***
At the same time, about seven hundred miles to the north, a brown UPS truck, the suspension tested by its full load of packages, crossed the Canadian border and headed toward Marin County. Meanwhile, about five hundred miles to the south, a U.S. Border Patrol agent waved the driver of a truck loaded up with crates of lettuce across the U.S. border. And farther north, the Soledad, a cargo ship flying the Panamanian flag, passed Robert’s Point after leaving its mooring in the Port of Vancouver. Its captain and crew directed the ship toward Oakland, California.
37. McLean, Virginia
Steve helped Marshall into the car, as Kella folded his wheelchair and put it into the trunk. “We’re done with Brussels,” Steve said, as they drove out of the CIA’s VIP parking lot. “I briefed Trent over the phone, and we just briefed the director. It’s now up to the White House to sort out the damage done by the Nightingale.”
“You know headquarters always prefers written reports,” Marshall said. “But don’t be surprised if the president wants to see you himself. Having his chief of staff turn out to be a foreign spy is sensationally scandalous. Tremaine will do everything possible to erase this chapter from his legacy.”
“So, now that you have kissed the ring,” Kate said, after they returned to the Church home in McLean, “you can relax and continue your honeymoon. By the way, Marshall said Hunter Templeton and Matt McCabe wanted to see you. So I invited them to dinner tonight. Hunter will probably bring a date.”
A gray cat sauntered into the room and rubbed against Kella’s leg. “My little Pascal,” Kella said, picking him up. “You’re not a kitten anymore. You’re more of a teenager.” She stroked the purring feline. “I hope Pascal was not too much of a problem, Kate. Thanks very much for taking care of him.” Without releasing Pascal, she said, “Dinner guests? Do I have time to change?”
Remembering, she said to Kate, “You know, Thérèse LaFont is not like that—kissing the ring.” Then turning to Steve, she said, “But I didn’t get the impression she knew very much about the kidnapping and counter kidnapping.”
“Maybe I was too busy to give headquarters a full account,” Steve admitted.
“That was my call, more than Steve’s,” Marshall said. “Telling LaFont that Steve had kidnapped Yosemani’s son without prior approval would have put Steve in a tough spot. The agency is funny that way. It demands strict command and control, like the military.”
“Well, Kella is back with us, and that’s what matters,” Kate said. “But now that you two are married, isn’t it time to live a more normal life?”
“After we were married,” Marshall said, “Kate said I had to stop jumping out of perfectly good planes. I have not jumped ‘a round’ since. “‘A round,’” he added, in answer to everyone’s puzzled faces, “is a T-30, the standard round parachute everyone was using at the time. Now, of course, parachutes are shaped like mattresses and much more directional.”
“Okay, enough,” Kate said. “Well, here they are. And Hunter did bring a date,” she said, glancing out the window, as her three guests emerged from the car, with Hunter and his date holding hands as they walked to the front door.
“Her name is Kristen,” Kella said to Kate after looking out the window behind her. “She is with the agency, a trainee.”
Kella remembered Kristen from the breakfast at Kristen’s apartment the day after Steve rescued her. Although too weak to focus on her at the time, she now vividly remembered her as much too sexy to be working closely with Steve, a topic she had not yet raised with her new husband.
***
“This must be the first time,” Steve said as they sat around the dinner table, “that we we’ve had a chance to sit and break bread together.”
“Except for the morning I made my world-famous omelet for breakfast,” Hunter said.
“I’ll let you do the cooking next time,” Kate said. “But tonight, Steve grilled us some steaks.”
“I thought,” Kella said, sizing up Kristen and her low-neck black dress, pleased Kristen’s attention was mostly on Hunter, “you were supposed to go back in training after a short stint in Brussels. Did they let you out for good behavior?”
“I’ll be back at the Farm Sunday night, and the training module begins Monday. It’s all going to seem very tame—locks and picks, flaps and seals. It seems outdated. Who uses letters to communicate anymore? Or cylinder locks? I hope we get into hacking and electronics soon.” Kristen smiled.
“I’m surprised,” Kella said, “you have anything left to learn.”
“I know you’re both airborne qualified,” Marshall said to Hunter and McCabe, as he sliced into his steak somewhat awkwardly. “But I don’t think the parachute is a very useful means of getting the soldier to the battle anymore. Am I wrong?”
“You’re right,” McCabe said. “The helicopter is king. In Vietnam, in Iraq, and in Afghanistan, the helicopter has been the vehicle of choice to bring infantrymen close to the enemy.”
“Yeah,” Hunter said. “In the old days, the raid to kill or capture Osama bin Laden would have used parachutists.”
“And it would have taken time for them to find each other in the dark and walk to their objectives without being seen,” McCabe added.
Steve had not yet broached the topic of Marshall’s health with either of his parents, but he had been watching. He noticed his father’s strength was ebbing away. He was sitting at the table in his power chair, which enabled him to sit forward and back, up and down, as well as navigate from room to room as long as there were no steps in the way. Steve could also see Marshall was starting to handle his silverware with a bit of difficulty. It would not be too long, he thought, until he would not be able to feed himself.
