“I’m not certain I can leave it,” the deliveryman said. “It’s a personal package.”
“Aren’t all packages personal?”
The Roc looked at his wristwatch. “He’ll be back in twenty minutes. You can wait in the lobby if you would like.” He nodded toward the worn furniture.
The deliveryman reached for the package, but the Roc pulled it back. “Farrokh would be furious with me if I didn’t hold this for him. You can come back in twenty minutes for his signature—if you need it.”
The deliveryman let out a sigh. “You will keep it here at the front desk and give it only to him?”
The Roc bent, placed the package on the floor. “It will be safe right here for when he returns.”
The deliveryman turned and walked toward the door.
The Roc saw his loafers. Ferragamo.
As soon as he exited, the Roc dimmed the lobby lights and walked to the hostel’s front windows. The deliveryman was walking south toward a black Mercedes E-Class. He opened the sedan’s back door, illuminating its interior. Two men were in the front seat, watching the hostel.
The Roc found the hostel’s alleyway exit. Five minutes later he was approaching the Mercedes from behind on the deserted street. He drew both handguns from his waistband. Ten feet away, he began to run forward, raising both.
The Mercedes’ windows were open because its passengers were smoking cigarettes. An irony. Iran, the biggest cigarette manufacturer in the Middle East, yet the aroma the Roc recognized was Marlboro’s international brand.
No one in the luxury car noticed him until he reached it. The Roc fired Farrokh’s nine-millimeter at the deliveryman in the back seat, simultaneously firing his H & K VP70 pistol with his other hand at the front-seat occupants. Emptied both clips. More than twenty rounds. Enough to kill all three.
The Roc opened the front passenger door, checked the dead man closest him for identification. A diplomatic Iranian passport. In his wallet a military ID.
A remote detonator was resting on the console between the driver and passenger. The Roc tossed Farrokh’s pistol on the floorboard and took the device with him.
As he walked to the train station, he pressed the remote’s trigger.
The deliveryman’s package inside the hostel exploded, blowing out the hostel’s front windows and shooting a giant fireball out into the street. The entire building was in flames. Within moments, the Roc could hear the approaching sirens. Police. Fire. By the time the first responders arrived, he was boarding the final train to Oulx.
There was only one logical explanation. His daughter had unknowingly led her sex trafficker escorts to the Paris flat. Farrokh had called General Kardar, seeking a reward for the location, and Kardar had notified either the French authorities or the Mossad. Now the general was tying up loose ends. Covering his tracks. Getting rid of witnesses. As the Roc rode in silence, he decided that there were two men responsible for Tahira’s death. General Kardar, and the American named Brett Garrett. He would find and kill them both.
Twenty-Seven
The Golden Fish burst through the ocean’s surface into the nighttime darkness twenty-two miles west of the Azores archipelago, midway between North America and Europe. The Atlantic waters were calm as Commander Petrov stood on the submarine’s conning tower, lighting a smoke. Except for the glow from the cigarette tip, Petrov was enveloped in darkness, on a black sea invisible in a starless night. A spray of water wetted his cheeks. The salt burned his dry lips. Petrov preferred the sea’s vacant vastness. Prison had cured him of the need for social connection. He relaxed long enough to finish his cigarette before tossing its filter into the ocean and going below for his scheduled call with Zharkov.
“We should arrive at the rendezvous point in thirty-six hours,” Petrov reported. “Is the cargo ship on schedule?”
“Yes,” Zharkov replied. “It will meet you.”
“The next time we talk will be after I position the Golden Fish at its final resting point.” Petrov disconnected and ordered Dimitri Kozlov, his second-in-command, to dive back into the vast ocean’s depths.
At that same moment in London, Zharkov exited the safe room hidden behind bookshelves in his master bedroom and proceeded through his mansion to where the Iranian general Kardar was waiting.
“Ah, General. I apologize for this unavoidable delay.”
“I need to return to Tehran tonight.”
“And you will, but first a celebration. My wife has arranged a special dinner for us. Then we’ll finalize our business.”
