The Enemy Inside

  WILLIAM CHRISTIE is the author of:

  The Warriors of God

  Mercy Mission

  The Blood We Shed

  Threat Level

  THE ENEMY INSIDE

  WILLIAM CHRISTIE

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Copyright Page

  For Beth, once again.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I’d like to publicly thank the members of the military and law enforcement communities who helped me out. And once again, of course, I can’t.

  Then there are my friends, who put up with me shamefully neglecting them during the writing of this book. Some are still serving or otherwise prone to embarrassment, so first names will have to suffice for all. The Bull and Joan. Jad and Peg. The Zooman. Erich and Vicki. Rick and Melissa. Ské and Guia. Dan and Sonita.

  The always fantastic, unintentionally neglected Nelson and Donna.

  Jim and Beth, as always, for everything. Anne and Howard, my second set of parents.

  Karen, who isn’t all that evil. And Kevin.

  Jason and Valerie. Philip and Sally, Lee, Kimberly, Neil, and Will.

  John and Shirley.

  Hope, Anne, Jackie. Hobe and Gwynn. And Mary.

  My family, of course.

  Gary Goldstein, the editor of this book. Once again both a total pro and a lot of fun to work with.

  My agent, Richard Curtis of Richard Curtis Associates, whose evil plan continues. Thanks, Richard.

  And my mother, who both made me and made me a writer.

  I can be reached at christieauthor@yahoo.com.

  “To become the enemy” means you think yourself into the enemy’s position. In the world people tend to think of a robber trapped in a house as a fortified enemy. However, if we think of “becoming the enemy,” we feel that the whole world is against us and that there is no escape. He who is shut inside is a pheasant. He who enters to arrest is a hawk. You must appreciate this.

  —Miyamoto Musashi,

  A Book of Five Rings, 1645

  (tr. Victor Harris, 1984)

  Chapter One

  It was early afternoon, and the cigarette smugglers weren’t even knocking off for siesta.

  The two Americans were leaning over the railing of the Bridge of Friendship over the Paraná river, watching the action. An accident of geography allowed them to stand in Paraguay and view two other countries: Brazil on the other side of the bridge, Argentina just slightly downriver.

  It wasn’t just one or two smugglers. It was a whole column of them, walking like army ants down the pedestrian walkway across the bridge from Ciudad del Este, Paraguay, toward the Brazilian side. They were all carrying big cardboard cases of cigarettes, wrapped in black plastic. Once they were over dry land, they all lined up at the hole that had been conveniently cut in the ten-foot-high fence lining the bridge and pushed their cases through, letting them drop onto Brazilian soil about 120 feet down.

  Brazilian crews appeared from under the bridge, tearing off the plastic wrapping, extricating the cartons of cigarettes, and stuffing them into homemade backpacks.

  Master Sergeant Edwin Storey, U.S. Army, had been timing them. Under two minutes from tearing off the plastic to disappearing into the bushes. “Those boys got it down to a science.”

  “Sure as shit is the Friendship Bridge,” said Petty Officer First Class Lee Troy, U.S. Navy. Shredded black plastic lay on the ground as thick as garden mulch. “All those smokes’ll be on sale in Brazil tonight, tax free.”

  Everyone knows Miami and Hong Kong are the first and second largest tax-free commerce zones in the world. Ciudad del Este, population 240,000, was actually number three. This was mainly due to geography and politics. The Paraná let cargo move back and forth among Buenos Aires, Montevideo, and the Atlantic Ocean. The government of Paraguay did not collect income or sales tax, or tariffs in Ciudad del Este because the country’s chaotic political history and lack of national tradition for the rule of law led it to believe, correctly, that no would pay them anyway. So why not take advantage of it? Ciudad del Este was responsible for 60 percent of Paraguay’s gross domestic product.

  Low or no tax areas abutting high tax areas are always boomtowns. Ciudad del Este was a boomtown, a trader’s paradise. Low or no tax areas abutting high tax areas are always a smuggler’s paradise. Ciudad del Este was no different.

  It was estimated by the Paraguayan police that 70 percent of all the vehicles on the road in Paraguay were stolen in neighboring countries. Or the United States. They arrived in trailer trucks and shipping containers, and were traded for Paraguayan marijuana and Colombian and Bolivian cocaine. Firearms made by Taurus and Rossi in Brazil came across the border and went right back into Brazil, and Argentina, and elsewhere, without documentation.

  Boomtowns tended to attract entrepreneurs. A large Chinatown had grown up in Ciudad del Este. And, of much more interest to the United States, an Arab community of more than 30,000 had established itself there as well. Investment dollars, clean or not, poured in from the Middle East because there were big profits to be made on merchandise like bootleg movies, music, designer clothing, and software. Consumer electronics, even computer chips, were major commodities. Any hot vehicles in excess of local needs went overseas, many to the Middle East. SUVs stolen off the streets of the United States were the vehicles of choice for suicide bombers in Iraq. The money moved back and forth with few controls and almost no oversight.

