“You think he’s using burner phones for the rest?”
“I know he is,” Bailey responded with exasperation. “The problem is, we haven’t been able to identify them remotely. So short of a physical penetration, which I don’t have the personnel or approvals for, I’m not sure what else will turn up. We’ll continue to monitor, but I’m not optimistic.”
Duchess looked at the ceiling. “Well, we’re not doing much better over here—the three grids in Gwoza have been reconnoitered by our ground team, and they’re open fields. Nothing more.”
Lowering her gaze, she continued, “Forensic accounting of Malu’s financial activity has been interesting, however.” Duchess lifted Malu’s financial assessment from the desk, scanning the rows of numbers. “This stays between us for now, but there are major muscle movements of cash changing hands with the vast majority disappearing to a bank in Mozambique.”
“Number one in international money laundering,” Bailey said knowingly. “No surprise there. You have any idea who’s on the receiving end?”
“More like a working theory.”
She said nothing after that, prompting Bailey to ask, “Care to elaborate?”
Duchess frowned. Reluctantly, she set the paper down and replied, “We’ve seen some indicators of a new element that brokers deals between various bad actors around the world. Could be big, if we’re right, so please spare us no details on anything you find.”
She felt eyes upon her and scanned the OPCEN to see Gregory Pharr watching her from his seat, apparently waiting for her call to end. She waved him over impatiently—when her assigned Agency lawyer gave any indication that he needed to speak, however subtle, Duchess found herself unable to focus on anything else. Covert operations were subject to so many political guidelines that even a slight misstep could end Project Longwing altogether, to say nothing of tanking her career.
Pharr collected a tablet from his desk and rose as Bailey replied, “We’ll keep you in the loop on whatever we find, and please let me know if there’s anything else I can provide your people with from here. I appreciate all the transparency so far, I really do.”
“You gave us the facility in Lagos. It’s the least we can do.”
“Yeah, well, in my experience with the Agency, the least you can do usually amounts to a lot less. No offense.”
Duchess gave a half-smile at that not-inaccurate remark. “None taken. Stay in touch.”
Bailey clicked off and she hung up the phone, looking over to see Pharr standing a few steps away.
He clutched a tablet in one hand, holding the other aloft in feigned surrender as he said, “I’m low priority, ma’am. If you have any other business to—”
“When a legal representative says ‘low priority,’” she interrupted, gesturing to Jo Ann’s empty chair, “I take it to mean that we’re getting shut down in a week instead of today.”
He smiled, taking a seat as he assured her, “Just some atmospherics, ma’am. May be pertinent, may not.”
“Let’s have it.”
Setting his tablet on Jo Ann’s desk, he referenced it and said, “Leak from an unnamed Pentagon official. Media is tracking that the administration has blessed a hostage exchange through Nigerian proxies. The press has already latched onto this as proof of the president’s willingness to negotiate with terrorists, and it’s hitting multiple news networks as we speak.”
“Are you telling me we’re sitting in an operations center for a targeted killing program established under executive authority, less than four days removed from a flawless hostage rescue executed with practically zero notice, and the president is being accused of being lax on terrorism?”
Pharr chuckled in agreement. “Right now it’s just initial reports, but I’d say we’re a day out from a major smear piece hitting The New York Times or Washington Post. All of it will be fodder for the next election.”
Duchess lifted a pen from her desk and began tapping it against the side of her neck as she thought.
Then she said, “This is good for us. It’ll make the administration more likely to authorize further covert action as it pertains to the situation in Nigeria, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say that’s an understatement. More like it will put them on a hair trigger as far as our approvals go. The question is—”
“What can we request approval for?”
Pharr nodded politely. Duchess tossed her pen on the desk, effecting her best your guess is as good as mine expression with eyebrows raised, before Lucios shouted, “Quiet in the OPCEN!”
Every conversation in the room halted mid-sentence as all eyes swung to Lucios.
“Boko Haram has just released a statement to the Nigerian government. They want to exchange the three remaining hostages for three members of their detained leadership, Usman included. They state this is a take-it-or-leave-it offer, with no recourse for alternate negotiations. Any complications will result in the execution of all hostages.”
Duchess gave him a curt nod of understanding. “Where and when for the exchange?”
Lucios turned back to his screen, watching it as he called a response over his shoulder.
“It’s not one exchange, it’s three. All to occur simultaneously in 24 hours’ time, each at a separate location. They’ve stated that exact exchange points will be provided thirty minutes prior—right now all they’ve given us is the town.”
Duchess felt a languid smile playing at her lips, the explanation for every conundrum over the past few hours unraveling in one fell swoop.
“And let me take a wild guess,” she said, “as to which town they specified.”
40
I walked deeper through the wreckage of the building, whose roof had long ago been transformed into the rubble under my boots, leaving a clear blue sky visible overhead.
The walls were scorched with greasy black smears, and the sections of brick that remained had been covered in a patchwork of graffiti—crude charcoal drawings of AK-47s, RPGs, the occasional tank—all interspersed with Arabic script spelling Allah, or Allahu Akbar—God is greater. Along with the structural damage to the area around us, these markings were the everlasting reminder of Boko Haram’s occupation of Gwoza.
Cancer followed behind me, attired as I was in civilian clothes with a concealed pistol, our radios in a cargo pocket connected to our earpieces. The rest of the team remained with the van, backed into an alley outside. We’d get hotel rooms later in the day; for now, however, I needed some time to stop and think, to remain stationary for more than five minutes and consolidate my thoughts.
And most importantly, I needed to confer with Cancer.
We hadn’t gone far, stopping just two rooms deep in the eviscerated building before I turned to lean against the wall. Cancer followed suit beside me, saying nothing as he found his pack of smokes and lit a cigarette.
I asked, “Can I get one of those off you?”