“This trip comes at an inconvenient time,” Kardar complained.
“My friend, even I do not risk insulting my wife.”
Zharkov led him through the mansion’s expansive main dining hall, capable of seating sixteen guests, to a more intimate side chamber. It took Kardar a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the all-white room. Five thousand shimmering fiber-optic cables dropped from a white ceiling along the room’s shiny white walls. The polished white marble table was arranged with white Hermès china and Puiforcat silverware. Glasses were Saint-Louis crystal.
Zharkov motioned toward a seat. Kardar adjusted his pistol as he sat in the cushioned chair. A few minutes later, Britt Bjorge-Zharkov entered, wearing a Carolina Herrera tie-sleeve, sparkle-embroidered trench gown in robin’s-egg blue. She was two decades younger than her husband, a former Norwegian model turned secretary turned billionaire’s wife. Blond shoulder-length hair. Lithe movements. Fluent in four languages.
Zharkov stood to pull back her chair. Kardar reluctantly rose.
“When my husband told me of your visit, I asked our chefs what would be an appropriate dish for a gentleman of your military authority,” Bjorge-Zharkov said in her soft voice. “They provided me with a list of Iranian delicacies to choose from, and since I had no idea which you might prefer, I told them to prepare everything.”
She laughed and tapped the screen on her always-present iPad, summoning a chef and three servers.
“For your enjoyment tonight,” the chef said, “we have beef, chicken, and lamb liver kebabs. Smoked fish, falafel, and noodles. We will begin with hot and sour shrimp, and for dessert, we have caviar, rosewater-scented ice cream, and grilled lamb’s testicles.”
“Bring me a vodka,” Zharkov snorted. “If my wife forces me to eat grilled lamb’s testicles, I’ll need several.”
“Will the Oval Swarovski Crystal be your choice tonight, sir?” one of the servers asked.
“An excellent suggestion. Our guest doesn’t drink, so water for him.”
“With or without gas?” the server asked Kardar.
“With.”
“Bring me a carafe of d’Auvenay Chevalier,” Bjorge-Zharkov said.
For the next forty minutes the three exchanged pleasantries, until Bjorge-Zharkov announced it was time for her to leave. “I never ask my husband anything about his business affairs.”
“This meal was wonderful,” Kardar said, rising from his chair, “but not as pleasant as sharing time with you. May I compliment you on your beauty.”
“You are displaying your Middle Eastern charm,” she replied, smiling.
Zharkov watched from his chair without comment, slightly amused. He knew that Kardar was a vicious sadist, with a penchant for torturing poor young girls, whose corpses he dumped on Tehran’s backstreets. He took no offense at the general’s flirting with his wife, quietly finding it humorous that she had no clue about the depravity of the man whom she had so graciously entertained.
When they were alone, Kardar said, “My plane is waiting to return me to Tehran. I came for my finder’s fee and for the detonation code to share with Fathi Aziz, not to socialize.”
“Send your plane home,” Zharkov replied. “One of my pilots can get you to Tehran in my fastest jet. Nothing is more important than what I’m about to show you.”
With his ever-present drink in one hand, Zharkov led his guest to the mansion’s second-floor office, where the Russian wa
lked to a boardroom table and spread out a large map of the North Atlantic Ocean.
“In addition to my excellence in math and consuming large quantities of vodka,” the oligarch boasted, “I’m accomplished in geography and topography. Are you familiar with the Sargasso Sea?”
“You will recall I am not a sailor,” Kardar said.
“This sea is the most unique body of water in the world because it is a sea inside an ocean, with no land boundaries.”
He pointed at the map with his right index finger. “On its west is the Gulf Stream, flowing along the American coast. The North Atlantic Current runs along its north side, the Canary Current provides its eastern border, and the North Equatorial Current is its southern border. A sea surrounded by ocean currents.”
Kardar checked his watch.
“Am I boring you?” Zharkov asked.
Kardar lowered his wrist.
“All four currents hold this sea within its boundaries,” Zharkov continued. “Unfortunately, the sea’s surface is covered with miles of plastic bottles and refuse, as well as a thick brown seaweed of the genus Sargassum.”