  The lines of cigarette smugglers continued remorselessly across the bridge. The vehicle traffic was all backed up. It was always backed up. Forty thousand people came over from Brazil every day, to work and shop. And smuggle. “There’s never a cop around when you need one,” said Troy.

  “Five hundred U.S. buys you a cop with a serious vision problem,” said Storey. “The law around here don’t pull in much salary, but they all drive Mercedes or BMWs.”

  “I don’t know,” said Troy. “Seems to me it takes all the fun out of smuggling if it’s this easy. High noon? In public? Where’s the juice in that?”

  “Businessmen run this,” said Storey. “Not thrill seekers like you. Take a good look. When the State has power, criminals are a minority. When the State loses power, criminals take over.”

  “I’ve seen this everywhere I’ve been,” said Troy.

  “That’s what I mean,” said Storey. “We’re looking at the future. If we don’t win.”

  Troy glanced at his watch. “Our boy’s running late.”

  “He’s a creature of habit,” Storey said reassuringly.

  “If these guys ever showed an ounce of tradecraft, we’d never find them. Makes me
wonder how many sharp ones are running around we don’t know anything about.”

  “Rule Number One,” Storey said in a warning tone.

  The first of Ed Storey’s operational rules was that, when working covertly, you always operated under the assumption that you were under visual or audio surveillance twenty-four hours a day. So you never broke your cover, and you never, ever, discussed any mission details in any insecure space. And in these days of ultrasensitive parabolic microphones and computer-enhanced audio, even the open air wasn’t a secure space.

  It always annoyed Troy when Storey mentioned his rules. Especially when Storey was right to mention his rules. And Storey had a tendency to be right all the time, which was even more annoying.

  The point was driven home by how they’d located their quarry, an ordinary Arab businessman who regularly ran up $5,000 a month in phone bills calling Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Egypt, and the United States.

  When most people thought of spies, they pictured high-level politicians snapping photos of secret documents with miniature cameras. But the most valuable agents were people like the moonlighting phone company employee who passed you lists of people making interesting calls for a retainer of $1,000 a month.

  Of course, the target could have been just an Arab businessman with a lot of contacts. But the National Security Agency, whose mandate it was to intercept communications and break codes, had a worldwide network of listening stations and satellites to allow it to listen in on international phone calls. And after listening carefully to all the Arab’s numbers, they discovered he wasn’t calling Pakistan about DVD players.

  Storey’s cell phone rang. One of the first things they did upon arriving in a new town was to buy a bunch of cell phones, all local numbers, that they could use a few times and then discard. He listened carefully. “That’s right,” he said in almost accentless Spanish. “Twenty minutes.” Then to Troy, he added, “We’re moving.”

  A casual observer would have had no idea they were Americans. Clothes are always the tip-off. Move someone from one country to another, and even if they don’t say a word everyone knows they’re a foreigner.

  One of Storey’s other rules was to travel with only a small bag—which had the added benefit of allowing him to move like lightning when necessary—and buy clothes wherever he landed. All he had to do was look around a bit, see what the majority of men in his age group was wearing, and go shopping. The goal being anonymity, not cutting-edge style.

  So all the casual observer saw was a nondescript white man in his mid-thirties, with brown hair and a closely trimmed beard, wearing an inexpensive suit and no tie. And a similarly dressed black man in his late twenties with a moustache and an Afro that wasn’t quite large enough to call attention to itself. Nobody you’d remember. Just part of life’s background.

  The motorcycles were parked at the end of the bridge, helmeted riders waiting atop. Storey had learned from having them used against him that nothing was better at getting you through the traffic, narrow streets, and alleys of the Third World than the “mototaxi,” a motorcycle and driver that operated just like a taxi. Flag one down, hop on the back, and get dropped wherever you wanted. If you had the balls, that is. For local cover, they were perfect.

  Everything of importance in Ciudad del Este was concentrated near the bridge, so it was a short drive. The streets were a madhouse. Nothing but horns, shouting, exhaust, and gridlock. Except for motorcycles.

  Storey slid off the bike and passed his helmet to the driver. He cast a professional eye down the street. The only thing worse than walking unawares into your own trouble was blundering accidentally into someone else’s. After one outrage too many, Brazil had turned its army loose on the Rio drug gangs, and the pressure was causing the leaders to relocate to Ciudad del Este. Drugs and terrorists. Always looking for a friendly home.

  To an orderly North American, it would seem like just too much. Too many people literally running back and forth, moving merchandise carrying all the logos of all the world’s manufacturers, genuine or not. Door to door shops, and shoppers pouring in and out of them. Even the sidewalk vendors were elbow to elbow hustling trinkets, CDs, perfume, and soccer jerseys. All it took was one slightly interested glance and they’d attach themselves to you like remora fish to a shark. There wasn’t even enough space for all the brightly colored signs and billboards, so they were slapped up almost overlapping one another.

