Choke Point

CHAPTER FOUR

Casablanca, Morocco

As soon as Abbas el Khalidi finished reading the secure message on his computer, he picked a massive paperweight off his desk and heaved it across the room with a disgusted sigh.

The tumult brought two guards and a secretary into the room, all three of whom he ordered to get out. They backed out of the room with conciliatory bows, diligent to close the doors after them. They had worked for Khalidi long enough to know that he wasn’t to be meddled with in such a mood as this and would rue the day they ever departed from protocol. Khalidi had never been known as a lenient master—he was even less so when he discovered the Americans were screwing up his plans.

Again! he thought. Those sons of dogs are always trying to interfere!

Khalidi didn’t need the money, but that was hardly the point. He’d grown up a poor man on the streets of this very city, earning his way from a part-time paper route to the head of a news agency that had become one of the most powerful and influential of its kind throughout the world. Syndicated in nearly seventy countries with more than one billion subscribers, Khalidi had made his mark on the international media.

His notoriety as a newsman who knew no equal—a status that had earned him his “Prince Story” title—had also been the thing that allowed him to operate in relative privacy and seclusion. These were things Khalidi prized above all else, the power to determine his own destiny and control what information he would release to people while withholding the juiciest tidbits for himself.

Juicy and profitable, he reminded himself.

Still, it had not been about the money as much as the power. This was why his slaving operation in America had grown to such massive proportions, an operation so large that it defied conventional belief. Khalidi had his hand in a very big pie. The teen children of the American dogs were ripe for the harvest and brought a most handsome price on the international trafficking market. None of the so-called white slaves moved in or out of the country without Khalidi knowing about it. Sure, there were a few operations here and there, but they were mostly run by hoodlums and two-bit thugs. These individuals didn’t believe in quality of their work while Khalidi staked his personal reputation on it. And what had it yielded him in return? Greedy underlings who were so incompetent it bordered on pulp fiction cliché. That kind of mishandling could also expose his newspaper corporation, Abd-el-Aziz, to inquiry by the local government as well as international law-enforcement scrutiny.

The half-million-dollar ransom he’d lost, thanks to the pair of bunglers he’d now ordered his American contacts to find and terminate, wasn’t any issue. They still had the young girl and boy in question and his network could get them out of the country in the next twenty-four hours. Barring any other foul-ups, Khalidi figured this would blow over in a short time.

And what was the death of a congressman and a senator? The Americans didn’t generally like their elected officials anyway, conspiring to assassinate or expose them to public ridicule at every turn.

No, Khalidi figured he shouldn’t let this bother him in the least.

He decided to cheer up by having a long lunch at his favorite local establishment, a restaurant that served a fabulous array of traditional Arabic dishes, before taking the remainder of the afternoon off in favor of a long drive along the Moroccan coastline. Khalidi navigated the A5 out of Casablanca, top down on his Mercedes Benz SL-Class convertible, and drove south. He’d decided to change his usual northern route—one that often ended with a trip by ferry into the coastal Spanish city of Tarifa—in favor of a trip to the Doukkala-Abda region capital city of Safi. While most had a problem entering Spain from Morocco due to the intense narcotics trafficking out of his country, the real enterprise behind Khalidi’s empire, the newspaper mogul moved with autonomy.

Any customs officials on either side who didn’t want to play ball, and they were few indeed, were usually dealt with in swift and direct fashion.

Among the pottery markets in Safi, Khalidi would seek out one of his regular women and lavish her with an evening of new clothes and fine dining. This did wonders in warming up the young lady lucky enough to be chosen and then Khalidi would satisfy all of his natural urges. Unlike some of his less staid brothers, Khalidi maintained his dedication to the pure faith and neither drank alcohol, nor participated in the perversion of homosexuality. He stuck to females and all of them seemed to understand the relationship was one of convenience.

Abbas el Khalidi never let a woman get too close to him. He had only ever heard from one woman again. She had tried to set him up by claiming she was pregnant with his child. Khalidi had only needed to make a phone call and the girl disappeared, never to be seen again. Khalidi smiled when he thought about that fact. Of course, he had verified with certainty that she was lying before he had disposed of her, since he never would have permitted harm to come to any of his children. However, this girl had been the only one to make such claims and whether by reputation or merely plain good fortune, Khalidi had never been extorted by another. It wasn’t really all that surprising since rumors of such things at least got around in close-knit communities like those in Safi.

