Against All Enemies mm-1 Page 7

“I’m sure you succeeded.”

  The old man smiled. “You’d have to ask my father.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  Wazir nodded. “He lives about an hour from here by car. He must be the oldest man in the village there.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s proud of you now. I was not a very good son. And by the time I learned what a fool I’d been, it was too late. My father died from cancer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. All we wanted to be were good sons, yes?”

  “It’s never that simple.”

  Moore’s eyes began to burn — because he knew the old man was going to press him again. He did.

  “The hardest thing?”

  Moore glanced away. “I’m sorry. I can’t look in there.”

  The old man sat quietly, sipping on his tea, letting the silence reclaim the room, while Moore forced his thoughts onto deep, dark waves of nothing. And then he looked up. “I guess if I don’t tell you, you won’t help me.”

  “If you told me too quickly, I wouldn’t believe you. I understand that the pain is so great that you can’t talk. I know this pain. And I will help you. I must help you.”

  “I just …I once made a decision that to this day I’m not sure was the right one. Every time I think about it, I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  Wazir’s eyes widened. “Then put it behind you! That was some of my best stew you’ve eaten!”

  Moore grinned over the joke.

  “Now, the two men in the photograph. I will find out who they are, but I think they’re unimportant. It’s the men they work for that you have to stop.”

  “Do you have names?”

  “You’ve seen my office. I have more than that.” Wazir took them back to his computers, where he showed Moore photographs of two men he identified as Mullah Abdul Samad and Mullah Omar Rahmani. Samad was the younger of the two, in his forties, while Rahmani was pushing sixty.

  “Are these guys Taliban leaders? I…I can’t believe I haven’t heard of them.”

  Wazir grinned. “They don’t want you to know who they are. The best way to explain it is that there are Taliban within Taliban, the more public figures you are familiar with, and a special group that works as secretively as possible. Rahmani is the leader of that group here. And Samad is his fist. They are the men responsible for killing your friends, for killing the colonel who wanted to help you.”

  Moore threw a wary glance at Rana, who had told the old man much more than he should have. Rana shrugged. “I needed to tell him what was happening — in order to get his help.”

  Moore made a face. “Okay.” He regarded Wazir. “Now this man is missing.” He handed Wazir a picture of Agent Gallagher, with his long, gunmetal-gray hair and scraggly beard. Gallagher’s parents had emigrated from Syria to the United States, where he was born. His real name was Bashir Wassouf, but he went by Bobby Gallagher and had his name legally changed when he was a teenager. He’d told Moore about all the discrimination he’d suffered as a kid growing up in Northern California.

  “Leave me a copy of this,” said Wazir.

  “Thank you. Do you know anything about the other man? The Hispanic guy?”

  “He’s a Mexican, and they’re buying a lot more opium than they used to. They were never very good customers, but their business has increased tenfold in recent years, and as you discovered, the Army has been helping them move their product through Pakistan and out of the country, to Mexico, to the United States …”

  “Do you know where these men are? I mean right now.”

  “I think so.”

  “Wazir, I want to thank you for the tea, for the stew …for everything. I mean it.”

  “I know you do. And when you’re ready to talk, come back to me. I want to hear your story. I’m an old man. I’m a good listener.”

  During the drive back, Moore thought a lot about “his story” and the darker waters he could have tread …Fairview High School, Boulder, Colorado (home of the Knights), was where Moore met a kid named Walter Schmidt during their freshman year. Schmidt was a year older than everyone else because he’d flunked out his first time around. He’d been proud of that fact. He boasted of cutting classes, mouthing off to teachers, and smoking pot on school grounds. He repeatedly tried to get Moore involved, and while the temptation had been great, the thoughts of escaping from the turmoil of his parents’ divorce incredibly enticing, Moore had stood firm. Even so, Moore was no scholar himself, barely passing his classes, and watching with some envy as Walter grew more popular, attracted girls who would actually have sex with him, and seemed to wriggle his brows at Moore, as if to say, You could have this life, too, bro.

