by Tom Clancy
General Rehan arrived at his compound a short time after his call with Colonel Khan, and a few minutes after that he sat across the table from Suleiman Murshidov, the venerable spiritual leader of Jamaat Shariat of Dagestan. The old man must have been eighty, Rehan thought, as he looked at eyes milky from cataracts and skin like beach sand blown into folds by the wind. He was of the mountains of the Caucasus, and Riaz assumed he had never been to Dubai, had never seen skyscrapers higher than the squat Soviet-era concrete monoliths in Makhachkala, and had never met with a person in power in a foreign intelligence organization.
A few of Rehan’s officers and guards stood around the dining room, and the old man was in the company of four others, all younger, some much more so. They didn’t look like security, more like sons and grandsons. They also appeared as if they were here under duress. Perspiration glistened on their foreheads, and they glanced around at the armed security walking the grounds and the house as if they might, at any moment, be taken prisoner by these dark-skinned men.
The Dagestani spiritual leader had asked for this meeting several days ago, and Rehan knew why. The general thought it was childish, really. Rehan had been traveling the world in the past few months, meeting with insurgent groups and international terror outfits in Egypt, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Chechnya, and Yemen.
But he had bypassed Dagestan. Jamaat Shariat, the main Dagestani Islamist group, took a backseat to the Chechens in the eyes of Rehan and his men. More so now that Jamaat Shariat had lost the commander of their armed wing, Israpil Nabiyev. But even before Nabiyev had been captured by the Russians, Riaz Rehan had not bothered to include the Dagestanis in his meetings. The Chechens worked with the Dagestanis, so he had met only with the Chechens.
And now, Rehan assumed, the Dagestanis were mad. Offended at the slight. They had sent their spiritual leader here to explain that they were still viable and only Jamaat Shariat spoke for Dagestan, blah, blah, blah.
Rehan looked at the old man across the table. The Pakistani general was sure he was about to be lectured by this holy man from the mountains.
Everyone in the room spoke Arabic. Rehan greeted the contingent from Dagestan, asked after their needs, and inquired about their journey.
With the niceties out of the way, Rehan was anxious to finish his morning meeting. “How may I be of service to you today?”
Murshidov said, “I am told by my friends in Chechnya that you are a man of God.”
Rehan smiled. “I am a humble follower.”
“My people have been dealt a painful blow with the capture of Israpil Nabiyev.”
“I have seen this. I know he was a valiant commander of your troops.” In truth, Rehan did not think much of the Dagestanis. He knew the Chechens better, had more respect for their abilities as fighters. Still, this Nabiyev fellow had impressed the Chechens. They said he was supposedly a cut above the other Dagestani fighters who’d been, by Rehan’s way of thinking, little more than cannon fodder for the Russians.
Murshidov nodded, appreciative of the kind words. “He was my great hope for the future of my people. But without him, I believe now we must look outward for assistance.”
Oh, so there is a pitch to be made today. Rehan was pleased. If this old man needed something, then maybe he wouldn’t have to sit through a tongue-lashing. “I am at your service. How can I help you?”
“The Chechens say you will soon lead Pakistan.”
Rehan’s face remained impassive, but inside him his blood began to boil. He had sworn all the attendees at his meetings to secrecy. “That is premature. Right now, the situation is difficult for—”
But the old man kept talking, almost as if he were talking to himself and did not know Rehan was in the room with him. “You have told the Chechens you will gain control of nuclear weapons, and you have offered these weapons to the Chechens. They have refused you, because they are afraid that if they possessed the nuclear weapons they would become a nuclear target themselves.”
Rehan did not speak. The muscles in his face flexed under his trim beard. He glanced up at Khan and the other colonels in the room with him. He gave them a look that he knew would indicate to them that they would never work with those Chechen fools again if they could not keep a conversation like that to themselves.
Rehan almost stood and left the room. He was about to do just that, but Murshidov kept talking. The old man appeared to be nearly in a trance, unconcerned about the impropriety of the words that came from his mouth.
