Streibling shook his head. “Very tough security, lots of checks and cross-checks built into the system. He travels with a crew of twelve ex–Mexican Special Forces guys, SEAL-quality gunfighters, and a spooky guy who always wears a sock on his head.”

“What’s that about?” asked Bob.

“Nobody knows.”

Nick summarized his conclusions.

“I can see that he would be perfect for Juba and Juba’s people. Solid, secure, able to provide Juba with logistics and privacy. Able to get him around the country. Everywhere he goes, he’ll have operators with him. They’re the guys who picked him up in Ohio and got him where he is now.”

“And ambitious,” said Neill. “Saw a chance to link up with some sort of extranational or transnational entity and took it. Not just for the money, but for the experience of going international. He’s a globalist.”

“What about cyber?” asked Nick.

“Well,” said Neill, “we can at least go full-press war on him, now that we’ve got a target. Somewhere, sooner or later, there’s a crack.”

“That’s what they say about us,” said Nick, with a humor-free laugh.

“Yeah, but we can keep trying, and, sooner or later—”

“Later ain’t no good,” said Swagger. “He’s on schedule right now, and we’re not sure how much time is left. These Mexican operators get him into position, he pulls off the shot, and they get him out of there. All the forensics points to poor Brian A. Waters, loner and gun nut. Depending on who he hits—and, I bet, we can all guess—some kind of major shit hits some kind of major fan, and suddenly, somehow, it’s a different world.”

“Ah, Christ,” said Nick. “This one is tough. I don’t see how we can proact. We can monitor, get ourselves included in the loop of every agency that encounters Menendez, we can apply our analytical skills and our imaginations to various scenarios and pick the most likely one and go against them. But we’ll always be behind the curve, action-wise, never in front of it.”

“Well,” said Streibling, “something could be happening.”

All eyes went to him.

“Enlighten us, Agent Streibling. I must say, you seem well informed.”

“I am. I’m about sixth-generation Lone Star law enforcement with Texas Rangers, Dallas Metro Shotgun Squad, Border Patrol—all that good DNA in my veins.”

“Go ahead, spill some beans.”

“As I say, cop people. Cops, cops, cops. They talk to cops who talk to cops. Agents, supervisors, techs—whatever—everybody talks, and some of us listen. And who do I listen to, especially with two martinis in him on a Saturday night? My wife’s sister is married to a guy very high up in DEA here in Dallas.”

“More beans, please,” said Nick.