by J. R. Wolfe
“So part of my assignment is to find Bovra Marsik?”
“Yes,” Riley said, “but as part of Operation Fox Hunt, we have agents in Europe, including the United Kingdom, searching for him.”
“Why is it so important to find him?”
“Our sources tell us that Stanislaw Jager managed to steal a USB flash drive from the PR that has the schematics for a dirty bomb on it. Before coming to the States looking for Imma and Marsik, he gave the memory stick to Bovra Marsik for safekeeping should anything happen to him. Our sources also said that the PR has developed one prototype of the device. We’re looking for the prototype as we speak.”
Altan ran his fingers through his hair. “Combining conventional explosives like dynamite or ammonium nitrate or fuel oil with weapons-grade radioactive materials to disperse radiation at deadly levels has been the fantasy that gives every terrorist organization a wet dream. But scientists have said it’s speculative and impossible to do.”
“Do you remember the incident in the former Soviet Republic of Moldova?” Riley asked.
“Yes. Smugglers were caught using a small lead container to traffic highly enriched uranium.”
“And a few months later, in Mexico, thieves robbed a medical equipment truck and stole radioactive cobalt-60 pellets.”
“But only small amounts of radioactive materials were stolen.”
“Those raids are just the tip of the iceberg. There’s a tight network of middlemen who buy the stolen material and put it on the black market for sell. The PR has been using the black market to buy radioactive materials in small but numerous amounts and, in particular, polonium-210, which is one of the—”
“Most toxic materials known to mankind.” Altan reflected on what he knew about polonium-210. It could only be acquired in low-concentration levels and had a very short shelf life. Skin or paper could easily stop its penetration, and to cause damage, it had to be inhaled, injected, or ingested. “Polonium-210 has always been considered a nonstarter for an effective radiological bomb.”
“Not any more.” Riley said flatly.
“What’s changed?”
“The approach to how to use it. The PR has employed Russian nuclear physicists and engineers. The lead physicist has been able to solve the problems related to polonium-210 by combining and blending radioactive materials with it, like cobalt-60.”
“He’s made a radioactive-materials cocktail?”
“She. Their lead physicist is a woman.”
“What’s the design of the weapon itself?”
“The radiological dispersion device is lightweight and can effectively shield and transport the combination of radioactive materials, which will be blown up and spread in toxic levels.”
“So, if you don’t die in the initial blast, the exposure to radiation will poison you to death.”
“That’s the idea. It’s a one-two punch.”
“Will the PR use suicide bombers to detonate the bomb?”
“We can never rule out what they’ll do, but a cell phone can trigger it.” Riley paused. “There’s one bright side—”
“There’s a bright side?”
“We don’t think the bomb they’ve developed is a weapon of mass destruction. It’s likely best used in closed environments. More than likely, the People’s Revolution will use it for targeted attacks, like—”
“Assassinations.”
“Yes. Assassinations.”
Altan’s muscular shoulders tightened. The blacks and reds of the bedroom momentarily whirled around him as though he were in the eye of a fearsome hurricane. He stopped his pacing and sat hard on the bed. “We were told this technology was impossible,” he said more to himself than to Riley.
“Nothing is impossible,” Riley said. “We traveled to the moon and back, developed a polio vaccine, and invented the telephone, the computer, Bluetooth, and the World Wide Web. Good people did those things. Bad people like challenges too.”
“If Bovra Marsik has this flash drive, why hasn’t he turned it over to the authorities?”
“Good question. He’s probably holding on to it as a bargaining chip until his daughter is safe, assuming she’s alive.”
“If she and and Imma are alive and together, you think they’re stranded in Zimbabwe somewhere.”
“Zimbabwe is one of the most logical places to start looking, but we’re putting out a wide net for Operation Fox Hunt. As I said, we already have a team searching directly for Bovra Marsik and the RDD. Your piece of the operation involves finding Imma and Marsik, who should lead you to her father, assuming our other field officers haven’t found him first.”
