Surface to Air

by Gérard de Villiers

The easiest would be simply to arrest and indict him, but the bureau lawyers put the kibosh on that. An FBI charge unsupported by evidence of specific steps to execute the project wouldn’t survive five minutes before a judge. Having bad intentions isn’t illegal. You can get drunk and loudly announce on the Net that you plan to blow up the Statue of Liberty to avenge Afghan children, and it’s no crime.

  But Moussaoui’s plan was very specific, and the FBI wanted to find out if he had any accomplices. The division in charge of analyzing threats decided to contact him. But not in the usual way, which would consist of sending a pair of special agents to apprehend the suspect.

  Instead, Moussaoui received an email sent from a cybercafe. It was from a certain Amin who claimed to be part of the Salafist movement and congratulated Moussaoui on his courageous statement.

  Moussaoui answered, and the two men began to exchange messages about their shared hatred of America. But they remained relatively cautious, aware that email is easy to intercept.

  One day Amin suggested that they meet. He set the rendezvous in an out-of-the-way part of Brooklyn, in a neighborhood of African immigrants.

  Amin had dark skin and a short beard and wore work clothes. He seemed intelligent and knew all about jihad.

  Moussaoui was impressed to meet a man who seemed to have connections with the world of jihadists. But he had to admit to Amin that his plan for an attack hadn’t taken concrete shape. Thanks to the Internet, he had a pretty good idea of how to make a car bomb, but he didn’t have a vehicle or explosives, or the means to buy them.

  Moussaoui went back to his job without having gotten anything concrete from Amin. He had no idea what he had set in motion at FBI headquarters in Washington. Leslie Bryant, the assistant director of the counterterrorism center, consulted a FBI legal advisor about his plan, to make sure he was acting within the law. The answer was clear: If you can produce in court recordings of your conversations with the suspect that showed his intent to commit a federal crime, said the lawyer, your action is legal.

  Reassured, Bryant launched the Vanguard program.

  Results had exceeded all expectations. From Amin, Moussaoui received the money to buy a vehicle: an old Jeep Wagoneer, paid for in cash. Amin gave him explosives and two gas cylinders, and even helped install the explosive device in the vehicle. On the chosen day, Moussaoui parked the Wagoneer next to the two Times Square cinemas, started the timer, and ran away.

  He didn’t get far. He was almost immediately captured by a team of FBI agents, and charged with launching a terrorist attack. He didn’t know that the detonators furnished by Amin had been duds.

  When Moussaoui was tried in Brooklyn in Federal Court, his lawyer argued that the attack hadn’t been real, since all the elements of the crime had been furnished by an undercover FBI agent. The jury decided he was a potentially dangerous individual, even though he had been helped in his deadly project. Moussaoui was sentenced to forty-seven years in prison, without the possibility of parole.

  After the verdict, the FBI had been mobbed by reporters. The press was full of praise for the bureau, which was apparently able to unmask the most secretive of terrorists.

  The Vanguard plan was successfully off the ground.

  A year later, Fox News was still stressing the terrorist threat.

  —

  Leslie Bryant, the assistant FBI director in charge of the Vanguard program, smiled warmly at the man opposite him and opened the file on his desk.

  “Special Agent Chanooz,” he said, “I’ve carefully studied the file on your new operation. I think it has real possibilities. What do you think of this man Parviz Amritzar?”

  “He was traumatized by the deaths in his family,” said Chanooz. “He’s developed a deep hatred for our country, which he holds responsible for these deaths, whether true or not.”

  It was likely to be true, since only the Americans used armed drones in the area.

  “How far along is he in his project?”

  “For the moment it’s just theory. He doesn’t have any concrete elements, except a fairly comprehensive knowledge of how to handle an Igla-S surface-to-air missile.”

  The official leaned forward eagerly and said:

  “Can you confirm what’s in your report, Bruce? That this individual plans to shoot down Air Force One, killing the president of the United States?”

  “That’s correct, sir. He told me that in several of our conversations.”

  “And you were able to record these conversations? Can they be played for a grand jury or a district attorney?”

