Shakedown

by Newt Gingrich

  “We should call someone.”

  “Already did. Arlington social services. They asked if he was dangerous. I said no, but he’s a nuisance, and they told me there ain’t no crime being a nuisance. Told me they didn’t have time to mess with him unless he’s dangerous. Said I needed to call them back after he attacked someone. Stupid, ain’t it? Then they’ll just take him to jail, and a couple of weeks later, he’ll be back madder than he was.”

  Garrett watched the homeless vet pushing his grocery cart down the street.

  “Welcome home,” Russell said.

  “You’ve made changes,” Garrett replied as they entered the lobby.

  “Yeah, since that Iranian got himself stabbed,” Russell said, “they installed all sorts of additional monitors behind my new desk here. Can see every floor in the building, back door and entrance too. Now they expect me to sit here and report any time someone visits—even write down what they look like.”

  Garrett was only half listening. He rode the elevator upstairs. Sixth floor. Waved to Russell via the camera monitoring the hallway. His cell phone rang as he approached his front door.

  “Welcome back stranger,” Thomas Jefferson Kim said. “Been reading about you. Exploding cars in Bellagio. Shootouts with terrorists in Paris. My life is so boring compared to yours.”

  “Face it, Kim, you’re boring.”

  “Is Mayberry okay?”

  “Yes, thanks for asking about me.”

  “You answered the phone, didn’t you? Besides, Mayberry called and said I needed to keep track of you. She told me the Roc tried to kill you in London. I’m still trying to find him for you, but he’s off the grid.”

  Garrett fished his condo key out of his pant pocket.

  “There’s another reason I’m calling,” Kim said. “I can’t get anyone to pay attention, but I think it’s important.”

  Garrett inserted the key into his door’s bolt lock.

  “The Coast Guard picked up a Russian floating in the Atlantic, trying to enter the US illegally,” Kim said. “They assumed he jumped off a cargo ship near Norfolk.”

  “Did you say Norfolk?”

  “Yes, but here’s what got me curious. The Coast Guard report said he was wearing an SEIE suit. The type submariners use to escape during emergencies. And get this, a few days later, two other men in SEIE suits washed up on shore. Both were believed to be Russians and both had been fatally shot by someone using an underwater pistol. The authorities have the one who’s still alive locked up in a regional jail until they can sort this out.”

  Garrett withdrew his key from the bolt lock without opening his condo door.

  “I need to call Mayberry,” he told Kim as he hurried toward the elevator.

  It took several rings for her to answer.

  “The Coast Guard picked up a Russian wearing a submarine survivor suit near Norfolk. How soon can you be ready?”

  “For what? I just got out of the shower.”

  “We need to interrogate this Russian. He didn’t just float across the Atlantic. We’re a team, remember? Besides, you’re the only person I know who speaks fluent Russian. I’m coming your way. We’ll take your car, and no arguments.”

  He darted across the lobby and out of the building to hail an Uber to go meet her.

  From behind his security desk, Russell mumbled, “Didn’t stay long enough to change clothes.” The security guard had started to return to the crossword puzzle he was doing when he noticed movement on the sixth floor. A man coming out of Garrett’s condo.

  “What the heck?” Russell said to himself. “Must’ve snuck by me when I was out chasing away that homeless pest.”

  Russell walked outside to see if he could flag down Garrett, but he was gone. Returning to his lobby monitors, he checked for the man on the sixth-floor hallway. It was empty. He searched the other cameras and found footage of the stranger, first entering the building through the back door and then leaving the same way while Russell was outside, trying to flag down Garrett.

  “Damn it,” Russell cursed. He pulled out his logbook and wrote: “Unknown visitor seen entering and leaving Brett Garrett’s condo. Description . . . large scar from his ear to his neck.” He noted the time and returned to his crossword puzzle.

