Assassin's Revenge

by Ward Larsen

  The truck’s headlights flicked on and it began to move. As it approached the main gate, Khan stood waiting beside the guard detail. He personally waved the driver through, and as the truck passed, Khan nodded to the three men inside. Their round faces and bowl-cut black hair attested that they were not locals. If the guards questioned why the director was waving a truck carrying three Asian men through the gate, and without any kind of inspection—a breach of every protocol ever hammered into their heads—they kept it to themselves.

  The truck groaned as it bumped over a saw-toothed barrier—the kind meant to keep intruders out—and ran an ungainly slalom through four concrete barricades. Springs creaked with each carving turn and the transmission groaned. On the gentle incline to the access road, the truck spewed clouds of black smoke into the deepening night. At the main highway the driver turned left—opposite the course taken by the IAEA convoy—and took up a decidedly less cautious pace.

  When that final set of taillights was out of sight, Khan pivoted to face the two guards behind him. Both stiffened slightly, and as he looked at them in turn, the senior man nodded.

  Without a word, Khan walked away.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The patrol boat came right on time and was straight from central casting, a gunmetal gray dagger of armor with a high-mounted deck gun. Boutros watched the craft materialize out of the mist, its lone stack belching exhaust like a train clawing up a mountain. He supposed the North Koreans ran boats like this by the dozens, a beehive navy for a country that could never afford cutting-edge missile boats or heavy cruisers.

  The high bow, stamped with the Roman numerals 623—which somehow seemed a concession to the West—sided up to Albatross with all the deftness of a bumper boat. Ropes laden with truck tires were lowered to serve as fenders, and lines were secured fore and aft. Even on the relatively calm seas, the two vessels thumped together asynchronously—incentive for a quick transfer.

  A boarding ramp drawbridged down to connect the two boats. Without so much as a “good luck,” Park was the first to cross, his pudgy frame curiously nimble as he bridged the gap. Far less certain was the next man across the gangway, Park’s bespectacled technician who, given his two-handed death grip on the rail, had likely never been to sea in his life. Last to make the crossing was Choe.

  For the first time, Boutros saw hesitancy in the skipper’s movement. At the midpoint between the boats, he glanced back to the wheelhouse and made eye contact. Boutros saw something new in his gaze—not the confidence that had been there all along, but something deeper. An understanding between two sailors.

  As soon as Choe was across, two crewmen from the patrol boat appeared from a passageway. Ominously, both were carrying machine pistols. Boutros watched as Choe and the technician were ushered below.

  “What do you think will come of them?”

  Boutros turned to see Rafiq. “Who can say,” he replied. “Choe has served his purpose. The technician is more valuable.” He found himself thinking about the fisherman’s wife, with her foul fish soup and rotted teeth. “Whatever their fate … I doubt the world will notice.”

  Rafiq regarded him thoughtfully.

  “Does my callousness surprise you?” Boutros asked.

  Rafiq shook his head. “No … we cannot afford the luxury of compassion.”

  “Is that a quote from our caliph?”

  “I can’t remember where I heard it. Perhaps the imam in Cologne.”

  “One more man who has never seen the blade of combat,” Boutros said reflectively.

  The crew of 623 raised the gangway and pulled the lines connecting the boats. The vessels quickly drifted apart and the fenders were drawn in.

  “I have seen battle,” said Rafiq, “but not like you and the others. I would never sit in judgment of those who have bled.”

  “Sami, Saleem, and I … we have sacrificed. Yet your time in university may prove more valuable.” Rafiq didn’t reply, and Boutros sensed a hesitation as they watched the patrol boat begin its shoreward turn. “What is troubling you?” he prompted.

  Rafiq heaved a sigh. “When I first arrived in Syria, my commander showed me a video taken here in North Korea. It showed ‘Dear Leader’s’ uncle being executed with an anti-aircraft gun.”

  Boutros shrugged. “I have not seen it, but I can imagine such a thing. I would say the man was lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “He met a quick end. I hope you and I are so blessed on our passage to paradise.”

  “Perhaps. But I remember my commander asking my opinion afterward—he wondered if we should try something similar. His idea was to put a few Christians in front of a twenty-three-millimeter ZSU, then upload the image online.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Rafiq was quiet for a time, as if trying to remember. “I told him I had no opinion on the matter. This seemed to disappoint him.”

  Boutros considered it. “It would have disappointed me as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it wasn’t truthful. There are only two possible opinions regarding such an act. Some would call it justifiable in a time of war. You thought it abhorrent, yet didn’t have the conviction to say so.”

  Rafiq didn’t reply.

  Boutros suddenly felt the weight of his commander’s duty. His own reason for being here was twenty years in the making. Sami and Saleem, he was sure, would never waver—personalities aside, they were core jihadists, molded in madrassas and radical mosques, forged in the fire of battle. Yet he’d always sensed a difference in Rafiq. He was driven by something else.

  “I must ask you,” he said, “what we are attempting … will you have any hesitation in carrying through?” He captured Rafiq’s eyes and held them, demanding a response.

  “No,” he replied assuredly. “I will make this device work. God willing, we will bring fire to America.”