“If I do locate Bovra Marsik first, he should lead me to the flash drive containing the schematics for the dirty bomb.”
“That’s right. We have to retrieve the flash drive before the People’s Revolution gets it. I’m depending on you, Altan.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Tomorrow morning, meet Chief Horn for a further briefing on your cover and the details of the mission. She’ll set up false passports for you and Portia and arrange your travel. She’ll also make sure you have the equipment and weapons you’ll need. Talk to Portia tomorrow. I want you both on a plane to Zimbabwe as soon as possible. Any questions?”
Altan glided his hand through his hair. He had only one question—how to retire early. “No,” he finally said. “I understand.”
“If all goes well,” Riley said, “we can expect Imma to contact Portia, but she’ll obviously be guarded and cautious, given the danger she and Marsik are in. She may warn Portia not to tell anyone about her, including you. So, watch Portia’s every move. Don’t let our girl keep anything from you.”
Altan opened his mouth to respond, but the phone connection had already gone dead.
CHAPTER 8
It was 7:30 p.m. Altan sat in a cushy club chair in Portia’s living room holding Imma’s wrinkled letter in his hands as though it were an original letter from the Apostle Paul. He had no doubt that the letter was convincing proof that Stanislaw Jager had told an extraordinary truth, but were Imma and Marsik still alive? If so, where were they? How long could they hide from the People’s Revolution? Were they even together? Even if he could find them, would Marsik lead him to her father and, ultimately, to the data stick and perhaps even to the prototype of the PR’s dirty bomb?
Altan’s heart thudded with unrest. Those questions could only be answered by solid fieldwork and a little luck. Yet, he first needed to convince Portia to join him.
For the charade he was about to play, Altan had decided to appear as normal as possible, so he had gelled his hair and put on a wool sweater, jeans, and suede boots. He hoped that Portia wouldn’t see the perspiration forming on the palms of his hands. Despite thousands of hours of training and instruction to become a CIA undercover field officer, sweaty hands was a show of stress he’d never been able to conquer.
“This really is unbelievable,” Altan said as he read the heartbreaking note a fourth time.
“What do you mean?” Portia’s hazel eyes, usually brilliant and shimmering, were lifeless. “Stanislaw Jager was an extortionist who wanted me to believe Imma was alive so he could steal my money. The only unbelievable thing is his gall and insensitivity.”
This wasn’t good, Altan thought. He’d need to turn Portia around and make her believe that Jager wasn’t a coldhearted con man but a hero of sorts who may have outwitted the Zimbabwe prison officials, the People’s Revolution, and the CIA to save two innocent lives and possibly the world. This could be a long night.
Portia set down two Chicago Bears mugs on the coffee table, both filled with hot chocolate. She wore faded black jeans and a long-sleeved, gray sweater that was a size too big, making her look dumpy, which she certainly wasn’t. Her shoulder-length brunette hair, usually shiny with lively waves, was in a messy ponytail. She wore no makeup, and she had an unbecoming whiff of vodka about her.
Her glumness stabbed Altan’s heart. He leaned
forward and placed the letter on the coffee table. After grabbing one of the mugs, he sat back and drank. The hot chocolate burned his tongue, but he welcomed the distraction. He didn’t like to lie to Portia. He’d been a good son, Eagle Scout at age fourteen, successful student who never cheated, and a US Army captain who believed with all his heart in honor. Yet, as a CIA undercover agent, the truth wasn’t solid rock but spongy dough to be molded for advantage. He consoled himself with the reality that terrorists used deception as brass knuckles to carry out their deadly acts. So why not use the same weapon against them?
“Are you okay?” Portia plopped down on the couch to face him. “You look like your puppy is lost.”
“I’m fine,” Altan said. “I actually have good news.”
“The global recession is over?”
“There’s a possibility that Stanislaw Jager told you the truth.”