  Forty

  Director Whittington landed in Baku two hours before his private rendezvous with General Kardar—enough time to change clothes and take a final glance at the background file the agency had prepared. He would meet Kardar inside the walled compound of an oil-rich billionaire, an ornate villa on the edge of the Caspian Sea outside the Azerbaijan capital. Accompanying Whittington was a security detail, his personal assistant, and an interpreter, although he’d been told Kardar spoke fluent English. If the general said something to those with him in Farsi, he wanted to know what was being said.

  At the agreed-upon time, Whittington descended a marble staircase and made his way toward a first-floor ballroom. He checked the time: sixty hours remained before Aziz’s deadline. As he neared the doorway, his personal assistant hurried toward him.

  “Kardar isn’t inside,” Rodrigo Montoya reported.

  Whittington went back upstairs to his guest suite. From his days in Congress, he was familiar with posturing. A half hour later the mansion’s chief of staff, who was serving as their host, informed him that the general was now ready to begin.

  “We’ll be down shortly,” Whittington answered.

  Whittington watched the clock, waited fifteen minutes, and then descended the staircase. He arrived in the ballroom only to discover that Kardar still wasn’t there. This time he waited.

  Kardar entered fifteen minutes later, without offering an explanation for his tardiness. He took a seat across from Whittington at an ornate Indian Turkish table with mother-of-pearl inlays while the house’s chief of staff explained that coffee and finger foods had been placed on a nearby table.

  Despite his irritation, Whittington decided to begin their conversation on a friendly note. He prided himself on being a skilled deal maker and found that flattery often worked better than criticism. “My country appreciates your invitation,” he said. “As you are surely aware, the terrorist Aziz has taken credit for an assassination attempt on Mossad director Julian Levi and the suicide bombing outside the Metropolitan Museum in Manhattan. We are taking his threat about a nuclear attack against my country seriously, and welcome your help in preventing it.”

  The general impatiently tapped an index finger on the highly polished table surface and motioned to one of his aides by raising his hand. He whispered something. The aide fetched him a black coffee from a silver urn on the side table.

  Whittington motioned to Montoya to fetch him a cup of coffee and slice of baklava.

  “The Islamic Republic of Iran has sent me as a humanitarian gesture,” Kardar said. “We are a peace-loving people. It is America’s support of the illegal Zionist state and its theft of Palestinian lands that has brought you to the edge of a nuclear attack.”

  “My government appreciates Iran’s willingness to assist.”

  “Your country’s aggression against the Arab world and the contempt your president shows toward Palestine and the Islamic Republic of Iran makes it problematic for us to help you.”

  For the next fifteen minutes Kardar spewed anti-American rhetoric in a clearly well-rehearsed speech.

  Whittington listened without comment. When Kardar had finished, he said, “I believe we should take a short break.” It was a calculated move. He wanted to show his displeasure at being lectured.

  “If you do not admit your country’s guilt,” Kardar said, his voice rising, “I shall return to Tehran.”

  “With all due respect, General,” Whittington calmly replied, now standing from his chair, “I did not come here to debate American foreign policy.” He left the ballroom.

  Once upstairs, he told Montoya, “Tell our host that we’ll be ready to return to the table in fifteen minutes.”

  Montoya left with the mes
sage but returned moments later, going immediately to the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “The general is leaving,” he commented, peering down at the estate’s driveway.

  Whittington hurried over in time to see Kardar entering a Mercedes-Benz. He watched it pull away.

  “What now?” Montoya asked.

  “The general requested this meeting,” Whittington said. “He’s bluffing—trying to intimidate. Inform our host we are leaving as well, and have our vehicles brought around.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait at least a few hours?”

  “If General Kardar is serious, he needs to get back here. If not, then this was a ruse to make us believe Iran was willing to assist. Either way, we don’t have time to waste playing games.”

  Their host was stationed at the mansion’s front doorway when they came downstairs. Whittington thanked him. As their three-vehicle motorcade proceeded away from the house along the palm-treed driveway, he quietly began to second-guess himself. His anxiety grew as they sped away from the gated compound toward Baku Heydar Aliyev International Airport.