Lights came visible, twinkling as he rounded the road of the coastline heading into the city. Safi had a population of less than 300,000 people, while the surrounding communities brought the aggregate total to about a million, all told. Khalidi enjoyed this city above so many others in his country because most of it was sparsely populated, thereby setting the stage for a generally poor community that made most of its money from tourism and sales of handcrafted pottery. In fact, Moroccan pottery and rugs from this region were world-famous, although most of the citizens hardly made a dime from their sales.

Mostly, it was the exporters who took the majority of the profits, and they paid a significant kickback to Khalidi. Not only did pottery cross the transnational boundaries, but drugs did, as well. Yes, Khalidi had built his entire fortune on this type of trade. He had a mind for it, he happened to be very good at it, in fact, and he tended to hire others with a mind for it, as well.

It was dark by the time Khalidi reached the downtown area but still early enough that most shops in the marketplace were open, and people coming home from work crammed the streets shopping for food or other items. Tomorrow was Saturday—while most everyone would go to work it tended to be later in the day because of morning prayers and meetings at mosques throughout the entire Doukkala-Abda region. Khalidi roamed the streets for a while until he found a nicer shop filled with a variety of jewelry.

Khalidi stepped into the building and knew immediately the shopkeeper was doing well. The store had full electrical service and also ran an air-conditioning system. Khalidi nodded at the man and perused the shop for about an hour until he found the perfect trinket. He paid cash, adding a little extra when the proprietor moaned about his large family.

He could empathize with the old man, who did not look to be too healthy. After all, Khalidi had been there once—he was a businessman, not a monster.

Khalidi proceeded directly from the shop to the central marketplace, where he eventually found what he’d been searching for: Jasmina. Yes, a most excellent choice for the mood he was in. Not only was she a beautiful young woman, elegant and graceful for a commoner, but she’d also proved very accommodating to just about anything Khalidi suggested. Willing to please, with skin like bronzed gold and dark, sensuous eyes. He’d not seen her in some time but it only took a moment before the flicker of recognition crossed her features.

She greeted him with a warm smile, her dark eyes sparkling. The light reflected back from the rattan shades drawn over the marketplace that were strung between the buildings to provide shade to shoppers in the brutal heat of the day. They were doubly useful by reflecting the firelight in the evening and reducing the demands for electric lighting. In some parts of the city the local government would still cut power to conserve electricity.

“Good evening, Jasmina,” Khalidi said.

She inclined her head in a bow of respect and replied, “Good evening, Master el Khalidi.”

“Come, come, there is no reason to be so formal.”

“If I seem too formal it is only out of respect and not to offend you.”

“Are you not glad to see me?”

Jasmina nodded with enthusiasm. “I am most glad to see you, Abbas, but your arrival here and at this time took me unaware.”

“Come and have dinner with me,” Khalidi said, moving close and tracing the smooth skin of her arm with the back of his hand. “I am most interested to hear of how you have been.”

“And perhaps interested in something else?” she asked with a knowing expression.

“Yes,” he replied with a smile. “Perhaps, no...definitely more.”

“It will be my pleasure to serve you, Abbas.”

Khalidi couldn’t ignore the sudden swell in his groin. “And mine.”

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“NO QUESTION ABOUT IT, lady and gents,” Lyons told his colleagues at the Farm. “This is one nasty outfit we’re dealing with. The intelligence you got from that Justice contact wasn’t exaggerated by any stretch.”

“How much information were you actually able to get from the subject Able Team took alive, Cal?” Price asked the Phoenix Force warrior.

“Quite a bit,” James said. “It’s all in the notes I took.”

“Not to mention, most of it shouldn’t be too difficult to verify,” Blancanales added.

Brognola nodded. “Bear’s working on it as we speak. I’d imagine he’ll cook up a mess of data in no time at all.”

