Shakedown

by Newt Gingrich

  “You betrayed my daughter and me in Paris,” the Roc said. “You caused her death.”

  “It’s a lie. Who told you this? How would I know where you were staying?”

  “The sex trafficker in Claviere told you.”

  “A sex trafficker? I don’t associate with worms. This is nonsense. Why are you bothering me with these foolish accusations?”

  The next sound Kardar heard was a recording. The Roc questioning Farrokh, the hostel clerk, having used the digital recorder to memorialize their conversation. The man who had arranged for Tahira to be driven to Paris.

  “Who did you tell?”

  “Tehran. A nephew in Quds Force. I thought the Iranians would want to help you.”

  “His name?”

  “The call was transferred to a general.”

  “Which one?”

  “Kardar.”

  “What did you tell him? Be exact if you want to live.”

  “I said you were in a flat on the rue Ordener.”

  “Are you recording me now?” Kardar asked indignantly.

  No reply.

  “The sex trafficker called me,” Kardar said, “but what does that prove? I refused to give him money. He must have called the French police, asking for a reward. I did not betray you and your daughter to the Jews.”

  Another recorded voice. Russian oligarch Taras Zharkov.

  “He couldn’t risk you being captured. You might talk. It was Kardar’s idea to kill you and your daughter in Paris, not mine! He called the Jews.”

  “A weak man begging for his life,” Kardar declared. “He would say anything to save himself. Why do you believe these men and not me?”

  Silence.

  “Did you call to threaten me?” Kardar demanded. “I am not a drunk or a frightened Russian. I am not a sex trafficker. I am the leader of the Quds Force.”

  The sound of another recording. Zharkov’s voice.

  “General Kardar delivered a nuclear bomb to me in Balaklava Bay. It came from Iran.”

  “How,” the Roc responded, breaking his silence, “will the Americans react when they hear this?”

  “Recordings can be made to say anything.”

  Another taped conversation.

  “I paid General Kardar two million dollars . . .”

  “How will your own people react to your greed?”

  “Saeedi,” Kardar said, “what is your purpose here? The Jews and Americans, they are our enemies. Let us resolve this between us according to the teachings of the Prophet. Qisas is not permissible. I did not shoot your daughter. Your loss requires diya.”

  “Diya? You wish to pay me blood money—fifty camels for my daughter’s life?”

  “Why then did you call, if not to demand payment? To ease your guilt? We are not children. I did not put a gun in your daughter’s hand. I did not instruct you to take her to Bellagio to kill the Jew. You did this to her. You are to blame, not me.”

  “I am coming for you,” the Roc said. “You will die by my hand.” He ended the call.

  Forty-Four

  A violent morning thunderstorm pelted Washington, DC, delaying Director Whittington’s return flight from Azerbaijan. When his military aircraft touched down at Joint Base Andrews, southeast of the city, it was noon on a Wednesday. Fathi Aziz’s deadline was Thursday at midnight.

  The countdown: thirty-six hours.

  Sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue was fifteen miles from the military base, normally a thirty-minute trip outside of rush hour. A police escort got the CIA director there in twenty.

  He found President Fitzgerald staring out the three large windows behind his Oval Office desk.

  “Nothing like a good hard rain,” Fitzgerald said without turning around. “Cleans the filth off this city.” He touched the window with his fingers. “They don’t open. Sealed for security. Too bad. I could use some fresh air.”

  He moved into his chair behind the Roosevelt desk while waving for Whittington to sit across from him. “You reported that General Kardar offered the Iranian Supreme Leader’s help if we lift all economic, trade, scientific, and military sanctions. Is that about it?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. This is exactly what Kardar proposed. He said Iran can stop Aziz.”

  “What do you make of this general?”

  “The agency has quite a thorough file. He is cruel. Ruthless. A sexual sadist known to torture young girls, even though he claims to be deeply religious. Like all of them, he hates Israel—and us.”

  “Can he deliver?”

  “I believe he can. Obviously, the Iranians don’t want the world to know they’re willing to betray Fathi Aziz and the Jihad Brigade, so it makes sense that Tehran would send its Quds Force general to meet with me privately.”