  Whittington asked Montoya to check his cell phone for possible texts from Kardar’s entourage. Nothing. By the time they reached the airport’s VIP departure area, Whittington was drenched in sweat. His security detail formed a protective shield as he started toward the terminal.

  Montoya’s cell phone rang. Whittington stopped midstride.

  “General Kardar is here,” the villa’s chief of staff said. “He’s returned from taking a lunch break and is waiting in the ballroom.”

  Montoya hit mute. “Kardar wants to meet. Claims he left for lunch.”

  Whittington nodded yes and hurried back into the waiting limousine.

  In the ballroom, Kardar was the first to speak.

  “The Islamic Republic of Iran has considered your request for help, and has decided against it.”

  Whittington stared at him, puzzled. But before he could speak, Kardar went on, “However, my government does not wish for the Arab world to suffer additional aggression and interference, and for that reason alone, our Supreme Leader is willing to consult with Aziz.”

  “Our country would be grateful, but would prefer he not only be stopped from detonating a nuclear bomb but, in addition, be held accountable for his criminal acts,” Whittington said. “Are you willing to tell us where Aziz is hiding, or detain him for extradition?”

  “The Islamic Republic of Iran will not,” Kardar said, slightly raising his voice. “We do not philosophically oppose Fathi Aziz’s jihad against your country. However, the Supreme Leader does oppose the use of all nuclear weapons. Nuclear weapons are an affront to the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad, blessed be his name, and the loving nature of Islam. This is why the Supreme Leader is willing to advise Aziz not to use a nuclear weapon.”

  “Based on what Aziz has put on display in his messages, there is reason to suspect the nuclear bomb that he reportedly controls was made in Iran. We also have heard reports about you meeting with a Russian oligarch in London who may be involved in this. Taras Zharkov.”

  Kardar slammed his open palms on the table and pushed himself up from his chair. “These are Israeli lies! We have no means to manufacture a nuclear bomb, and I have no relationship with this Russian.”

  Whittington replied in an appeasing voice, “Let us continue our dialogue, General, about Aziz and your Supreme Leader. I only wanted to warn you of the obvious. When this crisis is over, the United States and its allies will investigate the source of this weapon and how Aziz obtained it, and will take the appropriate action to punish anyone or any countries involved.”

  Kardar scowled. “I come here to offer you help, and you accuse me personally and threaten my country.”

  He turned to leave—once again.

  “General Kardar, please,” Whittington said. “There is no time to waste here. What will it take for the United States to receive the assistance of your Supreme Leader in ending this crisis?”

  Kardar slowly returned to his seat. “If the United States wishes for the Supreme Leader to use his influence to prevent a nuclear attack, the United States must end its immoral economic, trade, scientific, and military sanctions against the Islamic Republic of Iran, including financial restrictions that unjustly prevent our people from participating in international banking. It must unfreeze our country’s billions’ worth of bank deposits, gold, and other properties being held abroad. It must stop levying fines on third-party nations that engage in business with Iran, and it must end its boycott on selling aircraft and repair parts. More than seventeen planes have crashed, killing nearly two thousand Iranians, because of America’s cruel and unwise aggression against us. Finally, the United States must re-sign the international Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action that had been negotiated in good faith. If you want our hand in helping you, you must take your hands off our throats. This is nonnegotiable.”

  “Let’s be reasonable,” Whittington replied. “I’m certain some sanctions can be lifted, but—”

  “All conditions must be met.”

  “General Kardar, I do not have authority to do what you have asked, but I will speak to the president. If the United States complies, can you guarantee Aziz will not carry out his nuclear threat?”

  “Your country should have sent someone with authority to sign an agreement.” Kardar left the ballroom.

  Whittington’s return flight would take thirteen hours. Time was running out before the deadline. On his way to the airport, he called and briefed the president. Montoya joined him as they took seats on the aircraft.

