Three Weeks in Washington, page 17
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
The moment Juliana had left us alone in The Bubble, Mitchell had clammed up.
I was fine with that, because I needed a few minutes to gather my thoughts before Wylie checked in with us.
Around 6:05, Mitchell broke the silence.
“How old do you think Juliana is?”
“Too old for you.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Probably late thirties.”
“I’m thirty.”
“She could be forty.”
“I doubt that. She—”
Wylie’s image pixilated across the video monitor.
“Are you boys saddled up and ready to ride?” he asked.
Mitchell responded with a passable Texas drawl. “Shoot, I reckon.”
Wylie formed a six-shooter with his hand and aimed it at Mitchell, whispering “POW” after making the shot. Afterward, he blew away wisps of imaginary smoke.
Wylie said, “This kid’s a quick learner, Titus. Have you noticed that?”
“Hard to miss.”
Wylie smiled. “Okay, here’s what I’ve got.”
After spending a few minutes explaining how he’d been able to access the data at the airport, he said, “You called it right. In the security cam’s video, Marwan’s wife and daughter were seen getting off the flight from Madrid with him.”
Mitchell executed a fist pump. “Yes!”
Wiley said, “I’ve also retrieved a still shot which shows the ladies going through customs.”
Yesterday, after briefing Wylie on Marwan Farage and his attempted murder of Roberto, I’d explained my theory about Marwan meeting up with his wife and daughter and the three of them flying into Caracas together. Besides asking Wylie to verify this, I’d also asked him to make certain the wife and daughter hadn’t flown to Buenos Aires with Marwan and weren’t somewhere here in the city right now.
I asked, “Marwan wasn’t in that still photo, right?”
“That’s right. He didn’t go through customs with them. His flight to Buenos Aires took off at the same time they were clearing customs here in Caracas.”
Mitchell asked, “Any luck locating an address for them?”
“Hold on,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee, “I’m getting to that.”
He put his “Don’t Mess With Texas” mug down and continued. “Truth be told, I didn’t need much luck. The Ops Center sent me the list of Rehman Zaidi’s contacts they’d lifted from his phone when they’d bugged his apartment a few weeks back. That made it easy for me to track the ladies to an apartment leased to Nassir Ibrahim. It’s located in the Bello Campo district, and it turns out he’s a teacher at that same Muslim school where Zaidi was employed.”
“I like what I’m hearing,” I said. “Any chance you’ve already managed to get some pictures of Yamina and her daughter?”
“No, it was too late last night. Buck and his crew are outside the apartment right now, and as soon as the ladies show their faces, he’ll capture it all on camera. I’m sure at least one of the women will mosey out later in the day.”
“Make sure the photographs clearly show their location in Caracas and what day it is,” I said. “I want Marwan to realize we have access to his wife and daughter right now.”
“Yeah,” Wylie said, “my boys know what the objective is here, but if the ladies don’t show their faces in a couple of hours, you may have to go to Plan B.”
Mitchell glanced over at me. “We have a Plan B?”
Wylie laughed. “I figured Plan B is a snatch and grab of Mrs. Farage and Ms. Samira. If that happens, I can guarantee you this cowboy will be able to stage some photographs sure to strike fear in the heart of Mr. Farage.”
I said, “I hope it doesn’t come to that. Right now, I have no reason to believe his wife and daughter are involved with Hezbollah or with any of Marwan’s activities. If I discover that’s not true, I won’t hesitate to use Plan B.”
Wylie said, “Here’s my question. Why would Marwan bring his wife and daughter along on a revenge killing?”
I said, “I’ve been asking myself that same question since yesterday, and I haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer yet. In a few hours, I plan to put that question to Marwan himself.”
Mitchell said, “His wife and daughter provide him with a good cover story. To any interested party, it looks as if the whole family is vacationing together in Venezuela; except, of course, Marwan took a little side trip to Argentina.”
Wylie picked up his cell phone. “Buck just texted me.”
He tapped out a quick answer. “He says both women have just exited the apartment, and they’re heading down the street. They’re on foot.”
I asked, “What’s on that street? Any restaurants? Businesses?”
Mitchell added, “What about internet cafes? Samira might want to go online, message her friends back home, maybe check out her social media contacts.”
Wylie said, “Don’t worry. My boys and I have this covered. By the time you get Marwan under the lights, I’ll have the photos you need, and I’ll make sure they’re enough to convince Marwan the two of you are despicable human beings who are about to kidnap his wife and daughter and do unspeakable things to them.”
Mitchell said, “I find it hard to believe he’s going to care about two people being hurt when he’s willing to have thousands killed.”
I said, “Marwan plans to kill the infidels, that’s us, the kafir, and Yamina and Samira are usra, family. To a Muslim, nothing is more important than usra.”
Wylie said, “As soon as we get the photos, I’ll have them uploaded to the Ops Center.”
I immediately started to protest, but Wylie held up his hand. “Don’t be a nervous Nellie, buckaroo. I’ll be sending you everything I’m sending them.”
“I’m not sure about that Nellie part, Sam. But, yeah, I’m probably a little anxious. I’m afraid I won’t have enough time to question Marwan before he’s shipped off to Gitmo. Did I mention I’m only authorized to do a preliminary assessment on the guy?”