Her eyebrows pinched together. “Why would you say that? Riley explained that Jager was probably a con man.”
“I know, but Riley might be wrong. I asked a friend to do a discreet background check on Jager.”
“Who’s your friend?”
Altan wavered. He wanted to tell her that the name of his friend didn’t matter because the friend didn’t exist. “He’s an analyst at the CIA, and I’ve worked with him on several missions. He owes me a favor.”
“What did he find out?” she asked.
“Jager was Bovra Marsik’s brother. Chessa was his niece.”
“So, he wanted his niece freed. That makes sense, but what’s the connection to Imma?”
“Chessa may have been Imma’s cell mate.” That was at least an honest answer.
“How does your friend know this?”
“He researched our digital case files on Imma and Marsik and compared the information contained in each one. What’s interesting is there are reports from informants in Marsik’s file stating that after her kidnapping by the People’s Revolution, she was incarcerated somewhere in Zimbabwe, and she was celled with a female described as a white American.”
“Was Imma expressly named?”
“No, but she fits the description.” None of this was factual, but facts didn’t matter. What mattered was convincing Portia to go to Zimbabwe with him. “Imma’s file indicates that informants reported her cell mate was a woman from Europe described as fair skinned, blue eyed, and beautiful. That account suggests the prisoner was Chessa Marsik.”
“The description is so general; it could apply to numerous women.”
“Perhaps, but that description doesn’t apply to many of the women who are imprisoned in Zimbabwe. They’re primarily black.”
“Okay. That’s true enough, but how did Jager discover the whereabouts of his niece if the CIA couldn’t find her?”
That was a good question that needed a smidgeon of truth in the answer to be believable. “He’s a former FSB agent.”
“FSB?” Portia’s hazel eyes sparkled with surprise. “The FSB is the former KGB. That explains why he spoke Russian to you in the hospital.”
“Yes it does. My friend believes that Jager used the contacts he developed during his spy days to track down his niece.”
“How could Bovra Marsik and Jager have been brothers?” Her nose wrinkled slightly, as though something didn’t smell right. “Marsik is from the Czech Republic. He’s not Russian.”
Portia didn’t miss a detail. “Actually, Marsik is Russian.” Now he just needed to remember the intricate tale he was spinning. “Marsik moved to the Czech Republic as a young man.”
Portia folded her lips inward. “What else did your friend find out?”
“He discovered that we had conflicting intelligence on what actually happened to Imma.” Altan wondered if his friend was buying this story. “One source we’ve used many times and who’s considered reliable reported that she was executed because she’d tried unsuccessfully to escape, but other secondary sources reported that she managed to escape with Chessa Marsik and disappear. No one knows where.”
“Why weren’t these other sources credible?”
“There was a determination at high levels that they weren’t believable.” His lips fastened in a grim line. “Improperly grading the reliability of intelligence has happened before.”
Portia nodded her head in agreement. “Riley must know about the conflict in intelligence.”
“He does, but he believes that the informant’s video is solid proof showing she was killed.”
Portia leaned forward and grabbed the wrinkled letter from the coffee table. She stared at it, her hazel eyes stricken by an emotional haze. “I saw the video.”
“You saw an execution of three poor souls,” Altan said, “but I don’t think Imma was one of them.”
“Riley was convinced she was one of them.”
“He’s still convinced, but that doesn’t mean he’s right. He wrongly believed that Chessa Marsik was killed, but—”
“Yeah, Riley told me that her body was found in London.”
“MI6 was confident it was Marsik, but the forensic test results show that the victim was someone else.”
“So Marsik is alive?”
Altan shook his head. “We don’t know if she’s dead or alive, but the body that was found in London isn’t hers.”
“Do we know why Marsik was being held in Zimbabwe?”
“The most likely answer is that the People’s Revolution was able to bribe a high-ranking official.”
“So you told Riley what your analyst friend discovered.”
“Yes.”
“Why does he still have doubts and you don’t?”
