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If Cope’s boss had said the same thing to him, Striker would’ve had a hard time doing as he asked. He prayed that he was putting his trust into one of the good guys.
“Fuck,” he muttered, hating that for now, he had to accept not knowing.
Before they deboarded, Striker briefed Razor and Monk on what he’d learned.
“He wouldn’t tell you whose plane we’re flying out on?” Razor asked.
“That’s right.” Striker looked up when Trap came out of the cockpit. Before he realized what was happening, Monk had the man by the neck.
“Whose plane is it? Tell me right fucking now.”
Trap’s eyes m
et Striker’s. He nodded.
“Franz Lehrer’s.”
Monk released the pilot and shoved him away.
“We’re taking a fucking Armenian-born drug baron’s plane? In what universe would anyone agree to this?”
Trap rubbed the back of his neck. “The one where the CIA is working with him to take down the Cali Cartel, FARC, and Petro Santos.”
“Jesus Christ.” Striker shook his head, taking in the weighted words of what Trap had just told him.
The theory he and Razor had come up with before the flight, of the treaty between the FARC combatants and the Colombian government falling apart, couldn’t have been more off base.
Instead, they were working together, along with Mao’s Cali cartel, to ensure an end to Latin America’s oldest and most stable democracy.
“What about Ghafor and the weapons?”
“Buenaventura is in Medellín-controlled territory.”
“Ghafor’s working with the CIA.”
“You didn’t really think we were that stupid, did you, Striker?”
“Not all of you.”
“Don’t underestimate McTiernan,” said Trap. “You didn’t suspect a thing.”
“Who supplied the weapons?”
Trap looked at Monk.
“United fucking Russia,” he answered.
It all made perfect sense. Striker should’ve known the CIA wouldn’t let someone like Ghafor choose his place of exile. They put him where they wanted him and gave him a very specific mission—to help them get rid of Santos, put Marquez back in power, and save the crumbling democracy before it was too late.
The money, wherever it really came from, flowed through the Medellín cartel, to the Islamic State, to UR, who then supplied the weapons—believing the endgame was to reinforce Santos’ power.
Instead, Ghafor made arrangements to have the arms shipped to Colombia in order to fuel the bloodbath Striker had predicted would take place. The one in which Franz’s cartel would reign victorious over Mao’s. More importantly though, Franz and the Islamic State would have the combined ability to take down the Santos administration as well as FARC—all thanks to the United States of America.
If word of this got out, that the CIA corroborated with one of the largest drug cartels in Colombia, it might bring the agency itself down. The US had recently lost one president due to one of the biggest conspiracies in the nation’s history. The one Striker found himself in the middle of was almost as big.
“How high up does this go, Trap?”
“I can’t answer that.”