Steve took a sip of his Châteauneuf du Pâpe, as Kella looked on approvingly.
“What would you say will be the technical advances from Iraq and Afghanistan?” Steve asked.
“No question about it,” McCabe answered, “the use of the drone has been a game changer. There has also been much closer coordination between the agency and the combat commands. In fact, there has been considerable overlap between the agency’s Special Activities Division and the Special Ops units.”
“There’s also been a contest between IED’s and counter-IED technology,” Hunter said. “Iran produced most of the IEDs used in Iraq. We would study their devices and come up with either better armor, such as the Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles, or better counter technology, such as Ultra-Wide-Band High-Powered Electro-Magnetics,” he continued, looking at Kristen with a self-satisfied grin. “But the bad guys would immediately improve their techniques. The competition escalated through the war.”
“And down at company level,” Hunter added, “is the model-airplane-sized Micro Air Vehicle. The model I’ve seen is the Skylark, first developed by the Israelis. But we added some bells and whistles, because that’s what we do.”
“Much more than I want to know,” Kate interjected. “What about some coffee? And we can move to the living room.”
Kella and Kristen helped Kate bring in the coffee. “So tell us,” Kate said, looking at Steve and Kella, “what your plans are for the rest of your honeymoon.”
“If you’ll have us,” Steve said, “we’ll spend a few more days here. And then we’ll get out of your hair and go west.”
“We have a beautiful condo waiting for us in California,” Kella said, “Just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. I’ve never been in California, and I’m excited to visit San Francisco.”
“Elise’s condo?” Kate asked.
“Yes, and they’re also lending us their Lexus.”
“If you’re going to be sightseeing,” McCabe said, “you’ll want to be in touch with my friend Margo. I’ll give you her number. She knows people, and she’ll be able to get you a VIP tour of the Golden Gate Bridge. The view from the tower is fantastic.”
38. Golden Gate Bridge
Hayder Kazemi slowed his rental car as he approached the
Golden Gate Bridge on Route 101 from Marin County. The sun would be making its appearance in about an hour on his left, but the bridge lights were sufficiently bright to allow him to photograph every detail of the structure. Traffic was not as light as he had expected; maybe they were stockbrokers late for work since the New York Stock Exchange was about to open.
He stopped next to the sidewalk in the middle of the bridge where the supporting cable was at its lowest. He glanced at his watch: 5:30.
Kazemi stepped out of the car, looked quickly for any pedestrians coming his way, thinking both about what he was going to do and about the bridge’s end-of-life choice for more than a thousand people a year. It was known as The Suicide Bridge.
He squatted by the front right tire and let the air out. Then he made a show of walking around the car, conscious of the security cameras recording his movements. He opened the trunk and started replacing the wheel.
The Golden Gate Security police car passed him at 5:45, speeding toward Marin County on the other side of the divided road, its lights flashing. The car took the Sausalito exit and reappeared coming toward Kazemi, having taken the tunnel under the road to change direction. He checked his watch: 5:48.
He had jacked the front of his car up, when the police cruiser pulled behind him at 5:49. Although his problem was evident, he still had to produce a driver’s license and rental agreement.
“Mr. Caraway?” the officer asked, eyeing Kazemi’s alias license.
“Jim Caraway, yes sir,” he replied. “It shouldn’t take me long, Officer. You would think the rental company would check their cars before renting them out.”
“I’m going to have to call a tow truck to clear the bridge,” the officer said, as he returned Kazemi’s documents.
“I can have this tire changed before the tow truck arrives, Officer,” Kazemi replied.
“For your own safety, sir, please stand on the sidewalk. The tow truck will do the rest.”
It was 5:55.
39. Tiburon, California
General Ghassem Yosemani looked down at the tennis courts from his bedroom window and at the horse stables beyond. Incredible, he thought. A mere entertainer should have this material wealth. Somehow, it wasn’t right. He finished getting dressed then went downstairs, where his bodyguard had his tea ready.
“Hayder is still not back,” Gold Glasses said, as the general sat at a large table in the kitchen. “He called in earlier this morning to say he had to wait to get the rental car back from the garage where it had been towed. He should be back soon.”
“What about the trucks? Are you in touch with the drivers?”
“Yes sir, they should be here tomorrow, as will the four Quds Force commandos. One from Mexico, another from Vancouver, and the two others are flying in from headquarters. One by way of Paris and the other transiting Amsterdam.”
Gold Glasses served the tea. “I am sorry about the bread, sir. There is no decent bread in this country. But I made some toast if you want. I did find some excellent strawberry jam. It is said California is the land of fruits and nuts. These strawberries are world class.” He opened and closed several cupboards until he found a small dish, in which he emptied half the jar of jam and set it in front of the general.
“I hate this waiting,” Yosemani said. “The longer we stay in this damnable country, the greater the chances the FBI or CIA will find us.”