  “Think the president will agree to those demands?” Montoya asked.

  “What choice does he have? He is convinced this threat is real. He’ll have to play ball if the Navy can’t find this rogue submarine.”

  “We don’t negotiate with terrorists or their surrogates.”

  “Except when we do. Remember Oliver North?”

  “That didn’t end well.”

  An hour after Whittington’s flight from Baku departed, General Kardar also boarded his plane at the Azerbaijan airport for the return trip to Tehran. Unlike Whittington, the general felt celebratory. As he settled in, awaiting takeoff, Kardar allowed himself to gloat. He had outsmarted all of them, and not only the Americans. He shut his eyes and thought back to the beginning, when Iran’s president had quietly informed his inner circle that their country had manufactured a nuclear bomb. His revelation had been greeted with cheers, but that revelry had quickly turned into a heated discussion about what to do with the bomb. Israel and its allies would immediately react if word leaked out. They would launch a preemptive strike. It had been Kardar who’d offered a solution—an ambitious plot that others in Iran’s top echelon had called impossible and foolish . . . at first.

  The president had given Kardar permission to proceed. The first step had been using Iran’s connections inside the Russian SVR, the successor to the KGB, to approach Taras Zharkov. Kardar had learned about the KGB’s mothballed scheme—to cause a tsunami that would kill and wreak havoc—years earlier, and had correctly suspected that Zharkov would be intrigued by it. That he’d try to profit from it. Kardar had thoroughly studied his target. Zharkov was a money-hungry, inebriated glutton arrogant enough to risk an attack. He’d approached Zharkov with an offer to sell him Iran’s nuclear bomb.

  The next step had been recruiting Fathi Aziz to take the blame. That too had been risky, but Kardar had orchestrated it perfectly. Brought all the pieces together. There had only been a few glitches. Weren’t there always? He had been photographed outside Zharkov’s mansion in London, but that could be easily explained. If pressed, he would claim the Russian wished to meet with him about providing supplies to the Quds Force through one of his many companies. A more serious issue had been Zharkov’s insistence on personally choosing the six-digit detonation code—a code that Zharkov had not had time to share before he died. But even that could be remedied. The general had access to Iran’s finest progra
mmers, and they could certainly find a way to decipher a six-digit code once Kardar connected them by a secure line to the submarine. If the Americans refused Tehran’s demands, Kardar could explode the bomb and let Aziz be blamed. There would be no preponderance of evidence, only accusations. If America agreed to Iran’s demands, he would capitalize on the threat again and again, until they located the grounded Golden Fish off their shoreline or killed Aziz. Even then Kardar could find another shill eager for martyrdom.

  Kardar did not know who had killed Zharkov or why. But he considered his murder a favor. The Russian was no longer useful, and Kardar would have ordered him killed eventually to further cover Iran’s involvement.

  Kardar opened his eyes as the plane rose. A child of rape, abandoned on the streets, abused in orphanages, a throwaway Iranian. But no longer. Soon he’d be a national hero.

  When his flight landed in Tehran, Kardar strutted to a waiting government car, which would take him to the Iranian president’s residence to report his progress.

  His private cell phone rang as he got in.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “You told the Jews I was in Paris.”

  It was the Roc.

  “Zharkov told me before I killed him.”

  Forty-One

  Boris Petrov took a bite of a bologna sandwich and spit it out. The regional jail was more modern and cleaner than the Black Dolphin prison, but Russian wardens had kept prisoners better fed. There was less trouble when the bellies of condemned murderers were filled.

  Petrov was walking to a trash receptacle when two inmates approached in the open pod.

  “You not eating?” one asked, nodding toward his corn and green beans, applesauce, and uneaten sandwich. “Give it to me.”

  Petrov turned the tray upside down so its contents fell into the garbage.

  “You disrespecting me?” the convict declared, fists clenched.

  Petrov turned his back.

  “Hey, asshole,” the convict snapped.