  It was only April, but even without all the bodies it still would have been too hot, and jungle humid. One of those places where everything felt illegal, and even the most insensitive blockhead could pick up the danger radiating from the streets along with the heat.

  Storey gingerly inserted himself into the pedestrian traffic. You didn’t go shoving your way through a crowd of overheated, short-tempered Latins unless you were looking for trouble.

  The shops were all on street level, offices and apartments on the upper floors. Storey went through a glass door that was nearly opaque from the ever-present brown dust, mixed with rain splatter and hydrocarbon emissions. In the entry alcove he was confronted with a line of apartment buzzers along the wall, and a glistening steel security door. The object that slid out from Storey’s sleeve looked like an electric toothbrush, except it was flat, black, and had, instead of bristles on the end, a steel pick. The pick went into the deadbolt lock’s keyhole and the unit vibrated just like an electric toothbrush, knocking all the pin tumblers from their cavities. A twist of the tension wrench in Storey’s left hand, and the lock snapped open. Five seconds, start to finish. He went up the stairs, the door closing and locking automatically behind him.

  The upstairs hallway was dark, smelling of old wood and musty carpet. Storey fitted the plug into his ear and squeezed and released the transmit bar of the Motorola walkie-talkie five times. He received five clicks back. The lookouts were reading him, and in position. Now, if none of the other residents showed up, life would be perfect.

  Storey waited. By now he considered himself the duty expert on waiting. He could do the biofeedback techniques taught to all Delta Force operators without even having to think about it, reducing his heart rate and relaxing his body while keeping his senses sharp and his mind alert. He did not look at his watch.

  The radio broke squelch four times. The target was on the street. Three times. Coming in, alone. The acoustics of the empty stairwell made the lock sound like a gunshot.

  Storey edged along the wall until he was even with the stairway opening.

  Feet on the stairs. Trudging. Storey could tell by the pace of the steps, and the little grunt as he started up, the poor guy was tired. Too bad.

  Storey had counted the steps on his way up. Now he was counting them again. Twenty-six, twenty-seven.

  Black hair, leaning forward, looking down at his feet. A second later enough of the head. Catching sight of Storey, the look of alarm, but by then it was too late.

  Storey’s arm swung down, and he delivered an openhanded slap to the back of the skull, just above the ears. Ordinarily the kind of blow that was just an attention-getter, the prelude to more serious action to come. But the guy dropped like a rock, facedown on the stairs. Out.

  Storey had tried everything from Taser stun guns to Halothane anesthetic in a handheld vaporizer mask. And they had all let him down at one time or another, sometimes with embarrassing results. Everything except the palm sap: a leather pocket shaped like a small ingot filled with powdered lead, stitched to a leather band that went around the back of the hand, to hold it in place.

  You could walk up behind someone and give them a casual slap to the back of the head, and it didn’t look like you’d hit them with a club. And in a situation with multiple adversaries, knocking the first guy unconscious with a simple open hand to the side of his head usually made the others reconsider their motivation. The best part was that in your luggage or pocket the palm sap looked like some kind of exercise equipment, not an obvious weapon.

  Storey slipped the sap off his
hand and keyed the radio, still speaking in Spanish. It wouldn’t do to have anyone with a scanner hear English being spoken. “Clear. Move.”

  Lee Troy emerged from the darkness at the other end of the hallway, where he’d been covering the back steps. He was carrying a Glock pistol, the compact Model 26 9mm. Twelve-round capacity and 6.29 inches long. The Gemtech Aurora sound suppressor can screwed on to the end of the modified barrel added another three inches. “He’s alive, I hope.”

  “He’s alive,” said Storey, who had just finished checking the carotid pulse. He pulled both hands behind the back, securing them with flexible plastic handcuffs, like the ties used to hold together bunches of electric cables. Another around the ankles, and a strip of duct tape over the mouth and around the head.

  Troy went down the stairs and opened the door for a member of their support team dressed as a deliveryman who was rolling a wooden box strapped to a hand truck.

  They fitted the unconscious body into the box and latched it shut. The deliveryman rolled it back down the stairs and out to the unmarked van double-parked on the street.

  The van didn’t wait around. It drove across the Friendship Bridge into Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil. Unlike their Paraguayan counterparts, Brazilian customs actually searched vehicles. But not this one. The driver and passenger carried red U. S. diplomatic passports, granting them and their vehicle diplomatic immunity.

  At the Foz do Iguaçu airfield the box was loaded aboard an unmarked Gulfstream V business jet. Once the hatches were shut the passenger was extracted and examined by a medical technician.

  Anyone curious enough about the jet’s tail numbers to do a little research would discover that it was registered to Aero Contractors, Ltd., of Smithfield, North Carolina. They would not discover that Aero was a CIA front company.

  The jet flew directly to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.

  Storey kept two souvenirs from his victim. The nylon briefcase he’d been carrying, and his keys.