The statement didn’t surprise anyone in the War Room. Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman hadn’t been defeated by the bullet in his spine that had confined him to a wheelchair. Lesser men would have suffered an irreversible psychological trauma, adopting an attitude of self-pity that would have crushed them for the duration of their lives. Not Kurtzman. The man’s spirit was nearly as indomitable as his wrestlerlike upper body, a physique he kept in prime condition through exercise and, as his best friend and confidante Barbara Price had pointed out on more than one occasion, “sheer orneriness.”

As soon as they had notified Stony Man of their intelligence gleaned from James’s interrogation of the prisoner—intelligence that the outfit they were fighting actually operated on an international scale—Brognola had ordered a full-alert status for the remaining members of Phoenix Force. They now sat around the table, most in various modes of dress indicative of their actions.

Rafael Encizo had been volunteering for diver duties with the D.C. police in search of a missing mother who’d gone out for a jog as she did every night and never returned home. David McCarter and T. J. Hawkins had been at a local gun-club event, participating in a regional shooting match. Gary Manning had actually been the farthest one out, embarked on a hunting trip with some friends in the deep, rugged forests of the southern Smoky Mountains.

“What’s the general lay of it, guv?” McCarter asked.

Brognola looked at Price. “Barb?”

Price, the Stony Man mission controller, nodded and began, “This group calls itself the Red Brood. At first we thought it was a kidnapping ring with a radical agenda aimed at internal politics. Now, with the information courtesy of the man Able Team managed to take alive, we’re convinced there’s a lot more to it than that.”

“Isn’t there always,” Hawkins interjected in his Texan drawl.

“Look on the bright side,” Schwarz said. “Job security.”

“All right, pipe down and you might learn something,” Brognola said.

As if on cue, Kurtzman entered the War Room and proceeded to his reserved spot. He brought up the computer projector—one much older than the modern facilities in the Operations Center of the Annex—beginning with the picture of a very young and handsome Arab in his twenties.

“I’ve run the gambit on the intelligence you brought back,” Kurtzman told the group. “It’s mind-boggling.”

“That’s serious coming from Bear,” James said.

“All, I would like you to meet Abbas el Khalidi, head of the world news outfit known as Abd-el-Aziz and suspected by Interpol as one of the biggest drug kingpins ever.”

“Drugs?” Lyons shook his head. “I thought we were dealing with a white-slaving group.”

“We are,” Brognola said. “But white slavery’s just the tip of the iceberg. And it’s plainly obvious the Red Brood is only a front for Abbas el Khalidi’s international drug transshipping pipeline. Now that Aaron’s identified Khalidi as a player in this, there’s no doubt left in my mind that we’ve stumbled onto the real threat.”

“Seems a little crazy that someone as high-profile as Khalidi would dabble in drug and human trafficking,” Encizo said. “I don’t get the connection.”

“There’s a big connection,” Price said. “And don’t assume that Khalidi’s a mere dabbler in this thing. Abbas el Khalidi’s been on our radar for quite some time, but up until this point we had no reason to think he posed any serious threat to the United States. Mostly he was suspected of trafficking narcotics out of his home country of Morocco and into areas all over Europe.

“Now it’s plain to see he’s up to much more than that, including using the Red Brood as a way to funnel additional funds to support his main effort.”

“And he’s decided to target American kids to do it,” McCarter said.

His voice edged with quiet anger, Lyons said, “I think I speak for all of us when I say I want a shot at bringing this guy down. Hard.”

“Well, you’re going to get it,” Price said. “Although I’m afraid you may not get a personal meeting. Khalidi is a known recluse and rarely travels outside of Morocco save for the occasional appearance at one of his satellite companies. He’s been known to travel to Spain rather often, but in all cases he manages to operate outside the jurisdiction of either U.S. officials or Interpol.”

“So he sticks to places where Americans are effectively persona non grata,” Hawkins ventured.

“Correct.”

“There are a number of allied intelligence organizations who’ve attempted to assassinate Khalidi,” Brognola said, “but they’ve always somehow managed to miss the target. Mostly because he doesn’t stay in one place long enough to establish a pattern, and his travels are typically kept secret until he’s actually headed to his destination.”

“And as previously indicated,” Price said, “he’s not posed any direct threat to this country. Now the situation has changed and we’re pulling out all of the stops. We have the full cooperation and direction from the Oval Office to handle this in whatever manner we see fit. The assassination of American citizens and kidnapping of their children for the purpose of drug trafficking is unacceptable on any level.”

