Choke Point

TWENTY-SIX

While Ross, Pepper and Maziq were observing the fishing trawler, two late-model sedans that Ross assumed were rentals pulled up outside the Fadakno office. Out stepped a group of four well-dressed men, who, unbeknownst to them, were being observed by many eyes, including an electro-optical one flying in an elliptical orbit approximately 175 miles over their heads.

Each man was photographed as accurately as possible, the images instantaneously run through facial recognition databases for biometric tagging, part of what the military called TTL — Tagging, Tracking and Locating, which was further qualified by the designations ‘Hostile Forces’ (HF) or ‘Clandestine or Continuous’ (C) tracking.

Three of the faces came up empty for any criminal records, all of them Colombian nationals, but the fourth was positively IDed as Alfonso Valencia, a man well known and highly sought after by Colombian law enforcement.

Valencia was a graduate of the National University of Colombia in Medicine. Not long after receiving his degree, he left the country to continue his studies in Cuba and Mexico, and he remained abroad for more than eight years. He eventually returned to Colombia, where he was recruited by the FARC through his brother-in-law and rose up quickly through their ranks because of his professional experience. He was selected for the higher command, joining more than thirty top guerilla leaders, including the seven members of the secretariat, which included the group’s commander in chief. Valencia established and helped organize the FARC’s mobile medical facilities throughout the jungle regions. His presence in Tobruk struck Ross as unusual, unless he’d recently assumed new duties that involved drug smuggling.

‘Captain,’ Pepper called from behind his binoculars. ‘Check out the trawler.’

Ross did, and through an open porthole hung a man eclipsed by his own binoculars, a man Maziq confirmed was Tamer. He, too, was watching the arrival of the FARC representatives.

Ross’s pulse rose as he contacted Mitchell. They had confirmation that the FARC were in Libya and connected to Fadakno. Boom.

‘If you go in heavy now, the rabbit hole caves in,’ Mitchell warned him. ‘Keep gathering intel. We’re getting closer. Obviously, we’ll need to tag a shipment and see where it goes. I want all the key players IDed before we drop the hammer.’

‘Roger that, sir.’ Ross then shared their ‘dilemma’ with the other three-letter agency in the area.

‘I agree you need to eliminate that leak, but we don’t want a situation. You cannot break the law — as much as we’d both like to do that right now.’

‘Before I overthink this, sir, I have to ask: Do you think we can just get Tamer recalled? Have him reassigned to Tripoli or Cairo? That would save me at least one headache.’

‘Sure thing,’ Mitchell said, his sarcasm unmistakable. ‘I’ll call over to the Special Activities Division and say we got ’em covered. Send their boy home and save tax dollars.’

‘All right, sir, I understand. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. You always check under the mat before you pick the lock, right?’

Mitchell’s lips curled in a slight grin. ‘That truck that left the airport should arrive soon. It’s registered to Fadakno. If it parks at the warehouses, and it should, then we have at least one export route and vehicle established. Do we have a tracker on that plane?’

‘Kozak and 30K are working on it.’

‘Good. Keep me updated as usual. Guardian, out.’

‘Captain, we got something else here that’s kind of interesting,’ called Pepper. ‘It’s a kid coming out of the main office.’

Ross watched the wiry teenager with shaggy hair climb aboard a bicycle he’d parked out of view behind the office. He rode away, past the FARC vehicles. ‘Maziq, who’s the kid?’

‘Darhoub’s men told me he’s just a delivery boy. Brings lunch to the warehouse employees every day.’

‘Oh, he’s bringing them lunch,’ said Pepper. ‘But that’s not his only job.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Ross agreed.

Pepper pointed. ‘Here’s my take: that kid is a field agent recruited by Mr Tamer, our local spook.’

‘I’d agree,’ said Maziq. ‘The boy is gathering intel for him.’

The kid reached the pier, and although he didn’t turn out toward the marina where the fishing trawler was moored, he gave a look in that direction.

Ross stiffened. He loathed missions where kids were involved. When he was operating in Waziristan, he’d had little choice but to pay off many young boys to plant beacons inside the homes of known Taliban leaders so that those targets could be marked for drone strikes. Of the five or six he’d recruited, all of them had performed their missions expertly. All except one. Kid named Ali. He’d been caught in the act. They found what was left of him just outside the Forward Operating Base’s gate. They’d left him there to send a message.

At the same time, the Taliban mullahs were forcibly recruiting nine-year-olds to become suicide bombers, and Ross had encountered several of them in his travels, innocent children brainwashed into throwing their lives away …

The memories turned his stomach. He closed his eyes and fought hard against a sudden flood of images.

His boy … his little boy …