“I heard about the PIA. Olivia told me about it this morning.”
Mitchell said, “Olivia? I thought she—”
I cut him off. “We heard she was sick.”
“Well, she’s back at work now. That’s how I was able to locate Yamina and her daughter so quickly. Once I uploaded the airport video to the Ops Center, Olivia contacted me directly. She said she was sending me the list of Zaidi’s contacts.”
I found it strange Carlton hadn’t mentioned Olivia was back at work, but then, seconds later, I realized what that probably meant.
“Has Olivia been assigned to Salazar?” I asked. “Is she running the second component of Citadel Protection?”
“Yeah, that’s right, but that’s only temporary because she said she was scheduled for some kind of surgery in a few days. I don’t think she was very happy about being assigned to Salazar, even temporarily.”
“I can relate to that.”
“Then you’ll appreciate what she had to say about him.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Wylie grinned. “She said, ‘Being told you have to work with Salazar is like being told you have cancer. At first, you think you might fight it, but later on, you realize it’s not worth the fight.’”
I couldn’t decide whether I appreciated what Olivia had to say or not, but I knew I was happy she was still around to say it.
* * * *
When Juliana, Mitchell, and I arrived back at the offices of Bub’s Subs, the only person we found in 301-B was Otis. He told us Vasco had gone home around midnight, and he hadn’t heard from him since.
I glanced over at the security monitor.
Marwan was sitting on the edge of the bed in 301-A. He was bent over, with his head cradled in his hands.
I asked, “Has he slept at all?”
Otis popped the last morsel of some kind of pastry in his mouth. “Oh, yeah, he slept through the night. I woke him up and gave him a Danish and some coffee around six this morning.”
“Has he said anything? Asked for anything?”
“He’s been demanding to speak to el jefe.”
I considered it a good sign Marwan was asking to speak to someone in authority, and I told Otis to transfer him to 301-C and tell him el jefe was ready to speak to him now.
A few minutes later, I sat in front of the monitor and watched as Otis and another operative moved Marwan over to 301-C and secured his hands to the table once again. He appeared calmer than the day before, and I figured it was probably due to the rest he’d gotten the night before.
For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d made a mistake by not questioning Marwan when he’d been exhausted, as Vasco had suggested. However, after Otis had left the room, I saw the same look of fear I’d seen in his eyes the day before, and I knew I’d made the right decision to shut things down for a few hours.
I told Mitchell I wanted to give Marwan thirty minutes alone in the room before we showed up, and I used the time to grab another cup of coffee and a couple of sweet rolls. Meanwhile, Juliana was setting up an encrypted iPad for me, programming it to receive the photos Wylie had promised to send us.
As soon as she’d finished with the iPad, I handed it off to Mitchell, and then I explained how I wanted to conduct the interrogation.
“This isn’t going to be anything like the time we questioned Roberto at the safe house in Caracas. I want Marwan to see me as a threat. I want him to believe I’m holding his life in my hands. We’re not going to coddle him, feed his ego, or say pretty please. You got that?”
“Loud and clear.”
A few minutes later, Vasco entered the room.
He apologized for being late and excused himself by saying he’d been with a Congressional delegation from Washington. After throwing out the names of some senators who were in the city to discuss economic issues with the new Argentinean president, he paused, as if he thought one of us might like to comment on the company he was keeping.
I murmured, “No problem” and told him we were on our way across the hall to interrogate Marwan.
He grinned and handed me the paper bag he was carrying.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t forget about our prisoner. In fact, I remembered what Roberto said about Marwan liking Turkish coffee. I couldn’t get any Turkish coffee, but I got him a cup of some really strong stuff, and I was thinking you could use this little gift to soften him up, get him to trust you, before you start interrogating him.”
I realized, as much as anything else, this gesture proved Vasco and I were living on two entirely different planets.
Chapter 24
As per my instructions, as soon as we entered 301-C, Mitchell took a seat in a corner of the room with the iPad in full view, and I sat down at the rectangular table across from Marwan.
The moment I sat down, he lifted his handcuffed wrists off the table and asked, “Will you remove these?”
“That depends on how willing you are to answer my questions.”
Although he didn’t respond, he inclined his head toward me, and I proceeded with my first question.
“How did you locate Roberto Montilla?”
He held my gaze for a few seconds before answering me, and I noticed, despite what Otis had said about Marwan getting some sleep the night before, there were dark circles under the man’s eyes.
“It wasn’t that difficult,” he said. “When I heard Ahmed had killed Roberto’s son in San José, I contacted some acquaintances in the city and asked them to find out where the body had been taken. They discovered it had been flown here to Buenos Aires and buried at Cementerio de Flores. After that, the rest was easy.”
“Define easy.”
“My plans were to scout out the cemetery first and look for Roberto’s address later. I never expected to encounter him at the cemetery the moment I landed.”
“You came to the cemetery straight from the airport?”
He nodded. “When I saw Roberto kneeling there at Ernesto’s grave, I knew it was a gift from Allah.”
“Did Allah also send me there to stop you?”