  Boutros held his second-in-command’s gaze for a time, long enough to be sure. Satisfied, he nodded. Rafiq went below.

  He turned to watch the patrol boat wheel westward in a churn of whitewater and smoke. Albatross rocked gently in its wake. 623 disappeared in no time, hazing into a shoreward fog bank. Boutros considered turning the radar on to track the boat’s progress, but there seemed little point to it. As the drone of her big diesel ebbed, the sea fell quiet—Albatross’ own engine had been shut down for the rendezvous.

  With strange suddenness, Boutros realized he was again in command of a ship. By any measure, the flagship of the Islamic State Navy. It was the kind of revelation that should have invited reflection, yet he was not so inclined.

  Not with so much work ahead.

  Not with so much sea in front of them.

  He went to the helm and cranked the engine to life.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The roast lamb at table 18 was not savored as it might have been, the guest behind it distracted by the fact that he had, at various times that evening, been targeted for assassination, folded into the trunk of a car, and interrogated while bound to an oak tree. His tablemate, who had been directly, if not enthusiastically, responsible for it all, downed the chef’s special like a stoker feeding coal to a furnace. Any appreciation for the tastes or textures of the meal was lost on Slaton—and so it would remain until his life was righted.

  He chased the final gnocchi around his plate, and asked, “Have you shared your suspicions about El-Masri with anyone else, either at the IAEA or Mossad?”

  “I didn’t have enough evidence to make a formal accusation,” said Mordechai. “What I found in the audit was circumstantial, so last week I decided to look for something more solid. Proof that would be incontrovertible.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  A hesitation. “I suppose you could say I repeated my previous great mistake—I hacked into El-Masri’s work computer.”

  Slaton’s fork went gently to his empty plate.

  Mordechai expanded, “The agency issues all senior personnel a hardened laptop, for offi
cial use only. These are of course very secure devices.”

  “But you found a way in.”

  “As it happens, I oversee information security for the Department of Safeguards. One of our technicians recently reported to me that he’d found a weakness in our internal encryption software. He explained the details of the fault, and assured me he’d seen no evidence of a breach. I told him to create a patch, and he assured me he could have it installed within two weeks. In the meantime…”

  “You used this weakness to access El-Masri’s computer.”

  “Yes … or at least I tried. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy as I expected. He had apparently installed a secondary firewall of some kind.”

  “So you didn’t get access?”

  “No. In fact, I may have done more harm than good. I think he was alerted that someone was attempting to breach his system. And if he learned I was the guilty party—it would make everything that’s happened in the last few days far more logical.”

  “Would it? Even if El-Masri figured out you were responsible, it seems a pretty big leap to the rest.”

  Mordechai thought about it, his face furrowing in the way it presumably did when he ran equations on radioactive decay. He pushed away his half-eaten meal. “Earlier this week, before I tried to send you that request for help … I detected irregularities on my own computer. A few messages I had sent disappeared. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now…” His voice trailed off.

  “You think El-Masri turned the tables?”

  “It’s possible. If he saw someone trying to breach his system, he might have reversed the hack.”

  “Is that easy to do?” Slaton asked.

  “No, it’s not. I doubt El-Masri could have managed it. He’s a knowledgeable physicist, but a bit old-school—computers aren’t his game. Yet he might have enlisted help.”

  “And if he succeeded, he would have learned you were trying to contact me.”

  “Yes. I showed you the version of the message I tried to send. I was desperate for help.”

  “But I still see a gap. There wasn’t anything in that text to suggest who I was. How could he have figured that out?”

  “A good question.”

  Both men thought about it as the waitress scurried up and took their plates. She left with an order for two cups of coffee.

  Slaton said, “Whoever replaced that message with the one I actually received—they knew a lot about me. Not only that I worked for Mossad, but also what my specialty was. And they knew I had a family that could be leveraged. That’s not common knowledge.”

  “I would concur. Even at Mossad, there are only a handful of people who know you’re still alive.”

  Slaton performed another survey of the room. “But you did mention Polaris Venture in your message. That could have been a trigger.”

  “In what way?”

  “Consider the bigger picture. If El-Masri really is stealing weapons-grade material, he’s not doing it alone. You just told me he would need help to take over your messaging account.”

  “True … but who could he be working with?”

  “I don’t know. It could be anybody from a state intelligence service to a terror group.”

  “El-Masri is Egyptian—would their Mukhabarat know your history?” Mordechai was referring to Egypt’s iron-fisted intelligence service.

  “It’s possible. But Egypt is fractured these days. Aside from the government, you’ve got the Muslim Brotherhood and ISIS offshoots. El-Masri could just as easily be working with a Libyan militia or Iran. We can’t assume anything.” Slaton leaned back into his slatted wooden chair and pulled a hand across his chin. Mordechai watched him intently. As if expecting him to have all the answers.

  “Is El-Masri in Vienna now?” Slaton asked. There was nothing ominous in his tone, but given the circumstances the question could not be construed benignly.

  “No—he is actually on another site visit.”

  “Where?”

  “Pakistan—the PARR-II reactor, outside Islamabad.”