“I know that you wish to give the bombs to an organization outside of Pakistan. When you do this, when the world learns nuclear weapons have been stolen, then your weak civilian government will fall, and you will take power in a coup. My men, general, can take your bombs.”
Now Rehan forced a laugh. “I do not have any bombs. And if I did have them, I would not need your men. I respect you, old man. I respect your sacrifice and your submission to Allah, and the wisdom you have gained just by virtue of being old. But you come here to my home and say things like this?”
“We have a need for the bombs. And we are not afraid.”
Rehan stood now. Angry and tired of the old man from Russia. “What bombs? What bombs are you talking about? Yes, my country has nuclear weapons. This is common knowledge. They were designed and manufactured under the direction of A. Q. Khan, a Pakistani patriot and a good Muslim. But I am a general in the Army and a member of external intelligence. I cannot just back a truck up to a warehouse and ask the men there to load nuclear missiles into the bed of the truck. That is foolishness!”
Murshidov looked at Rehan through his cataract-clouded eyes. “Your plan has been explained to me in great detail. It is remarkable, and it can work. But you have failed in one respect. You made your offer to the wrong people. The others you invited into your scheme have refused you, and now you can do nothing. I am here to show you that Jamaat Shariat is the right path for you. We will help you, and you will help us.”
Rehan looked to Khan. Khan shrugged. What the hell.
General Rehan sat back down on the sofa. “You think you know things that are not true, old man. But you make me curious. What will you and your poor mountain men do with nuclear bombs?”
Murshidov’s glassy eyes seemed to clear suddenly. He smiled, exposing thin, brittle teeth. “I will tell you exactly what we will do with nuclear bombs.”
Ninety minutes later, Rehan rushed toward the helipad behind his house and leapt into his Eurocopter EC135. The aircraft’s rotors were already turning, their pitch increased as soon as the door was locked, and in seconds the helo lifted over the house, dipped a little as it headed out over the gulf, then banked toward the incredible skyline of Dubai.
Khan sat next to him in the back of the six-seat chopper. The colonel spoke into his headset, told his general that he had made the secure satellite connection with Islamabad, and Rehan need only speak into his microphone. “Listen to me, brother,” Rehan said, nearly frantic with excitement. “I am leaving now for Volgograd.” He listened. “Russia. Yes, Russia!”
The Eurocopter headed toward the skyscrapers of downtown Dubai. Just on the other side of these was Dubai International Airport. There, the crew of a Rockwell Sabr Rocopeliner jet was scrambling to prepare their aircraft for immediate flight.
“I will know by tomorrow, but I think we are in position to begin Operation Saker. Yes. Get everyone ready to move at a moment’s notice. I will come to Rawalpindi and brief the committee myself just as soon as I am finished.” He listened to the other man for a moment, and then said, “One more thing. Last month I met a contingent of four Chechens in Grozny. I want you to draw up a plan to eliminate these four men, quickly and quietly. One of them talks too much. I am glad he did it in this instance, but I cannot have him talking to others. I want them all out of the way to make certain that we plug this leak before all the water passes through the dam.”
Rehan nodded to his second-in-command, and Khan then disconnected the call.
“It is too much to wish for?” Rehan asked Khan.
“Allah is good, General.”
Brigadier General Riaz Rehan smiled, and he willed his helicopter to fly faster, because he had no time to waste.
If all the polls in America were correct, then Jack Ryan would be President of the United States again soon, and once Ryan was back in the White House, Operation Saker would not stand a chance.
27
Charles Sumner Alden, deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sat in the back of a Lincoln Town Car that rolled through the gates of the Newport, Rhode Island, estate of Paul Laska. The DD/CIA was dressed for dinner but hoped this evening would involve business as well as pleasure.
