’t have the capability? I know you have it… .”

I finally had heard enough. I snatched the phone. “Hello? Who the hell is this?”

“Jim Beam.”

Dumb-ass pilot call sign. “Jim, did you hear what was just said? Do you have an issue with it? Because I’m on a road that leads to the airport and I could be there just as quickly as I could execute this mission.”

“Hey, I heard everything she said, but I can’t start affecting the cell network in a foreign country just because you guys called. I need authorization. We diverted to Mexico for transport only.”

“This is my mission, and I’m Pike Logan. I say again, Pike Logan. I’m authorizing the operation. Do you understand?”

“Uhh … no …”

What the hell? Another new guy?

I saw Jennifer roll her eyes and wave her hand for the phone back, but that insult was too much to let go. I took a breath and said, “Okay. Well, clearly, you haven’t heard about me. But we did meet, right? You remember what I look like?”

I heard him talking to someone next to him, then, “Uhh … yeah. Brown crew cut, scar on your face? You had the hot chick with you, right?”

Now I really wanted to throw the phone. “Yes. That’s me. I was running Taskforce collection operations before you got your pilot’s license. Now put that number into the collection device and turn it on with the largest gain you can. We’re trying to get an SMS text that is out of range of the nearest tower.”

I heard nothing for a moment, then, “The package in the plane isn’t authorized for Grolier Recovery Services. All you are authorized for is transport. I need someone from headquarters to release.”

Jesus Christ. The Taskforce actually separated the individual capabilities of the aircraft? I should have known, because I’d seen it a hundred different times in other scenarios where I was authorized but others weren’t. This was a first for me, though. As a civilian, I wasn’t supposed to be read on to what was in the aircraft, but I was, and now I needed it and I had no time to work through the bureaucracy.

A car appeared out of nowhere, playing NASCAR and causing me to slap my hands on the steering wheel, swerving around him. I put the phone on speaker so I could use both hands to drive and tossed it onto the seat. Jennifer locked eyes with me and put a finger to her lips. She said, “Just got authorization from Kurt Hale. Code four-seven-four-Alpha-Zulu. Authenticate.”

The pilot said, “Code what? What the hell are you talking about?”

She said, “I just gave you the authorization! Come on. Authenticate or find another job.”

“I can’t authenticate … I … I have no idea how to authenticate.”

“When did you leave CONUS? Did you get the new procedures?”

“We haven’t been home since we left for Turkmenistan. What procedures?”

“Well, welcome to the new world. Get in the air, or start calling Southwest Airlines for employment.”

The pilot muttered something unintelligible, then spoke to someone beside him. Seconds later, he came back on and finally agreed. Jennifer said, “Fly south. The target is in the south. Suck up every signal you can get, and lock that number.”

She hung up and I said, “What the hell was that?”

“You were getting nowhere with the macho crap. You guys change operational procedures every five seconds, so I figured I’d give him what he wanted. Authorization.”

Weaving through the traffic, I shook my head at how easily she had manipulated the system and said, “Get Knuckles on the phone. Leave it on speaker.” When he came on I said, “You got ’im?”

“Yeah. He’s continuing east, toward Zona Rosa. When he gets there, he’s going to be near a ton of embassies and government buildings.”

“We need to stop him before then.”