  “My gut tells me these bastards are behind this.”

  “The Israelis think the same,” Whittington said. “But the Iranians are clever enough not to leave any credible evidence. They hide in the shadows, pulling strings. In a twisted way, it’s better if they are. Because they can stop Aziz.”

  “By shaking us down to end a crisis of their making? The idea makes me sick.” Fitzgerald stood, returned to the windows. “Lost some tree branches during the storm this morning.” He returned to his chair. “The Navy still hasn’t found a trace of this rogue submarine and bomb. The Pentagon is questioning whether there really is a submarine, regardless of what Director Levi says.” He picked up an ink pen from his desk. Rolled it between his fingers. “What if I call their bluff? Tell them to go to hell?”

  “You’d be a hero, sir . . . unless there is a bomb. If there was a nuclear attack, and the media learned we could have stopped it by meeting Iran’s demands—” Whittington didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Let’s consider what happens if I remove sanctions. How long before the Iranians come back with more demands? That’s how a shakedown works.”

  “We could counteroffer,” Whittington said. “Agree to lift the sanctions, but only if Iran provides us with evidence that the nuclear bomb has been recovered and Aziz imprisoned.”

  “You’re missing the point. If the Israelis are correct, Iran has nuclear capabilities—and that’s an entire other issue for the West to grapple with.”

  The president was quiet for a moment. “Why do we have to play their game?” he asked. “We’re the strongest military power on this planet. We could threaten to bomb the hell out of Tehran if they don’t stop Aziz. Hold them responsible, especially now that they’ve opened the door.”

  “Without evidence?”

  “The Israelis would back us. Blow Tehran to hell. A nuke for a nuke.” Fitzgerald chuckled. “Well, it’s a nice thought. Not realistic, though, is it?”

  The White House chief of staff knocked twice quickly before asking for permission to interrupt them.

  “Mr. President,” he said. “Valerie Mayberry and Brett Garrett are at the front gate, asking to see you. They said they’ve found a Russian who can take the Navy to the location of the submarine and bomb.”

  Fitzgerald rose from his desk. “Get them in here!”

  Mayberry and Garrett were directed to the Oval Office’s informal area, where two beige sofas faced each other. The president was already seated in an overstuffed chair at the end of the U-shaped configuration when they entered, and Whittington was on one of the two facing couches. Mayberry and Garrett sat on the other couch, across from him. A carpet with the Great Seal separated them from the Roosevelt desk.

  “Who’s this Russian,” Fitzgerald asked, “and where’d you find him?”

  “Boris Petrov,” Garrett replied. “He’s in a regional jail four hours away, near Norfolk. The US Coast Guard found him adrift off the Virginia coastline in an SEIE suit a few days ago.”

  “A what suit?” the president interrupted.

  “A submarine escape immersion equipment suit—they’re used by crews to escape from submarines stranded in deep waters. You climb into this suit, it inflates, rises to the surface, and becomes
a one-man life raft.”

  “The Coast Guard turned Petrov over to the locals to investigate,” Mayberry said. “Two more Russians washed ashore after Petrov. They were dead and both were wearing SEIE suits.”

  “Petrov told us he is responsible for bringing the submarine here,” Garrett revealed.

  Whittington rolled his eyes.

  “He refused to give a specific location, but we believe it’s off the Virginia coast near Norfolk,” Mayberry added. “In the same general area as the map with fingerprints on it that Garrett saw in Zharkov’s office.”

  “Tell me about these maps,” Fitzgerald said.

  “When we were in Zharkov’s private office, there were maps on a table. The Mossad was able to get fingerprint readings off one. The maps had been touched repeatedly near Norfolk.”

  “I had the Navy check that area, and there was no evidence of any submarines operating in those waters. None,” Whittington said. “How do you know these three Russians didn’t leap off a cargo ship to enter the US illegally, wearing these survival suits? Someone on board sees them and shoots two of them for abandoning ship. This Petrov character sits in jail and watches enough news to tell you both a convincing story.”