He’d been to Laska’s Rhode Island home on several occasions. A lovely garden wedding for a Democratic Congressman, a fund-raiser for Ed Kealty’s run against Robby Jackson, highbrow cookouts and pool parties, and a Christmas soirée a few years back. But when Laska called him and invited him for dinner tonight, the old man made it plain it was to be just the two of them.
This was a big deal, even to a political insider like Charles Sumner Alden.
Alden assumed—no, he knew—that he was going to be offered a position in one of Laska’s think tanks, contingent on the obvious: that the Kealty administration would cease to exist on January 20 of next year.
The Lincoln drove through the beautiful garden and parked in a parking circle next to the house, overlooking the water. The perimeter of the grounds was patrolled by armed security, and every inch of the property was wired with cameras, security lighting, and motion sensors. Alden’s driver and bodyguard were armed, of course, but no one expected trouble here worse than the DD/CIA potentially burning the roof of his mouth on the lobster bisque.
Alden and Laska were served drinks in the library by the staff, and then they dined on a windowed back terrace that sheltered them from the cold air but still gave them a great moonlight vista over Sheep Point Cove. The conversation never strayed from financial matters, politics, and social issues. Alden knew enough about Laska to realize there would be little in the way of lighthearted banter. But it was a good conversation between men who were in general agreement with each other, enhanced somewhat by a gentle dose of Charles Alden’s ass-kissing of his presumed future employer.
After dinner they walked out back for a moment, sipping Cognac and discussing events in Hungary and Russia and Turkey and Latvia. Alden felt he was being tested on his knowledge and his views, and he did not mind. This was a job interview, or so he’d told himself.
They moved to the library. Alden commented on the man’s great collection of leather-bound tomes, and as they sat across from each other on antique leather sofas, the CIA political appointee praised the magnificent home. Laska shrugged, explained to the younger man that this was his summer cottage, or at least that’s what he called it in front of those with whom he did not keep up the façade of being a populist. He told Alden that he also owned a twenty-two-room penthouse apartment on New York’s Upper West Side, a beach house on Santa Barbara that was the largest in the county and one of the largest oceanfront properties in California, as well as a lodge in Aspen, which was the site of an annual political retreat that hosted four hundred.
Alden had been to the Aspen retreat, twice, but he did not want to embarrass his host by reminding him of this.
Laska refilled both men’s snifters with another splash of impeccable Denis-Mounié Cognac from the 1930s. “Any idea why I’ve asked you here today, Charles?”
Alden smiled, cocked his head. “I’m hoping it’s about a position, should President Kealty fail to win reelection.”
Laska looked above the eyeglasses resting low on his nose. He smiled. “I’d be proud to have you come aboard. I can think of a couple of key spots right off the top of my head where we could use you.”
“Great.”
“But it is bad form to begin selling the parlor furniture while grandfather is still upstairs on his deathbed. Would you agree?”
Alden said nothing for a moment. “So … I am not here to discuss my options for next January?”
Laska shrugged. His cashmere sweater barely moved as his narrow shoulders went up and down inside it. “You will be taken care of in a post-Kealty America. Do not fear. But no, that is not why you are here.”
Alden was at once both excited and confused. “Well, then. Why have you asked me here?”
Laska grabbed a leather-bound folder resting on the end table next to the sofa. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and placed them in his lap. “Judy Cochrane has been meeting with the Emir.”
Alden’s crossed legs uncrossed quickly, and he sat up straight. “Oh, okay. I need to be careful about that matter, as I am certain you understand. I can’t give you any information regarding—”
“I am not asking you anything,” Laska said, then smiled thinly. “Yet. Just listen.”
Alden nodded stiffly.
“Mr. Yasin has agreed to allow the PCI to handle his representation in the Western District of Virginia for the Charlottesville attack three years ago.”
Alden said nothing.
“As part of our agreement with the Department of Justice, Judy and her team are not allowed to detail the capture of the Emir nor his imprisonment until the day he was delivered by the FBI to the Bureau of Prisons.”
“I’m sorry, Paul, but you are already treading in waters that are too deep for me.”