  “I think so, yes, sir,” said Chanooz.

  The assistant director leaned back with a slight smile.

  “In that case, congratulations on your good work. Since this Parviz Amritzar needs an Igla-S missile, we’re going to help him find one.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Colonel Sergei Tretyakov carefully reread the confidential message he’d just received from the FBI office in Moscow, which was housed in the American embassy near the Garden Ring road.

  It was signed “Bruce Hathaway, Operations Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Moscow,” which suggested involvement at the highest levels of the bureau. The document bore a rectangular red Top Secret stamp at its upper left corner. Torn by mixed feelings, the colonel gazed out the window at the dark sky over Lubyanka Square.

  Times certainly had changed.

  Now working with the FSB—Russia’s domestic intelligence service—Tretyakov was a veteran of the KGB’s First Directorate, the aristocracy of Russian intelligence until Boris Yeltsin dissolved it in 1991. Tretyakov had been stationed abroad several times, including London and Amsterdam. In those days, the KGB’s dealings with the Americans were hard-fought and hostile. When he came back to Moscow, Tretyakov had enthusiastically joined the war against undercover CIA agents in Moscow who were trying to recruit sources.

  They rarely succeeded, usually being arrested along with their contacts by agents of the Second Directorate, the KGB’s counterintelligence arm. They were hauled down to the Bolshaya Lubyanka, where the process was always the same. The CIA agents were interrogated, and then released and deported, because they had diplomatic immunity. Their Russian recruits, on the other hand, were sent to Lefortovo prison. Once their confessions were obtained by the appropriate methods, they were tried, sentenced, and shot, either in a Lefortovo inner courtyard or the third subbasement of the Bolshaya Lubyanka building. This was now the FSB’s headquarters, and the building where Colonel Tretyakov had his office. The change of roles had created some lingering bitterness.

  For example, a member of Tretyakov’s graduating class had been shot for accepting a fistful of dollars from the Americans. The man worked in the same department he did, and the betrayal derailed Tretyakov’s career. He had been shunted off to the Second Directorate, where he would have no contact with foreigners. People didn’t fool around with traitors in those days.

  And now the American Federal Bureau of Investigation was officially asking Tretyakov to give it an Igla-S, Russia’s technologically most advanced surface-to-air missile, for an antiterrorist operation.

  It gave him heartburn.

  The building housing the FSB offices rose like a black slab near the top of Bolshaya Lubyanka Street, and still struck terror in the hearts of those who knew it in an earlier era. But it wasn’t the same.

  Lubyanka Square had lost the gigantic statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky in August 1991, when the new president ordered it taken down. The former KGB headquarters across the way, an impressive brick building with rows of windows, today housed inoffensive bureaucrats instead of the powerful secret service chief. Executions were no longer carried out in the Lubyanka basement, and the KGB existed only in memory.

  But thanks to Vladimir Putin’s efforts, vertical power had returned to the security services under a new set of initials.

  Run directly by the Kremlin, the FSB now controlled all of Russia. Intelligence operatives—the siloviki�
��had achieved the KGB’s impossible dream: becoming the country’s real rulers, without oversight from the once-powerful Communist Party. Provincial governors were named by the Kremlin, not elected. And FSB agents kept tabs on the population as efficiently as their predecessors in the old KGB Second Directorate had.

  But a quasi-democratic façade hid this cold and efficient ferocity. More than anything, Russia was concerned about its international reputation. Which was why the FBI and the FSB had signed an agreement in 2003 to cooperate in the fight against terror. This was a common interest, as the Kremlin was seriously alarmed by separatist movements in the Caucasus, which were led by Islamists or Wahhabists, often financed by Saudi Arabia.

  Under Putin’s iron hand, the problem was being contained. Chechnya had been turned over to the pro-Russian tyrant Ramzan Kadyrov, and Dagestan brought off with billions of rubles.

  Contacts between the FSB and the FBI or CIA were now handled by the Fifth Directorate, which was in charge of information and international relations.