  Slaton’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess … another HEU extraction? Material to be downblended?”

  “Yes. Pakistan doesn’t allow oversight of their nuclear weapons facilities, but PARR-II has long been under our watch—it’s classified as a research reactor.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know the exact schedule, but typically an extraction team will stay with the material all the way to the receiving laboratory. I can tell you they’ve been downrange for three days. I would guess he’d be back tomorrow, possibly the next day.”

  The coffee arrived. Mordechai immediately began cutting his with cream and sugar. Slaton took no such half measures.

  “Where do we go from here?” Mordechai asked.

  “We?”

  Mordechai waited, his spoon stirring patiently.

  For the first time Slaton weighed the merits of a joint effort. He preferred working solo, but he’d made exceptions in the past. To include Mordechai meant trusting him, at least to a point. It would present twice the security headache. But also twice the research capacity.

  “Well?” asked Mordechai. “Do we do this together?”

  Slaton reached for his coffee and took a long draw.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thirty minutes after taking command, Boutros had Albatross cutting smoothly through gentle seas. He summoned everyone to the wheelhouse, and with all three men present he went over the basics of how to run the boat. Their journey would take nearly a week, and while the boat had an autopilot, everyone would be expected to take a turn on watch. When he finished, he gave Sami the conn and ordered Saleem to assist him.

  He motioned to Rafiq, and together they descended to the cramped lower deck. The crew quarters and galley were forward, but Rafiq led Boutros aft down a tunnel-like companionway. Dim yellow lights along the ceiling gave the aura of a passage to a dungeon. Dankness gripped the air along with a fetid odor, some belowdecks bouquet of bilge water, fuel oil, and caustic cleanser.

  The engine room lay at the end of the passageway, fully astern, but Rafiq took an offshoot into a separate compartment. The amidships room spanned the beam of the ship, and was roughly fifteen feet from front to back. Overhead a large hatch connected to the main deck—Choe had never explained the room’s purpose, but Boutros assumed it to be the hold where the nets were typically stored. At the moment, they would never have fit.

  It was Boutros’ first look at the hardware they’d been promised—the reason they were here—and his impression was a positive one. Brilliant work lights covered every corner of the compartment with lumens to spare. The floors, ceiling, and bulkheads shone with a spotlessness that was at odds with the rest of the boat. Machine equipment lined the walls, and a workbench was racked with every hand tool imaginable.

  Centered amid it all was the focal point of the room.

  Boutros closed in for a better look at the long metal cylinder. It was chained to a professional shop stand, which in turn had been bolted to the deck—a nuance that made Boutros’ inner captain smile. He saw Cyrillic characters stamped on the side of the cylinder, leaving no doubt as to its source—it was a Russian item.

  He looked at Rafiq, who’d had a chance to study the device in detail. “So … will it work?” he asked.

  Rafiq canted his head to one side. “I don’t see why not. The principle is quite simple, and Saleem assures me he can do his part easily.”

  “Explosives are easy?”

  “He is very good at what he does.”

  Boutros took a step closer, then hesitated. “There is nuclear material inside, is there not?”

  “Yes, highly enriched uranium. But only part of what we need.”

  “Is it safe?”

  Rafiq looked at his commander incredulously. “Nothing about what we are doing is safe. But yes, you can go near. There is no immediate danger.”

  Boutros leaned in. He had been imagining it for months. Up close the
weapon looked simple and innocuous, belying the revolution of warfare that it was. He ran a hand over the smooth metal tube. It was perfectly round, six inches in diameter and nearly seven feet long. Aside from having been truncated on one end, Boutros recognized it for what it was. “An artillery barrel,” he said.

  “Originally, yes. A one hundred and fifty-two millimeter field gun. This particular barrel was cast in Russia, as you can see. The end has been capped and modified.”

  “Modified in what way?”

  Rafiq set his hand on the barrel’s end, which was twice the diameter of the rest. “A graphite reflector has been installed. It serves to contain neutrons, which slows down the first-order expansion. Without such a tamper, the reaction tends to happen too quickly in the initial stages. This way, the same amount of material gives a much higher yield.”

  Boutros ran his eyes to the breech end, which was threaded like a great bolt. “And there?” he asked.

  Rafiq gestured to a work stand along the port side. An inversely threaded end piece lay waiting. Like the opposing cap, it was larger than the diameter of the barrel. It also looked more complex than the rest. Boutros saw hardware inside, and wires snaked from three sealed ports—the paired ends had all been stripped of insulation, and their copper tips shone in the light like the fangs of so many snakes.

  Boutros took in the rest of the room. “And the explosives?”

  Rafiq put his toe to a heavy footlocker strapped to a bulkhead. “Inside.”

  Boutros nodded, then noticed an even heavier container nearby. It looked like a floor safe, and the door was ajar to reveal that it was empty.

  “What is that for?” he asked.

  “Our final delivery will include a beryllium-polonium neutron initiator. It helps the explosion gain critical mass, lessening the chance of failure. But there is a degree of risk. Polonium has a very short half-life and is highly radioactive. Handling it will be the most dangerous task we face.”