Laska kept talking as if Alden had not protested. “But the story he tells is quite incredible.”
Alden indulged the old man, who, quite possibly, held the key to Alden’s future. He explained, “The attorney general questioned me at length about any CIA involvement in the Emir’s case. We had no participation whatsoever, and I communicated that to him. That is already more than I should say to someone without the proper clearance.”
Laska shook his head, talked over the last part of Charles Alden’s words. “He says he was attacked on the street in Riyadh by five men, shot when he resisted, then kidnapped, brought to a location in the United States, and tortured for a number of days, before being handed over to the FBI.”
“Paul, I don’t want to hear—”
“And then the FBI shipped him off to some other location for several months, a so-called black-site prison, before delivering him to Florence, Colorado.”
Alden raised his eyebrows. “Frankly, Paul, this is starting to sound like a bad movie. Pure fantasy.”
But Laska relayed the Emir’s claims as fact. “He got a great look at four of the men who kidnapped and tortured him. And although the Emir is, if you believe the allegations against him, a terrorist, he is also quite an artist.” Laska took four pages from the file in his lap and offered them to Alden.
The deputy director of the CIA did not reach out and take them.
“I’m sorry” was all he could say.
“You said they were not CIA. So you will not know these men. What is the harm?”
“Frankly, I am very disappointed that your true motivation for having me over this evening was nothing more than—”
“If you don’t know them, Charles, just hand the pages back to me, and you will not spend the next several years testifying as the former head of Clandestine Services of the Central Intelligence Agency. The man at the helm when an illegal rendition was performed in an allied nation against the direct orders of the President of the United States.”
Alden emitted a long sigh. In truth, he didn’t know what many of the CIA’s foot soldiers looked like, as he rarely left the seventh floor at Langley. Did Laska think the Agency’s paramilitary men just hung out at a water cooler on the top floor, covered in grease paint and battle gear, waiting for their next mission? Certainly, Alden told himself, he would not be able to recognize a drawing of any field man in the Special Activities Division, the CIA’s paramilitary arm and the operators who would have had the training to make this happen. After talking to AG Brannigan about the Emir’s capture a year ea
rlier he’d gotten the impression DOJ thought the Emir had been picked up by some Middle Eastern intelligence agency for some personal beef and then snuck into the United States and dumped at the FBI’s door in order to curry favor at some later date. It was a mystery, yes, but it wasn’t anything Alden had to worry about.
He decided he’d take a look at the drawings, shake his head, and hand them back. If that was all it took to secure a position in a Laska foundation after his time in CIA ended, then so be it.
He shrugged. “I’ll indulge you and look at the pictures. But I won’t discuss this matter with you any further.”
Laska smiled. His square face widened. “It’s a deal.”
Alden took the pages, crossed his legs, and looked up at Laska. The CIA political appointee retained a slightly annoyed appearance while doing this.
Laska said, “What you have there are photocopies of tracings Judy made of the Emir’s original drawings. The quality is not perfect, but I think they get the point across as to what the men look like.”
This first picture, just as he expected, was a detailed but not particularly lifelike sketch of a man’s face, a face Charles Alden did not recognize. The man was young, white, and his hair was shaded in with a pencil, presumably to indicate that it was black or dark brown. He wore some sort of bandage on his chin. Below the picture were some handwritten notes. “Kidnapper 1. American, 25 to 30 years old. 183cm. This man shot me on the street. He was wounded slightly on the face, hence the bandage.”
It was a decent drawing of a good-looking guy in his twenties, but otherwise Alden did not find the photo remarkable.
Charles shook his head no for Laska’s benefit and moved on.
Drawing number two was of another young man. He wore his hair shorter than the first man, and it was dark. He was nondescript in every other way. The text under the drawing said: “Kidnapper 2. 28 to 35 years old. Shorter than #1.”
Still, Alden didn’t know the man.
Another shake of the head, and on to the next drawing.