“There is no evidence so far they even know we are here,” the bodyguard said. “And we are away from the eyes of the public.” Acting more like a boy about to show off his electric train set than like the elite soldier he was, he pointed to a window through which the garage was visible. “Have you been in there yet, sir? There is enough room for at least ten cars, but it is only half full. There will be enough room for the two trucks when they get here. There is a red Ferrari, a yellow Maserati, a black Tesla, a camouflaged Hummer, and a silver Rolls Royce.” His eyes lighting up, he added, “and two motorcycles, a Harley Davison and Kawasaki.”
“This reminds me of the Shah’s palace, may Allah damn his soul.” After a moment he added, “Check the computer and ask Khazaee for a status report. What about that female CIA agent? It is crucial our East and West Coast attacks be coordinated to take place within the same twenty-four hours.”
After entering a password-protected bulletin board on a culinary site, the bodyguard clicked on a Members’ Only drop-down menu to read Khazaee’s encrypted report. “Sir, he said he introduced the topic with his agent, who was initially shocked at the idea. But he says he is confident she will accept your fallback suggestion to bring the bomb inside the CIA building. He also says he needs more time to make the arrangements.”
“Time is the ingredient we are missing. Tell him he has ten days. No more.”
After the bodyguard put the computer away, Kazemi, rumpled and yawning, walked in. “I have been up all night, but I have the information we need,” he said then proceeded to provide the general with the particulars.
“We cannot depend on fifteen minutes,” Yosemani replied. “Maybe he was using the bathroom. So figure on ten minutes before the police react.”
“That is of course the safe thing to do,” Kazemi said. “However, there was an incident when the police were totally unaware a group of students had successfully hung a VW underneath the structure. It took them two nights, but the car was only discovered sometime during the day after their second visit.”
“Is that a true story?” Yosemani asked. “If that car had been loaded with explosives, I would not have to be here today. I would say it was a lot of luck on one hand and a lot of incompetence on the other. Successful operations need a generous amount of the first and as little as possible of the second.”
“Sir,” Kazemi said with some hesitancy, “I know you are bringing explosives for this job. But I wonder if we should not consider another alternative.” He waited for some encouragement before proceeding. The general only looked at him without a negative sign, so Kazemi continued. “There is a fascinating engineering concept called ‘Liquid Metal Embrittlement,’ which describes how mercury can weaken certain metals to the point of failure.”
“And you have seen this work?”
“Not exactly. But I studied it in school.”
“How much mercury? How long would it take? Are you sure it would work? If you have a specific operations plan, let me have it. If you do not, then keep this to yourself and enlighten our technical division when you go back to Tehran.”
“There have been many experiments. Perhaps the best known was performed at Lehigh University in Pennsylvania.” Kazemi hesitated for a moment and said, “You are right, sir. I will try to collect the written data on this process and send it to our technical people.”
“Yes, but in the meantime, we will do it the old-fashioned way, with Semtex and thank Vaclav Havel. He declared shortly after taking over Czechoslovakia that the previous Communist regime had accumulated fifty years’ worth of Semtex for terrorist attacks. We thought he was advertising and we bought it.”
“About the timing,” Kazemi said. “We need not limit ourselves to ten minutes, sir. I have a way that will give us an additional ten or fifteen minutes.”
Yosemani stood to go inspect the garage. As he entered, a framed inscription announced, “Those who die with the most toys, win.” A rich man with a large ego but a sense of humor, he thought. Although he had never heard of him, he did remember his name: Penn, a misguided man who had put the Supreme Leader in the same category as world dictators such as Hugo Chavez, Saddam Hussein, and Fidel Castro, all of whose hands he had shaken.
His mind had not stopped turning over the details of the operation he was about to undertake, which would open a new chapter in establishing his country’s rightful place in the world. The option he had been considering was to pull San Francisco’s law-enforcement units away from the Golden Gate Bridge via a decoy attack. He knew once the beehive of police and special units responded, they could overwhelm anything smalle
r than an army. His only trump card would be speed and surprise. But his reputation as a master of deception had been well earned. Rather than spread his few resources too thin by complicating his plan with a decoy operation, he would focus the enemy’s attention away from the bridge, much as the hated but devious and clever British had led Hitler to believe the Normandy invasion would take place up the coast from where it actually occurred.
As he strolled among the actor’s luxurious toys, Yosemani’s thoughts turned to the personal message he had received from the commanding general of the IRGC. The commander and the president, by orders of the Supreme Leader, had congratulated him on his foresight in planning to strike America’s homeland. His mission would be to wound the Great Satan immediately following the impending American missile strike against Syria, an integral part of the Greater Persian Empire.
40. New York Redux
Um al Ali took the elevator to the twenty-third floor, wondering why Khazaee had changed their meeting place from the apartment close to the U.N. building. She had not known the room number until the desk called his room. “Come on up. I’m in 2310.”
She knew the relationship had entered new territory when the Iranian focused on Islam, more particularly on Shiite Islam. While covering the twelve centuries between the Hussein martyrdom to the establishment of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Khazaee continually probed her own beliefs. The last time they met, he had quizzed her on her opinion regarding suicide bombers. Bob Trent, her CIA case officer, had simply told her to let her comments reflect her deep beliefs in her religion—but mostly she should listen.
The Red Cell Page 18