“What’s the game plan?” Manning asked, obviously itching to join the fight with the rest of them.

“We’re sending Phoenix Force to Morocco. We’ve secured the cooperation of a local policeman there named Zafar Mazouzi. Officially, Mazouzi’s an employee of the police force in Casablanca, headquarters for Abd-el-Aziz, but we have reliable intelligence he’s been cooperating with Interpol officials to pass whatever information he can on Khalidi’s activities. If he’s managed to stay alive this long, we’re confident he must know quite a bit of Khalidi’s movements and should be an excellent liaison. Your mission, David, is to penetrate the country, disrupt Khalidi’s pipeline operations between here and Morocco and, if the opportunity presents itself, terminate with extreme prejudice.”

McCarter nodded, as did the other members of his team.

Price turned her attention to the trio of Able Team warriors anxious for their own assignment. “As for the three amigos, you’ll board a commercial flight for Florida. Your first stop is Daytona Beach, the district in which Congressman Acres maintained his home and headquarters. Acres is our only lead, not to mention the prisoner you took is from that area. The fact they managed to snatch his son means they had him under observation for some time, knew where he lived and where he worked. That’s the most logical starting point.”

“What are we supposed to do once we find them?” Blancanales asked.

“Yeah, do we get to terminate with extreme prejudice, too?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Brognola said. “Your mission is to run this group to ground, closing the pipeline from this end while Phoenix Force handles the Moroccan angle. A two-headed spear is what we’re shooting for.”

“And we’re not concerned so much about the drug trafficking into Europe,” Price said. “That’s of a secondary concern. The first is to cut the pipeline off at the knees, which will have the effect of not only securing the safety of the American public, but also of removing a major source of funding for Khalidi’s organization. Any questions?”

The men shook their heads nearly in unison.

“Then let’s get it done,” Brognola said.

As the group broke up, the members of the team saying their respective goodbyes or taking a minute to engage each other in lighter conversation, Lyons took the opportunity to grab McCarter, who had stepped outside for a smoke.

“I know exactly what you’re going to say,” McCarter said to his friend. “You wish you were going with us.”

“That’s not exactly what I was going to say, although the sentiment’s implied,” the Able Team leader replied. “I just wanted to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“If you get close enough to Khalidi, I mean really close, take him apart with your bare hands. Not for me—for these kids.”

The fox-faced Briton favored Lyons with a genuine smile of glee. “You can bloody well count on it, mate.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Daytona Beach, Florida

Although the light breeze blew across the sweat that furrowed Carl Lyons’s brow, it didn’t do much to cool him off.

July was one of the hottest and most humid months of the year in Florida, and even being from Los Angeles hadn’t given Lyons any more reason to like the humidity. Blancanales, on the other hand, loved this kind of weather.

“Miserable and muggy,” Lyons muttered as they stepped out of the air-conditioned airport and waited at the curb for their vehicle.

“I love it,” Blancanales replied.

“Did either of you guys consider the fact we were here just a few weeks ago?” Schwarz asked.

“That’s right,” Blancanales said. “I’d completely forgotten.”

“I’m still trying to forget,” Lyons said.

None of the three men had completely shaken off their experiences in Tehran. Lyons had gone on record to say he’d thought their mission in the heart of Iran’s capital had been one of the toughest Able Team had ever undertaken. The Islamic Republican Guard Corps, in concert with Muslim clerics of the Pasdaran, had attempted to overthrow members within their own government while secretly planning to launch attacks against American soil using a Hezbollah unit they were training in the jungles of South America. While Phoenix Force had been occupied trying to find the Hezbollah-IRGC contingent training camp where hostages of the U.S. Peace Corps were being held, Stony Man had elected, been forced really, to send Able Team to Tehran to extract an Iranian intelligence asset claiming to have information about the plot. It had turned into nothing short of a nightmare, resulting in the deaths of two CIA agents and a twenty-four-hour nightmare for Able Team as IRGC and police units hounded their every step.

Lyons shook it away just thinking about how close they’d really come on that one and said, “Let’s leave that behind and talk about the current operation.”