  Finally, near the end of the school year, Moore’s defenses had weakened. He’d decided to attend a party thrown by Schmidt. He would try pot for the first time because a girl he liked would be there, and he already knew she smoked. As he rode his bike down the street toward Schmidt’s house, the flashing lights of police cars quickened his pace, and when he drew closer, he caught a glimpse of Schmidt being shoved out of the house like a rabid dog by two officers. Schmidt battled against the handcuffs, cursed, and even spat in one cop’s face.

  Moore stood there, breathless, as the rest of the partygoers were arrested and taken away — including the girl he liked.

  He shook his head. He’d been that close to getting arrested himself. No, that wasn’t a life. Not his life. He wasn’t going to waste it like these jerks. He’d turn it all around. His father, a nerd who worked for IBM, was always browbeating him about having no direction, no future.

  But that night Moore made a decision. He would finally listen to someone else who’d been trying to inspire and encourage him: his high school gym teacher, Mr. Loengard, a man who recognized in him something no one else had witnessed or discovered, a man who made him realize that his life was worth something and that he could make contributions to this world that were immeasurable. He could rise to the call and become a very special breed of warrior: a U.S. Navy SEAL.

  Moore’s father had told him that the Navy was for drunks and idiots. Well, he was going to prove the old man wrong. He kept himself on the straight and narrow, graduated high school, and by the end of that summer was up in Great Lakes, Illinois, at the Navy Recruitment Training Command for eight weeks of basic training. Moore had to get through the “confidence course” twice, ship training, weapons training, shipboard damage control, and the memorable “confidence chamber,” where he’d had to recite his full name and Social Security number while a tear-gas tablet hissed at his feet.

  Upon graduation, Moore slid on his U.S. Navy ball cap and was sent to the Navy Law Enforcement Academy in San Antonio to complete the LE/MA (Law Enforcement/Master-at-Arms) six-week course. He’d found this interesting and exciting because he’d gotten to play with guns. While he was there, his instructors noted his marksmanship, and finally, after much pleading, he received that highly coveted recommendation. Upon graduation, Moore was promoted to Seaman (E-3) and sent off to Coronado, California, home of the U.S. Navy SEALs.

  Blood, sweat, and tears awaited him.

  5 FATHER FIGURE

  Casa de Rojas

  Punta de Mita, Mexico

  More than two hundred guests had gathered at the oceanfront estate in the gated community of the Four Seasons golf course resort. At over twenty thousand square feet, including four master suites, two children’s bunk rooms, and a detached villa, the home had easily become the most famous residence in the entire community. From the massive, hand-carved front doors to the extensive stonemasonry and marble work that made the foyer seem more like that of a European cathedral than a private residence, Casa de Rojas took your breath away from the moment you entered. Unsurprisingly, Miguel’s girlfriend, Sonia Batista, gasped as he led her past the great stone columns supporting archways of rich granite and toward the infinity pool and expansive stone deck beyond.

  “Everyone has secrets,” she said, pausing to lean on one of the columns and stare
up into the broad skylights. “But this …this is just a little overwhelming.” She then glanced down at the stone floor, whose intricate patterns had taken the artists and world-renowned architects months to conceive and years to complete. Miguel would tell her about that later, once he gave her the full tour. For now, they needed to get to their seats before his father began the presentation.

  However, he couldn’t resist stealing one last moment to marvel over her shoulder-length curly hair that caught the late-afternoon sun just right, glistening like black volcanic sand. He stood there, a twenty-two-year-old with a raging libido, imagining what they’d do later on. She was as svelte as any runway model but remarkably athletic, too, and for the past month he had explored every curve of her young body and spent many long moments staring into her deep brown eyes, flecked with a half-dozen shades of gold. He shifted to her, quickly stole a kiss. She giggled. Then he grabbed her by the wrist. “Come on. My father will kill me if we’re late.”