He ignored my question. “Do you have a name?”
“I’m Geraldo Lucia, a friend of Roberto Montilla.”
His eyes narrowed as he stared at me. “No, Señor Lucia,” he said, “I don’t believe you’re his friend. I believe he works for you.”
“In what capacity?”
“What shall I call it? Intelligence gathering? I believe you’re a member of America’s intelligence community, and you recruited Roberto to spy for you. Despite what you said at the cemetery, I know it was Roberto who killed Ahmed. I knew that as soon as I saw the way he looked at me. I’m convinced he killed Ahmed. It wasn’t you.”
Instead of trying to refute his statement, I went on the attack.
“Hezbollah sent Ahmed to kill Roberto Montilla. Do you deny this?”
There might have been a flicker of surprise at my question, but I wasn’t sure.
“No, I don’t deny it. Roberto betrayed Hezbollah, even though he took our money. If you’re familiar with the Quran, you know all betrayers must be slaughtered.”
I stared at Marwan for a moment, trying to get a read on the man. What I sensed was a mixture of guilt and discontentment. I imagined his days were full of anxiety, exacerbated by the radical elements of his Muslim faith.
I said, “If anyone betrayed Hezbollah, it was Rehman Zaidi. He was the one who revealed Hezbollah’s plans to use Syria’s chemical weapons. Roberto was just trying to save innocent American lives.”
At the mention of the weapons, I noticed Marwan’s right thumb twitched. Even though he was able to conceal his emotions, he wasn’t able to conceal how his body reacted to stress.
Marwan said, “Roberto was only concerned about what might happen to his son. He didn’t care about American lives. By refusing to work with us, he was just trying to prevent his son from becoming a martyr.”
I realized I’d reached a crossroads with Marwan and needed to make a decision.
Was it time to introduce his own family into the conversation? He’d given me an opportunity with the mention of Roberto’s son. But it might be too early for that, especially since Mitchell hadn’t given me any indication Wylie’s promised photos of Yamina and Samira were on their way.
On the other hand, up to this point, Marwan had been surprisingly forthcoming with his answers. Was this just to get his handcuffs removed or did he have a different agenda? Did it have anything to do with the fear I’d seen on his face earlier?
I decided to ask him.
“Roberto was worried about his son. You’re right about that. What are you worried about, Marwan?”
He sat up straighter in the chair. “Nothing worries me. Even if you torture me, I know I’ll survive. If you abuse me like you did those prisoners at Abu Ghraib, I might be humiliated, but I won’t be broken. And don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m afraid of being a martyr, because I’m not.”
I had my answer.
The man was afraid of being tortured.
In his mind, I was about to subject him to some horrific ill treatment and demean him in some way. It wasn’t the first time I’d come across the psychological aftereffects of the scandal brought on by the aberrant behavior of the private contractors running the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq.
I usually tried to dispel such thoughts. However, it seemed to be working in my favor now, so I decided to run with it for a while.
“We will break you, Marwan; you can be sure of that. You can resist for a while, but everyone breaks eventually. There’s an alternative, but it’s contingent on your willingness to answer all my questions.”
His eyes widened slightly. “What’s the alternative?”
“I’ll explain that option when you’ve provided me with a few more answers. In the meantime, here’s a little taste of what’s ahead.”
I stood to my feet and immediately Marwan flinched, as if I might be about to strike him. He relaxed only when he saw me remove a key from my pocket and unlock his handcuffs.
Once the cuffs were off, he began massaging his wrists. I knew the restraints hadn’t been tight enough to cut off his circulation, but his actions gave me a brief glimpse into the way his mind worked, and I decided it wasn’t too early to start laying the groundwork for the photos I was expecting from Wylie.
I looked over at Mitchell, “Start the timer now. Set it for ten minutes.”
He nodded and touched the iPad screen several times.
Marwan looked puzzled and a little apprehensive at these instructions.
“Here’s the way this works, Marwan. You have ten minutes to give me your background or the cuffs go back on. Don’t lie to me, because while I don’t know everything about you, I do know some things. And, if I discover you’re lying, I assure you, there will be consequences.”
“I ... ah ...” He looked up at the ceiling a minute. “What do you want to know? My birthplace? Something about my family?”
“You’re wasting time. Start talking.”
He nervously clasped and unclasped his hands. “My father was from Spain, but my mother was Lebanese. I was born in Beirut, because that’s where my parents met, but, when I was seven, my mother died, and my father returned to Barcelona. I was raised by my grandmother.”
Marwan went on to sketch out his education, which was sparse because he’d quit school at the age of fifteen. He told me about marrying Yamina, whose father owned the restaurant where he worked. As he began telling me about the birth of his daughter, Mitchell gave him a two-minute warning.
The pressure of a deadline, plus not knowing exactly what I wanted from him, clearly made him nervous, and, by the time a chime sounded on the iPad, drops of sweat had broken out across his forehead.
Although his recitation had filled in some missing blanks and explained his ability to speak both Spanish and Arabic, he hadn’t told me anything about his Jihadist background.
I dangled the handcuffs in front of him. “I’ll leave the cuffs off for now. Let’s move on to—”
