“Argentina takes biometric data upon entry. Creed just informed me that the Ghost’s biometric data—the data we found crossing theMexican border—was used for entry into Buenos Aires. The Ghost is in Argentina.”
President Hannister looked around the room and said, “Okay, anyone object to letting Pike go south?”
For once, the SECSTATE said, “I think it’s a good idea.” I thought,So once your ass is on the line you like me.
Oglethorpe and Kerry both said, “I’m a go,” one right after the other.
Palmer looked like he’d swallowed a bug, but he nodded. Probably because actually saying yes was just too much.
Hannister went back to the camera and said, “You have Alpha authority to positively locate the Ghost.”
Wolffe said, “Yes, sir. Understood.”
Palmer finally spoke, saying, “That’s Alpha, not Omega. You tell Pike to report back before he starts shooting.”
Wolffe ignored him, saying to the president, “Anything else, sir?”
“Nope. Tell him good hunting.”
Their screen went blank, and Wolffe took my feed off mute, saying, “That was easier than I thought. How soon can you launch?”
“Knuckles is landing later tonight with Brett. Veep should be driving to the hotel any minute. I can be wheels up tomorrow morning, but you’ll have to feed me something besides the city of Puerto Iguazú. Let me take a look at whatever address he gave immigration. I won’t burn it.”
Creed appeared on-screen, saying, “I can do that, but I might have a better lead right now.”
“What?”
“I searched the system like you asked, looking for Lebanese passport entries, and I hit two of them that are actually in our database, but they aren’t Lebanese like their passports said. At least the biometrics aren’t.”
“We have biometrics in a Taskforce database for two people in Argentina? Who is it? Another team?”
“No, they’re Israeli. It’s Aaron and Shoshana.”
Chapter 28
The Ghost loitered near a souvenir stand, studying a map of the Iguazú Falls Park while the two Quds Force men purchased entry tickets. They seemed competent enough, but he was having reservations about the viability of the mission. It seemed inconceivable to him that Sardar had the operational capability to coordinate with a biker gang in the land of the Great Satan to break him out of one of the most secure prisons on earth, and yet he hadn’t been able to convince the men from Hezbollah—his ostensible allies—to support the planned operation. If they didn’t trust Sardar to succeed, why should he?
He believed Sardar was telling the truth about his membership in the Pasdaran, especially after meeting the other men on his team this morning, it just gave him pause. Made him wonder if something was being hidden.
The Ghost had reflected on Sardar’s last words the entire night, tossing and turning in the darkness, thinking through his options. Deciding on his commitment. He knew the Pasdaran had chosen him as much for his ability to deflect blame as his skills at killing. Yes, they needed an assassin of his caliber, but more importantly, after the pummeling Iran had taken in the recent past, they needed to strike a blow that wouldn’t reflect more punishment back onto them.
The Ghost’s past—or lack thereof—provided that cover, but him being selected because of it didn’t alter the righteousness of the strike. The largest destroyer of Palestinian lives, pride, and dignity was the state of Israel, and the face of that state was its prime minister—the man more responsible forPalestinian pain than any other single human being. Killing him would be a greater blow for the Palestinian cause than all the Ghost’s other missions combined.
He’d decided to do it, committing fully to the operation. If the Pasdaran could prove they had the means, he would provide the will, one last time.
He’d come down to breakfast and found Sardar sitting with three other gentlemen. Two looked like construction workers, wearing rough jeans, a half-day’s growth of beard and scarred knuckles. One had black hair down to his collar and a gap in his front teeth big enough to slide in a toothpick; the other’s hair was close-cropped to his skull, with a nose bent slightly to one side, as if it had been broken at one time and never set back correctly. The third man resembled a door-to-door salesman, sporting a balding head and dressed in a cheap suit with worn leather shoes.
After pleasantries, Sardar had introduced the men as Pasdaran members of his unit, each with a specialty. The man with the gap tooth was named Cyrus, the one with the broken nose, Omar. The salesman in the suit was called Ramzi. The Ghost was sure the names were fake but was more concerned with whether their skill was also make-believe and had been pleasantly surprised with their first impressions.
Unlike some Hezbollah toughs the Ghost had worked with in the past, the men were professional and courteous, showing deference to his reputation—even failing to make the usual jokes about his rail-thin stature and Coke-bottle glasses.
He’d learned that they were all traveling under the flag of Qatar, as oil businessmen on holiday. Supposedly working in Brazil on a phantom oil deal, they were ostensibly taking a short sightseeing trip to Argentina before heading home. The cover was solid, complete with business cards that were backstopped in Brazil by a Pasdaran support team. He was surprised by the scope of the infrastructure Sardar had created, and it made him question Hezbollah’s reluctance even more.
He’d asked about why he had a Lebanese passport instead of Qatari and Sardar had said, “Yours is needed for the mission.”
When he’d pressed on what that meant, Sardar had said, “Later. There’sno reason for you to know the particulars if the men you’re meeting don’t agree to join us. Consider that incentive.” He’d then given him an envelope, telling him to deliver it to the men he was meeting.
The three men had then taken him to a vehicle, leaving Sardar behind in the restaurant. They’d headed back in the direction of the airport for a few kilometers, then taken a left, driving deeper into the jungle, eventually ending at the entrance to the Iguazú Falls Park. The man in the suit had dropped them off, saying, “Call when you’re done.”