  She nearly tripped and fell as they rushed forward, because she wasn’t looking ahead but gaping at one of the three expansive kitchens with bars that could seat twelve and the attached banquet hall, with seating for nearly one hundred. To their right and left shimmered more of the stonework soaring toward twenty-foot ceilings. He would tell her all about the furniture that his father had imported from all over the world, with stories behind many of the pieces. The tour would take several hours, he knew, and he hoped they’d have time to visit the library, gym, media room, and indoor shooting range before retiring for the evening. She had no idea of the length and breadth of the home, and yet as he showed it to her, she would not only learn more about him but a lot about his father, Jorge Rojas.

  “I’m more than a little nervous,” she said, squeezing his hand as they reached the end of the long hall and were about to step outside onto the mottled pavers of the pool deck.

  Castillo was standing there, as he always did, a six-foot statue in a dark suit with earpiece and dark glasses. Miguel turned and said, “Sonia, this is Fernando Castillo. He’s the security chief for my father, but he still sucks at playing Call of Duty …”

  “That’s because you’re a cheater,” said Castillo with a slight grin. “You hack all those games — I know it.”

  “You just need to learn how to shoot.”

  Castillo shook his head, then removed his sunglasses, revealing that he had but one eye; the other was stitched closed. She flinched but still took his hand.

  “Very nice to meet you,” he said.

  “You, too.”

  “I didn’t want to be rude to such a pretty lady,” he said, replacing his sunglasses. “But sometimes it’s better that I keep these on, huh?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Thank you.”

  They shifted away and began filtering through the knots of people standing around dinner tables that encompassed the pool. Miguel whispered to her, “Don’t let him kid you. He sees more with that one eye than most people see with two.”

  “How did he lose it?”

  “When he was a boy. It’s a sad story. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime, but tonight, we drink expensive wine and have fun!” Miguel wriggled his brows and squeezed her hand.

  Four different poolside bars with bartenders manning each kept the wine and champagne flowing, and a banner had been erected between two of the bars, with the calm waters of the northern Pacific and a burnt-orange sky serving as the perfect backdrop. The banner read: WELCOME TO THE JORGE ROJAS SCHOOL IMPROVEMENT PROJECT FUND-RAISER. This was a one-thousand-dollar-per-plate dinner, and it was Miguel’s father’s biannual way of coaxing his rich friends to part with some of their money for a great cause. The work that had been accomplished by his father’s foundation was remarkable. The government of Mexico could not do as much to improve the education system as Jorge Rojas already had done and would continue to do.

  “Miguel, Miguel,” came a familiar voice from behind them. A tightly bunched crowd of guests parted to allow through Mariana and Arturo González, Miguel’s aunt and uncle, both in their late forties, impeccably groomed and dressed, looking as though they were ready for a Hollywood red-carpet appearance. Mariana was his father’s only sibling after the death of their brother.

  “Look at you,” said his aunt, tugging at the sleeve of his dark gray suit.

  “You like it? My father and I found a new designer in New York. He flew down to meet us.” Miguel would never tell Sonia that the suit cost him more than ten thousand American dollars. In fact, he was sometimes embarrassed over his family’s wealth and dismissed it when he could. Sonia’s father was a successful businessman from Madrid, a Castilian who owned a custom bicycle company (Castile) that supplied race bikes to professional teams of the Tour de France. However, her family could never compete with the kind of wealth that his father had amassed. Jorge Rojas wasn’t just one of the richest men in Mexico; he was one of the richest men in the entire world, which made life as his son both complicated and surreal.

  “So this is the famous Sonia?” asked his aunt.

  “Yes,” Miguel said, beaming with pride, and then, as his aunt would expect, his tone grew much more formal. “Sonia, this is my aunt Mariana and my uncle, Mr. Arturo González, the governor of Chihuahua.”

  Sonia was a perfect lady and greeted them in a tone equally formal. Her radiant smile and the diamond necklace that fell softly across her neck did not go unnoticed by his uncle. As Miguel watched her speak, he no longer heard anything and saw only her actions and reactions, the joy that swept over her face and kept her smiling, the light so intoxicating in her eyes.