  “Whittington has a point,” President Fitzgerald said. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone in prison tried to cut a deal by lying.”

  “Petrov described the submarine—Romeo-class. Soviet built. That hasn’t been on the news,” Mayberry said. “He also flinched when we mentioned Zharkov’s name.”

  “Why would a cargo ship be carrying SEIE suits?” Garrett asked. “And the reason why the Navy hasn’t found the submarine, Petrov told us, is because it has been grounded. It’s stationary, in a spot where he says it can’t be easily detected.”

  “You can’t operate a submarine with three crew members,” Whittington said. “Where’s everyone else, if this submarine is grounded?”

  “We’ll have to ask Petrov that,” Garrett said, “but my guess is they’re still in that grounded submarine. Dead.”

  “He’s willing to cut a deal,” Mayberry said.

  “Of course he is!” Whittington exclaimed. “This is why I don’t like HUMINT. We can’t trust any of this.”

  “What sort of deal?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Immunity and a ticket back to Moscow,” Mayberry said.

  “That’s it?” Fitzgerald asked.

  Garrett and Mayberry exchanged a nervous glance. “A cash reward too,” Garrett added.

  “How much?” Whittington asked.

  “He didn’t name a specific figure,” Garrett replied.

  “He hinted it would be several million,” Mayberry said.

  “This is ridiculous, Mr. President!” Whittington declared.

  Another rap on the Oval Office door. Fitzgerald’s chief of staff, again. “Mr. President, you need to watch this.”

  A new video uploaded by Fathi Aziz. “Allah, in his mercy, warned you, but you have refused to listen. Was the bombing in Manhattan not sufficient?” Aziz pointed his index finger directly at the camera. “Let those who have ears hear my words. Americans. You and your wife, you and your daughter, you and your sons, you and your parents and grandparents, will die if your president does not meet our Lord’s demands. You have seen only the first of many martyrs hiding among you.”

  As soon as his video ended, the television station switched to a network reporter in Lafayette Park, directly across from the White House. Demonstrators were carrying Free Palestine placards, others were on their knees, praying, under No War! banners, and a third group was chanting “Nuke Palestine!”

  “President Randle Fitzgerald,” the reporter breathlessly announced, “has yet to make a public statement about this nuclear bomb threat, but White House sources are trying to quiet fears. There is no credible evidence that Fathi Aziz and the Jihad Brigade have secured a nuclear bomb, these sources have told us. Despite those assurances, Homeland Security has raised the terrorism threat level to ‘severe’—the highest level—because of the horrific suicide bombing in New York and additional threats by Aziz. ‘Severe’ means an attack is highly likely.”

  “Switch it off!” the president said. He rose from his chair and stood towering over Whittington. “Contact that Iranian general and buy us more time. Tell him I’ll lift the sanctions, but it can’t be done by snapping my fingers. How long is a flight from Tehran?”

  “Thirteen, maybe fourteen, hours,” Whittington said.

  “Tell him you need him to come here now. That will eat up some time. Ask him to get the Supreme Leader to convince Aziz to push back his deadline. That way we can see if Tehran really has any control over him.”

  “We could unfreeze Iran’s bank deposits,” Whittington said. “As a sign of our cooperation.”

  “Tell him I’m willing to do that, but only if he agrees to come here for another meeting with you.”

  Fitzgerald spoke to Mayberry and Garrett. “You two get back to the jail where this Petrov character is. Tell him whatever he wants to hear. I’ll notify the Navy. Get him on a ship, and if he’s lying, you have my permission to drop him overboard for the sharks to eat.”

  Turning to his chief of staff, he said, “Get my national security team here and have Homeland Security update me on its plan, in case we need to begin evacuating cities along the Virginia coast near Norfolk.”

  “Sir,” Whittington said, “our analysts still believe New York is the actual target.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Garrett asked.

  “What is it?” Fitzgerald asked.

  “Call Julian Levi again. When we left him, he had assigned one of his best operatives to find Fathi Aziz.”

  Forty-Five

  The day of Aziz’s deadline had arrived. Thursday. The final countdown.

