Day of Wrath

“I understand that somebody at Caraco is pulling some high-priced strings,” Sanchez said bitterly. He tamped down his temper. This was the perfect end to a perfect couple of days, but blowing up at the Director of the FBI wouldn’t be wise, polite, or career enhancing “Then you apprehend the situation perfectly,” Leiter replied. “So close it up, and call me when the material is on its way.”

Sanchez acknowledged and hung up. He paced back and forth in his tiny office, counting to ten, then counting again. Should he obey the order or not? If he really believed Caraco Transport had slipped a nuke into the U.S the answer was obvious. He’d have to disobey the Director — even at the cost of his own career.

But did he really believe that?

The FBI agent considered what he’d learned. The news that Leiter considered the EMPTY QUIVER source tainted wasn’t very reassuring. It wouldn’t be the first time that somebody had tried using the FBI to stick a shiv in a rival corporation’s ribs.

Was that what was going on here? What if Caraco Transport had only cleaned out its warehouse so thoroughly to protect some sort of trade secret? That seemed rather thin, but then so did everything else about this crazy case.

Sanchez grimaced. He just didn’t know enough. And that being the case, he decided to obey orders. Ultimately, Leiter was the boss, and it was his call. If the FBI Director didn’t think investigating Caraco more thoroughly was worth the price of admission, Sanchez would just have to trust his superior’s judgment.

Tysons Corner, Virginia “They’re shutting the Galveston investigation down?” Farrell said incredulously, staring across the table at the CIA analyst he’d invited to lunch.

Mark Podolski nodded. “I wish I’d known sooner what you were up to, Sam. I would’ve headed you off at the pass before you went galloping off to Fort Bragg.” He took a slug from his diet cola before explaining. “Caraco has connections all over town.

So when the FBI hit that warehouse, their top guy in D.C. started screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. And believe me when Dick Garrett gets pissed, the White House listens.”

“You think I jumped the gun?”

Podolski nodded. “Yeah.” He drank more of his soda. “I ran the data you gave me past my team. They all agree. There’s not enough solid stuff there to support the conclusion that somebody inside Caraco has his hands on a Russian nuke.”

Farrell pondered that. Podolski was one of Langley’s best analysts.

He never papered over holes in the data or ignored anomalies.

“So you don’t think anything strange is going on?”

The CIA officer shook his head. “I didn’t say that, Sam.” He folded his napkin and laid it beside the mostly untouched meal on his plate.

“There is a funny pattern there. And I buy the premise that those Su-24 engines were retagged and transshipped all over Europe — and probably into Galveston. But I just don’t see the motive for Caraco to smuggle nukes. If anything, the company’s Russian weapons subsidiary, Arms Export, may be doing a little aviation side business they’d like to keep quiet.”

Farrell frowned. “What about the possibility that those engines contained heroin?”

“That’s certainly more conceivable,” Podolski admitted. Then he held up a cautionary hand. “But I can tell you one thing for certain: Whether it’s drugs or nukes, I don’t think it’s something Caraco’s top echelon knows about.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Do you know much about Caraco, Sam?” the CIA analyst asked.

“Not as much as I’d like,” Farrell said. He nodded toward the cooling plateful of food in front of Podolski. “That’s why I’m picking up the tab at this fancy diner, Mark.”

Podolski looked down at his uneaten pasta, then continued.

“Well, the head honcho is a guy named Ibrahim al Saud he’s literally a prince, a member of the Saudi royal family. And he’s down in our books as a straight shooter.”

“A Saudi prince?” Farrell shook his head and frowned. He’d paid a number of official visits to Saudi Arabia as head of J.S.O.C.

Some of his contacts with the royal family there had left a bad taste in his mouth. A few of the princes were energetic. A great many more were either indolent or just amiably corrupt.

“Ibrahim’s not typical,” Podolski insisted. “I pulled up his dossier before I came here. He’s sharp, shrewd, and tough.

Caraco’s his baby from start to finish. Together with all its subsidiaries, the company’s probably worth somewhere on the order of ten to fifteen billion dollars. He’s not going to rock the boat to smuggle in heroin.”

“And he’s prowestern?”

“Totally,” Podolski said. “He ran a little close to the radical edge as a university student at Cairo, but his family straightened him out — sent him off to Oxford, and then to business school at Harvard.

Since then, he’s been a consistent supporter of our interests.”’