  Miguel’s father had introduced them after having worked on some investments with mutual friends. That she was Castilian was very impressive to his father. That she had a great ass and ample cleavage was more impressive to Miguel, at least during the initial stages of their relationship. He’d discovered that she’d attended the Universidad Complutense, one of the biggest universities in all of Europe, and he quickly learned that there was, indeed, a brain behind all that beauty. “Don’t judge me,” she’d told him. “I didn’t go to some expensive private school, but I did graduate magna cum laude.”

  The summer after she graduated she spent traveling to New York and Miami and Los Angeles, cities she’d never visited before. She was obsessed with fashion and the movie industry. Her degree was in business management, and she thought she’d like to work in California for a big studio or maybe in New York for a famous designer. Sadly, her father would have none of that. He’d given her a year to find herself, but this fall she would go to work for his company. Miguel, of course, had much bigger plans for her.

  “So you’re finally back from Spain,” said his aunt. “How long were you there?”

  He grinned at Sonia. “About a month.”

  “Your father told me that was a graduation gift,” his aunt said, widening her eyes.

  “It was,” Miguel said proudly. Then he turned to his uncle. “How is it going back home?”

  Arturo wiped a hand across his bald pate, then nodded. “We still have a lot of work to do. The violence gets worse.”

  Mariana waved her hand. “But we’re not talking about that now, are we? Not on a night like this, when there’s so much to celebrate!”

  Arturo nodded resignedly and grinned at Sonia. “Very nice to meet you. And now we’ll take you to our table. It’s right over there.”

  “Oh, good, we’re sitting with you,” Sonia said.

  Before they could cross the length of the pool to reach their dining area, Miguel was accosted by at least four other friends — business associates of his father’s, guys from one of his old soccer teams at USC, and at least one ex-girlfriend who turned thirty seconds into what felt like thirty hours of awkwardness as they spoke in French and Sonia stood there, looking lost.

  “I didn’t know you spoke French,” she said to him, after he finally escaped from the pushy siren.

  “English, French, Spanish, German, and Dutch,” he said.
“And sometimes gangsta, you know what I’m sayin’, G?”

  She laughed, and they took their seats around the richly appointed table with some of the finest china and flatware available in the world. His father had taught him never to take anything for granted, and while he’d led a life of privilege, he appreciated even the smallest details, like the material of his napkin or the type of leather used to make his belt. When so many had so little, he needed to be thankful and appreciate every luxury of his life.

  A microphone-equipped lectern with a laptop computer stood near a large portable projection screen. As was his father’s wish, he’d give his presentation before the guests ate, because “swollen bellies have no ears,” he liked to say.

  Arturo rose and went to the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll be seated, we’ll begin in a moment. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Arturo González, governor of Chihuahua. I’d like to introduce my brother-in-law, a man who needs no introduction, but I thought for this particular occasion, I would tell you a little about Jorge growing up, because we went to the same school and we have known each other all our lives.”

  Arturo took a quick breath and added suddenly, “Jorge was a crybaby. I kid you not.”

  The crowd broke into laughter.

  “Whenever we had homework, he would spend hours crying about it. Then he would come over my house, and I would do the homework, and he would give me some Coca-Cola or gum. You see? Even back then he understood good business!”

  More laughter.

  “But seriously, ladies and gentlemen, Jorge and I both truly appreciated our education and our teachers, and we would not be standing here without them, which is why both of us feel so deeply about giving back to our children. Jorge will explain more about the foundation’s work, so without further ado, I give you Mr. Jorge Rojas!”

  Arturo looked toward one of the bars, and from behind it, the man appeared, wearing a suit that matched Miguel’s, save for his tie, which was a gleaming and powerful red with gold stitching along the edges. He wore his freshly cut hair gelled closely to his head, and for the first time Miguel noticed the gray hairs sprouting from his temple and from his long sideburns. Miguel had never before thought of his father as old. Jorge was an athletic man who’d played on the USC soccer team when he’d been a student there. He’d even been a triathlete for a few years before hurting his knee. He still kept in excellent shape and was an imposing six feet, two inches tall, unlike Miguel, who was merely five-ten and didn’t seem to be growing anymore.