  Under the yellowish glow of a Washington, DC, convenience store’s lights, the Roc used an international calling card to dial a number on a burner phone. He checked his watch: 1:00 a.m., Thursday, on America’s East Coast. That meant it was 9:30 a.m. in Tehran.

  “What have you learned?” he asked when his call was answered.

  “He’s in the air.”

  “When will he arrive?”

  “Two fifteen in the afternoon in America. Dulles Airport. My money?”

  “Bitcoin. You’ll have it in minutes.”

  He ended the call and tossed the burner phone into a red trash bin outside the open-all-night store. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. Instinctively he slipped his hand under his light-blue nylon rain jacket and gripped the knife hidden there.

  “Hey buddy,” a scraggly man called, emerging from the bushes. “Spare some change?”

  The Roc ignored the beggar. He left the store’s parking lot near the famed Watergate Hotel and began walking toward Georgetown, once home to JFK and Jacqueline. Multimillion-dollar Federal-style houses, cobblestone streets, late-night college bars. As he neared the K Street Bridge, he noticed encampments of more homeless. Tent cities erected under overpasses. Squatters, displaced, invisible, marginalized, only steps from many of the city’s most affluent residents. He kept watch for an occasional police car on patrol, but saw none as he made his way to Georgetown’s Waterfront Park, a riverside promenade of glitzy shops and gourmet restaurants. Within minutes, he’d spotted a target: a middle-aged man, clearly inebriated, emerging from a bar. The Roc shadowed him to his car, an older BMW sedan. Waited until he’d opened its door, key still in his hand.

  Reaching for his blade, the Roc glided toward him.

  “Hey buddy, spare any change?” he asked.

  The man turned to look just as the Roc fatally stabbed him. His victim’s eyes opened wide in a few moments of self-comprehension before he collapsed. A push forward, and his body fell backward against the driver’s seat, feet touching the pavement, head dropping onto the center console. The Roc moved swiftly. He scooped up the car key, slipped around the sedan, and tugged the corpse into the passenger seat. It had taken him longer
than he’d anticipated, but it appeared that no one had seen him.

  Within minutes he was crossing the Francis Scott Key Memorial Bridge into Virginia, where he turned north on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, a twenty-five-mile scenic highway that ran along the Potomac River. When he came to a scenic overlook, he stopped, grabbed the dead man under his arms, and dragged his body to the edge of a tree-lined cliff some fifty feet above the river. A final shove, and the body tumbled down. Entangled in washed-up driftwood and branches at the water’s edge, it was barely noticeable.

  From there, the Roc drove to a Tysons Corner hotel, parking in its underground garage. He checked in, explaining that he was arriving late because of a delay at an airport. A believable lie. Once inside his room, he showered, dressed in fresh clothes, and focused on the next stage of his deadly plan.

  That afternoon, General Firouz Kardar arrived on schedule at Dulles in a private jet that taxied to a commuter terminal away from the larger main one. The United States had severed diplomatic relations with Iran in 1980, after protestors stormed the US Embassy in Tehran and took fifty-two diplomats hostage. There was no Iranian diplomatic delegation waiting to welcome him. CIA Director Whittington had arranged for Kardar and his security team to pass through immigration and customs without being questioned and offered to provide transportation, but Kardar had declined. He didn’t want to depend on the agency, nor did he trust its hospitality. To keep his trip secret from Iran’s allies in Washington, he had not warned the Lebanese embassy of his arrival. Instead, he had arranged for a private limousine service to meet him and his four-man protective detail. A Mercedes-Benz S-Class luxury sedan and Cadillac Escalade SUV were waiting. As in Azerbaijan, the rendezvous with Whittington would occur at a private residence.

  A black Ford sedan pulled in front and another behind Kardar’s hired caravan as the Mercedes and Cadillac drove away from the private jet terminal parking lot—both CIA vehicles, unwanted by the general but sent anyway. Now four together in a line, they went east toward State Highway 28. From there, north on a toll road into Leesburg, a city established in 1740, most famous because it served as the temporary home of the federal government when invading British troops burned the White House and Capitol during the War of 1812.