I had Gavin work a little Photoshop magic. Check the upper-right-hand corner—that curled white square.” Jack hit forward again, and the white square expanded and resolved. “It’s a luggage claim sticker.”
“I’ll be damned,” Brian Caruso muttered. “Gotta love that computer shit.”
Hendley turned to Dominic. “Special Agent Caruso, this might be right up your alley.”
“On it, boss.”
Armed with the claim-check number, a rough time frame, and his FBI badge number, it took less than an hour for Dominic to come back with a name: Agong Nayoan, Vice Consul for Economic Affairs at Republic of Indonesia’s Consulate General in San Francisco.
“Nothing outstanding on him,” Dominic said. “Flight from Vancouver to Chicago to San Francisco the same morning as Hadi. The Frisco FO did its due diligence on him a few years back. Nothing popped. No known ties to extremist groups, politically moderate, no criminal history—”
“As far as Jakarta would admit to,” Granger said. “It’s either that or he’s covered his tracks well. We’ve got him brush-passing a known URC courier. Somebody messed up on a background check somewhere.”
With a population of nearly two hundred million Muslims, Indonesia was, according to many intelligence communities, Western and otherwise, quickly becoming the central recruiting front for extremist terrorist groups, the most powerful of which—Jemaah Islamiah, Islamic Defenders’ Front (FPI), Darul Islam, and Laskar Jihad—had not only both operational and financial ties with the Emir’s URC but also sympathizers at every level of the Jakartan government. The idea that Agong Nayoan, staff member of the Indonesian consulate, had such leanings didn’t surprise Jack, but the fact that Nayoan had chosen to become a cutout for a URC courier meant they were dealing with a whole different kettle of fish altogether.
“Whatever brought Nayoan out to play has to be big,” Jack said. “If he’s caught, all he’d probably get from us is a PNG.” This was persona non grata, a bureaucratically couched term for “no longer welcome.” Expulsion. “Jakarta’s a different story, though. That’d be a welcome to remember.”
Indonesia’s Agency for Coordination of Assistance for the Consolidation of National Security, or BAKORSTANAS, had the broad and disturbingly vague mandate to ferret out and eliminate threats to the republic, which was, in turn, coupled with little legal restrictions and oversight. If expelled from the United States under accusations of aiding the URC, the best Nayoan could hope for was a dark hole in Cipinang Prison and years to consider his crimes. The government in Jakarta had in recent years been trying to get out from behind the economic shadow of China and sell itself to the West as a market counterbalance. Hard to do that with a reputation as a terrorist petri dish.
“Thoughts?” Hendley asked, looking at Clark.
“Track back the cat,” Clark replied. “We know Hadi headed to Las Vegas and maybe points beyond. We know where Nayoan is and where he came from. Let’s put eyes on him and see where it takes us.”
Hendley considered this; he looked at Granger, who nodded. “You and Chavez,” Granger said. “Start in San Francisco, then Vancouver. Dissect him.”
“How about Jack?” Clark suggested. “Good op to get his feet wet.”
Again, Hendley and Granger exchanged glances. The boss looked at Chavez and the Caruso brothers. “Gentlemen, can we have the room for a few minutes?” Once they’d filed out, Hendley said to Jack, “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Tell us why.” This from Granger.
“I already—”
“Tell us again.”
“I can do some good, I think—”
“You’re doing good right where you are. Plus, we don’t run the risk of burning you—of getting a former President’s son killed. You’re a face, Jack.”
“An average face. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been recognized in the last two years. Out of sight, out of mind. John and I have had this conversation already, okay? I don’t have any grand visions about fieldwork.”
Hendley looked to Clark, who spread his hands. “Either he’s a good actor or that’s the truth.”
Jack smiled. “Hey, worst case, I see how the other half lives and it makes me a better analyst, right? It’s a win-win.”
“Okay, you’re on the team. Mind your manners, though. No jabbing folks with needles this time around, understood?”
Jack nodded. “Understood.”
“John, where are you with Driscoll?”
“Talked to him this morning, put out some feelers. I think it’s sunk in that CID wants his head. He’s taking it in stride—better than most would be. He likes the work. I think if he had a chance to get out from under and still have his