“You know Riley as well as I do. He’s career-minded. He can’t afford to be wrong.”
Portia whisked her ponytail between her fingers. She finally put down the letter and picked up her mug of hot chocolate. “I’m sure Riley would like to be promoted, but he’s not unkind. Imma treated him after the incident in Iraq. We all became friends. Why wouldn’t he want to be wrong about her death?”
“Because it would mean that he believed false intelligence,” Altan answered, “and disregarded the truth; that would mean he’d need to answer a lot of difficult questions, and that could damage his chances for promotion.”
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“That’s not it.” Portia was right, though. He disliked Riley, but now wasn’t the time for a come-to-Jesus conversation. “What happened between Riley and me was a long time ago. It’s all been forgotten and forgiven.” Another lie. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven Riley for stealing and marrying the woman he loved.
Portia smiled as though she believed him. Yet, she bit her lower lip in a clear sign she doubted his veracity.
Altan wished she didn’t know him so well.
“What did Riley tell you when you told him that Jager was Chessa Marsik’s uncle?” she asked.
“At first, he was angry because I had used our resources without his permission,” Altan said.
“That sounds like him.”
“After he calmed down, he told me that you and he had met and that you told him about your encounter with Stanislaw Jager after the ZIRP fundraiser. He said he ordered Imma’s case reopened, but he also said that even assuming this information about Jager was true, which he didn’t concede, Imma didn’t survive. Riley emphasized that the video of the execution was validated as showing Imma being one of the victims.”
“So Riley’s view is that even if Jager was Chessa’s uncle, he was still a fraud trying to make the best of a botched escape plan by extorting money from me.”
Altan shrugged. “That’s Riley’s opinion in a nutshell.”
Portia sipped the hot chocolate, her gaze markedly withdrawn. “Riley’s a good and loyal friend. You know how he helped me in Iraq.”
Altan leaned forward. “I know that Riley has a decent side, but Portia, in this instance, Riley isn’t trustworthy. If it turns out that he’s wrong about Imma’s death, he’ll want time to cover u
p his mistake, and I’m afraid we don’t have that time.”
“So you really believe that Imma and Marsik escaped together.”
“Yes. I also think that the People’s Revolution is after Marsik so they can use her to bribe her father to stop investigating their gun trafficking activities. If Imma is with Marsik, she’s in great peril.”
Portia clenched her jaw. “What if I believe you and you’re wrong? Don’t misunderstand me. I want to believe you, but what you’re telling me is based on conjecture and inferences. If I let myself have hope again, and that hope turns out to be false… I’m not sure I could handle it.”
“Okay, then I’ll go to Zimbabwe myself.”
“What? You’re going to Zimbabwe?”
“I bought two airline tickets earlier today.”
“Two?”
“One for me and one for you. If it hadn’t been for Imma, I would’ve died in Iraq on that damn dirt road when the bombs exploded.” That was a truth Altan would never forget or deny. “Me, you, Riley, Rex, Dirk—”
“Sal, Mike, and…what was the driver’s name?”
“Ben.”
“Of course, Ben. I should’ve remembered his name. If only the lieutenant general had made it.”
“I don’t know if Imma is alive or not.” He needed to keep the conversation on track. “But we don’t leave—”
“Anyone behind. I know.”
“I figured you still had contacts in Zimbabwe from your last humanitarian mission over there.”
“I do.”
“You could give me their names. I’ll contact them when I’m there. I’m sure they’ll help me.”
Portia sat straight. “When are you leaving?”
Altan’s pulse quickened. Had she decided to join him? “Early tomorrow morning.”
“A trip like this needs planning.”
He reached in his leather briefcase and grabbed four passports. He tossed them on the coffee table.
“What are those?” she asked.
“Two are yours and two are mine,” he answered.
“Why do I need two passports?”
He reached out and grabbed one of the passport books. He handed it to her. “Look for yourself,” he said.