He pressed his finger down on the map. “Crossing this will be difficult for Commander Petrov because even though its surface is covered with debris, the ocean here is a deep blue and exceptionally clear, making the Golden Fish easy to spot if it ventures near the surface.”
Zharkov paused, expecting a question, but Kardar said nothing.
“Once the Golden Fish passes through the Sargasso Sea, Petrov will guide his ship to this location.” He unrolled a second map that showed the Virginia and North Carolina coastlines. “This is where the Golden Fish will forever change history with its nuclear bomb.”
For the first time, Kardar appeared interested. “You will not attack Washington? Baltimore? New York?”
Zharkov broke into a smug smile. “General, what do you know about tsunamis?”
Kardar didn’t like being cast in the role of a student. He didn’t respond.
“A tsunami caused by the great Sumatra-Andaman earthquake of 2004 killed nearly three hundred thousand, and even though it began in the Indian Ocean, it impacted waves as far north as Nova Scotia and as far south as Peru.”
“Tsunamis are caused by faults in tectonic plates,” Kardar said. “Not by nuclear bombs.”
“General,” Zharkov replied approvingly, “I’m impressed. You do know something about seismology. They are caused by collisions—faults in tectonic plates. Sadly, America’s eastern coastline has not been vulnerable because there is a lack of subduction zones—where the tectonic plates meet—off its coast.”
Zharkov paused, savoring his reveal and sipping his drink, before continuing.
“During the Cold War, the leaders of the Kremlin asked our best Soviet scientists to find a location where a nuclear bomb aboard a submarine could be exploded near America to cause a tsunami. The KGB believed that the Kremlin could explain the explosion away as a nuclear accident to avoid retaliation, and since our technology was so far behind that of the Americans, that would have been a believable excuse.”
“If it was so brilliant a plan, why wasn’t it done?”
“Because our scientists weren’t certain it would work. Risk versus reward, my friend. Even scientists today are skeptical. If you look on the internet, you will find a computer simulation that postulates what would unfold if the world’s biggest bomb—the Tsar Bomba, with a yield of fifty-eight megatons of TNT—exploded at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, the deepest cavity in the earth’s crust.”
Zharkov looked at Kardar through bloodshot eyes and suddenly exclaimed: “Boom!” He laughed. “Nothing would happen. No cities would be flooded. The earth would not be blown from its axis. No massive deaths marking the end of mankind. Water pressure at nearly eleven thousand meters below the surface would contain the nuclear blast, overpower it, and by the time it reached the surface, it would barely cause a ripple.”
“You have spent more than a billion dollars for what? A Cold War plan that is unproved?”
“Tectonic plates crashing together is not the only phenomenon that causes a tsunami. The largest tsunami ever, in terms of wave height, happened off Alaska when a magnitude seven-point-eight earthquake caused an underwater landslide. A chunk of earth six hundred feet wide and fifty feet tall broke away from an underwater cliff, sending three million cubic yards of dirt crashing down—much like an avalanche, only submerged. That rockslide caused twenty-foot-high waves to crash into Alaska, traveling as far inland as five hundred meters.”
He pointed to the Virginia coast. “About seventy-five miles east from the shore here, the ocean floor drops from two hundred meters to eight hundred meters. This is where the American coastline really ends. It is the continental shelf.”
Pausing only long enough to take another sip of vodka, he said in an excited and slightly slurred voice, “Most people are ignorant. They do not understand that sixteen thousand years ago, ocean waters were much lower than today. This explains the land bridge that once linked North America and Asia but now is the Bering Strait.”
Kardar was growing tired of this lecture. “What about my payment and the code?”
“Do not hurry me!” Zharkov snapped. “What I am describing is brilliance that should be savored. My plan will change the world. Now, before the ocean levels began to rise, strong rivers and melting ice cut canyons and channels into the continental shelf. In Africa, the Congo Canyon extends from the Congo River’s mouth nearly five hundred miles, and is almost four thousand feet deep. An underwater Grand Canyon.”