  Colonel Tretyakov stamped the American document to show that he had read the request, put it in an envelope, and sealed it. Then he called his secretary, who appeared a few moments later.

  Anna Polikovska was a good-looking woman of about forty, the daughter of a military intelligence officer who had died of cancer. She was haughty, with a striking, slightly angular face, and full breasts emphasized by tight sweaters. Like many Russian women at this time of year, she wore a heavy sweater, a tight skirt slit up the back almost to her thighs, and very high-heeled boots.

  “Take this to the ‘czar,’ ” said Tretyakov with a smile, “and then make me a cup of tea.”

  Anna took the envelope and left the office, followed by the eyes of her boss, who enjoyed looking at her ass. Anna intimidated him a little, otherwise he would have long since tumbled her on a corner of his desk. He knew little about her life except that she was divorced and almost certainly had lovers.

  She drove a little French Peugeot 207, which she parked on the first garage basement level among the FSB’s higher echelons’ Mercedes and Audis.

  Anna’s FSB salary was decent, but it couldn’t have paid for the full-pelt mink coat with the animals’ little tails that she wore. And Tretyakov viewed the fact that she wore black stockings every day as evidence of loose morals.

  —

  Alexander Bortnikov, the head of the FSB, learned of the American agency’s request the next day, and it struck him as odd. He immediately wrote back to Tretyakov, asking him to call in an FBI representative to ask for more information.

  He then photocopied the document, stored the original in his office safe, and put the copy in an envelope under a wax seal with his name and rank.

  The orderly who guarded his hallway office popped in within seconds of being summoned. It was as if he slept beside Bortnikov’s door, though it was armored and protected by a sophisticated electronic system.

  The FSB chief handed him the sealed envelope.

  “Take this to Rem Tolkachev’s office in Korpus Fourteen.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Korpus No. 14 was the Kremlin’s operations building, a few blocks away. You took Okhotny Ryad and Manege Square, then turned left into Red Square. A pedestrian entry to the Kremlin stood beyond Lenin’s mausoleum.

  As it always did in November, an oppressive, dark gray sky covered Moscow like the lid of a pressure cooker.

  —

  Malko Linge glanced at his fiancée, who was spreading her day’s purchases on their bed at the Sacher. Alexandra was wearing lace Dior panties so expensive, they must have been woven by fairies, smoky-gray stockings, and high heels that emphasized her long legs.

  As always, she was an incredible turn-on. The young woman seemed to float in a cloud of come-hither desire.

  Malko told himself he would have to wait until after their evening to enjoy her—as he always did—but he was itching to get his hands on her now.

  Alexandra turned around, holding a chiffon Valentino dress against her body. It was as black as sin and sheer enough to invite trouble.

  “Do you like it? Shall I wear it tonight?”

  Malko looked at his watch.

  “I’ll let you decide,” he said. “I have a meeting downstairs in a few minutes.”

  Alexandra’s beautiful mouth widened in a sarcastic smile.

  “One of your spooks?”

  “Who greatly admires you,” he said. “He would probably prefer meeting you than me.”

  Though sorely tempted to help her into the Valentino dress and then tear her panties off, Malko got out of his chair to leave. Despite all the affairs he had during his assignments, he remained deeply attached to Alexandra and lusted for her as intensely as he had at twenty.

  Down on the ground floor he walked into the Rote Café. Its red-velvet walls had long welcomed everybody who was anybody in Vienna for lunches and dinners.

  There were only two people there. One was an old Viennese man absorbed in reading the Wiener Beobachter, a local rag that covered society events. The other was a tall, gray-haired man in an elegant, slightly old-fashioned three-piece suit. He was drinking a beer. This was Jim Woolsey, the Vienna CIA station chief. A charming man, Woolsey had been assigned to the Austrian capital six months earlier and taken the trouble to call on Malko at Liezen Castle, where he’d caught a glance of Alexandra.

  Woolsey was one of Malko’s espionage contacts, the people who allowed him to live according to his station without stooping to reprehensible activities. What the CIA asked of him was often completely illegal, but it was for the right cause. If he ever had a truly serious problem, he would wind up not in jail but in Arlington National Cemetery, buried among the other foreigners who’d given their lives for the United States.

