worked 24/7 analyzing threats to national security.
Lancer re-read his file on his way to the center’s East Africa section, hoping that this latest “urgent” interruption warranted pulling him away from his other duties.
He reached the section’s locked door, swiped his card, then punched the alphanumeric code into the keypad.
Access approval beeped, and he entered.
The room glowed in the light from the screens and computerized GPS maps suspended above a bank of modular desks where several analysts were entering data into computer keyboards.
Martin Weller, the section chief, was updating his staff and paused when he saw Lancer arrive.
“Bob, thanks for coming. I know you’ve got plenty on your plate.”
“What’ve you got, Marty?”
“Not sure. Pull it up, Craig.”
An analyst entered some commands on his keyboard and photos of a man in his late twenties filled one of the large monitors.
An arrest photo.
“This is Said Salelee, a painter who lives near Msasani Bay, one of the poorer sections of Dar es Salaam.”
“Our people in Tanzania called this in?”
“One of the local nationals employed at our embassy reported him acting strangely outside the gate.”
“The sheet says he was taking pictures and making notes?”
“He was doing it for several days. The staffer told her boss, who alerted the Ministry of Home Affairs and the national police picked him up. Turns out he’s linked to the Avenging Lions of Africa.”
“How did they discover that?”
“They threatened to feed him his testicles.”
Staring at Salelee’s face, Lancer, one of the center’s leading senior operational agents, weighed matters. The mission of the Avenging Lions of Africa was to make developed nations suffer for enslaving Africa in poverty. Regionally, the Lions had been linked to bombings, shootings and hostage takings in Kagera, Pemba North, Kigoma and Zanzibar. Lancer had considered them minor league until last year when they attacked the British Embassy in Cairo.
Cairo.
That was a psychological trigger for Lancer.
Ten years earlier, everything in his world went black in Cairo. His wife, his daughter, his life, all changed in Cairo. Since then not a day passed without a word, fragrance or other mundane matter ripping open his wound.
It would never go away.
But Lancer always rode it out, always focused on his work. His determination deepened because he had a personal stake in the job.
Now, everything he did, he did for them.
He flipped through the pages of classified situational reports on Salelee. The CIA and State Department tied the Lions to funding operations through drug networks, human trafficking and Internet fraud.
As he studied Salelee, Lancer thought back to 1998 when terrorists bombed the U.S. embassies in Nairobi, Kenya and Dar es Salaam, foreshadowing September 11, 2001.
Never underestimate any piece of intelligence.
“All right, Marty,” Lancer said, “where are we at with Salelee?”
“The Tanzanians have been going at him for two days—nothing to eat but bread and water, no sleep, not to mention a few other methods that are not pretty.”
“They’re compensating for moving too quickly in picking him up,” Lancer said. “They should have put surveillance on him.”
“They were eager to help. Today, our people in Dar es Salaam set up a satellite link in the interview room. Since the original complaint involves U.S. property, Tanzanian officials have invited us to ask Salelee questions. They think he could be ready to talk. Craig, are they set?”
An analyst talking on a landline nodded.
“Bob, as you know, Craig is fluent in Kiswahili. Ask your questions, and he’ll repeat them to the police in Dar es Salaam.”
“Fine,” Lancer said, “but I don’t expect much. Besides, when you’re aggressive, a prisoner will most likely give you bullshit intelligence.”
Within minutes a clear satellite link was activated. In a stark room, a number of men stood around a seated figure whose hands and ankles were bound to the chair. Salelee’s face was a stew of swollen cuts that forced his eyes shut. His body sagged with exhaustion.
For nearly forty minutes, the local police questioned Salelee.
There was the drone of Kiswahili with Craig translating quickly and softly. Watching and listening, Lancer noticed two landline phones on the table in the room in Dar es Salaam; one in use that was connected to Craig’s line, and a second one not in use.
Lancer thought of strategy, mulling it over as the questioning went on.
“What is your interest in the embassy, Salelee?”
“I told you it is painting. I am a poor painter working hard to support my wife and children. I had learned the Americans want to paint the building. I was sizing up the job to offer—”
“Tell us the truth.”
“I am.”
“We know