Zharkov stared down at his maps. “Why does my geography lesson matter? Why should it concern you? German U-boat commanders understood the value of what I have told you. They would hover a few feet above the ocean bottom along the continental shelf, hiding in the uneven underwater topography, then rise to fire on unsuspecting American ships. They sank forty-five ships in six months.”
Kardar was becoming more frustrated. “What is your point?”
“My point is,” Zharkov said, exasperated, “that a deep canyon runs through the American continental shelf—a canyon deep enough and wide enough for the Golden Fish to slip into. Petrov can sail unnoticed—just like those German U-boats—making his way close to the Virginia shoreline.” He touched his finger onto the map. “Right here is a hole six hundred meters deep that was created centuries ago. This is where he will pilot the Golden Fish. This is where its nuclear bomb will explode. This is where a massive landslide will create a mega-tsunami unlike anything the world has seen.”
Zharkov slid his finger from where the submarine would be exploded toward the shore. “Directly in its path is Norfolk, home to the world’s biggest naval base. The Americans’ Atlantic Fleet. It will be hit before anyone can sound an alarm. Aircraft carriers will be knocked over as if they were bathtub toys.” He continued sliding his finger from Norfolk up the Chesapeake Bay to the Potomac River, finally stopping on Washington, DC.
“My computer simulations,” he boasted, “show the entire city will be flooded. Washington will become a modern-day Atlantis. Millions will die. Monuments will be toppled. The White House drowned. Waves from my mega-tsunami will hit the entire coast from Boston to Charleston.” He ran his finger up and down the shore.
“Such a long distance—it seems improbable,” Kardar said.
“Mathematical calculations don’t lie, but even if the waves only destroy the Atlantic Fleet and flood Washington, my goal will be accomplished.” Zharkov stepped away from the table and pointed toward two valises near his desk. “Your finder’s fee,” he said. “Take it.”
Kardar stepped quickly to the cases, which he opened.
“Two million in US dollars, as you requested,” Zharkov said.
“And what of the six-digit code needed to detonate the bomb? I will need to tell Aziz.”
Zharkov grunted. “Tell him any six numbers. I have no intention of providing the real ones to him and letting him decide when to detona
te my bomb. All that matters is that he believes the digits are real, so that when you tell him to use them, I can explode the bomb with him receiving all the blame.”
Zharkov walked in unsteady steps to his desk and slumped in the chair behind it. From a drawer, he removed a fresh bottle of vodka. He waved his hand at the Iranian general, dismissing him.
Kardar picked up the two heavy valises and walked downstairs. Two of his security guards were waiting in the foyer. They opened umbrellas; it was raining hard outside. There, two additional guards were waiting, also holding open umbrellas. The umbrella entourage shielded him as he entered his limousine, steps away.
Unknown to Kardar and his men, directly across from Zharkov’s mansion, a lone man was lying prone on a rooftop. Because of the umbrellas, the Roc did not have a clear shot. His eyes shifted to Zharkov’s mansion. A light appeared on its third floor.
Twenty-Eight
“Why did Robert Calhoun write that awful story about us?” Mayberry asked. “I’m not certain I’ll have a job when I get home.”
“None of it was true,” Garrett said.
“Don’t be naive, Garrett. Truth doesn’t matter in Washington. It’s all about perceptions, and my bosses at the bureau frown on that sort of publicity.” She reached into her purse. Removed her prescription bottle. Swallowed two capsules without water.
“Those aren’t going to help,” he said.
“Don’t be that guy, Garrett. There’s nothing worse than someone in recovery who believes he knows all the answers because of what he’s been through. Not everyone gets addicted. People take pain pills in the hospital and go home and never take them again.”
“You’re not in the hospital, are you?”
“Your burns healed! My hand won’t! You need to back off!”
The woman in front of them turned, having overheard their exchange. Garrett returned her stare with a menacing glare. She took a step forward in the Charles de Gaulle airport’s passenger screening line. Fifteen passengers ahead of them, waiting to be cleared for their departure gates.
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