  “Wie gehts?” asked Woolsey, who was making an effort to learn German.

  “Sehr gut,” answered Malko, before shifting to English. Woolsey’s German was still a work in progress, and nowhere near as good as Secretary John Kerry’s fluent, if accented, French.

  The waiter offered them a choice of two brands of vodka: Russky Standart and Beluga. Malko went with the Beluga, whose almost unreal silkiness belied its 42 percent alcohol content.

  “You’re lucky I’m here in Vienna for an evening event,” he said. “Otherwise you’d have to drive out to Liezen.”

  All too aware of bugs, the two men used the telephone only for inconsequential chitchat.

  “I’m guessing you have an important request for me,” Malko continued. “Like heading for some godforsaken corner of the world where one bad season is followed by an even worse one.”

  “No, no, nothing like that!” said Woolsey, raising his hands in mock alarm. “It’s just a little thing. You won’t even have to leave Vienna.”

  Malko distrusted “little things,” which often grew into big ones—dangerous, apocalyptic problems.

  “I’m all ears, but please make it short,” he said. “Alexandra’s coming down as soon as she’s ready.”

  “I’ll be delighted to say hello to her,” said Woolsey, his eyes a bit moist. He lowered his voice. “It involves some information about the bureau.”

  CIA people so disliked the FBI, they tried not to even use its name. The agency people considered their bureau counterparts to be regulation-obsessed morons who approached intelligence work with out-of-date methods and an endless fascination with minutiae.

  Malko was intrigued. How could it concern Vienna?

  “Is this coming from Washington?” he asked.

  “No, Moscow.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. The bureau has a major office there, and it cooperates with the FSB on certain matters.”

  “Intelligence?”

  “No, terrorism, something the Russians are very nervous about. They’re scared to death of the Salafists and al-Qaeda. All the problems they’ve had in the last years have come from the crazy Muslims in the Caucasus who combine Islam with separat
ism. They’ve carried out lots of attacks in Moscow, and they’re still doing it.”

  “I know,” said Malko. “I was in Moscow in 1999 when the Chechens blew up four buildings and killed two hundred ninety-three people.”

  “Well, the Caucasians are still at it,” said Woolsey darkly. “Ten months ago a guy from Dagestan blew himself up at Domodedovo Airport.”

  “What’s the connection with the FBI?” asked Malko, aware that time was passing.

  Woolsey dropped his voice even further.

  “It’s top secret,” he said. “You know that we’re especially concerned by electronic espionage in Moscow, where the Russians are experts. The Cold War isn’t quite over, even if we pretend otherwise.

  “Here’s what happened: one of our bug teams was sweeping a local CIA office, and we accidentally came across an internal FBI document.”

  Without showing it, Malko smiled to himself at the word “accidentally.”

  “What was it?”

  “An email from FBI headquarters in Washington to their Moscow office. It said that the New York FBI office had turned up a Pakistani-born naturalized American terrorist named Parviz Amritzar. He’s a New Jersey rug merchant, and he’s planning an attack that the bureau wants to stop by infiltrating his network.”

  “Is he planning to blow up the Brooklyn Bridge?” asked Malko sarcastically.

  “No. He wants to use a surface-to-air missile to shoot down Air Force One with the president aboard.”

  “That’s a lot more serious! So what now?”

  Jim Woolsey looked around, then said:

  “He wants to use a Russian Igla-S for the attack.”

  “That’s strange! Why?”

  “We don’t really know. He apparently considers the Igla the most reliable missile out there.”

  “And is it?”

  “Just about,” said Woolsey. “We did some research, and it turns out the Igla-S is probably the best at overcoming electronic countermeasures.”

  “So how does this involve me?” asked Malko, taking a sip of his Beluga.

  “Langley ran Amritzar’s name through the computer, but nothing came up. Then we spotted it on some websites connected to al-Qaeda—actual terrorist sites—and on emails to those sites. Amritzar wasn’t offering information; he was asking for help.”