The Assassins

by Oliver North

  Arvildsun waited for the clamshell doors at the rear of the nearly one-hundred-foot-long aircraft to open before moving toward the cargo bay. As he walked, his breath made small clouds of steam in the dark air.

  When he approached the cargo ramp he could hear men with British accents inside the aircraft shouting out instructions for care in unloading the payload. Arvildsun turned back to the flight line technician who had guided the big plane to its parking spot with lighted orange cones and said to him in Norwegian, “Thank you for your help. You need to go back inside the terminal now.”

  The young enlisted soldier obeyed, and as soon as he was gone, Arvildsun took out a flashlight and pointed it toward the four large, seven-ton military trucks that had been parked for more than three hours beside a nearby hangar. He flashed the light twice, and the trucks, their mottled black and white winter camouflage barely visible in the gloom, pulled up to the rear of the C-130. Moments later a forklift appeared as if from nowhere and began removing the palletized cargo from the plane's cavernous cargo bay—and placing it on three of the trucks.

  The entire transfer took less than fifteen minutes. When the first three trucks were loaded with crates of gear, nine men disembarked from the aircraft and boarded the heated compartment in the rear of the fourth truck. Once again the Norwegian major took out his flashlight—this time using it to blink a signal to the pilot. Nine minutes later the C-130 was racing back down the runway, clawing its way into the Arctic night. By then, Arvildsun, driving his Norwegian Army Land Rover, was leading his little convoy of four trucks off the base and onto the highway, east toward Skibotn. Seated beside him was Maj. Trevor Watts of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment.

  As the procession passed through the sentry post, Watts observed, “Nice piece of work, Major. Not a single word spoken on a radio or phone to tip ‘Ivan’ off that we're coming.”

  “Thank you,” said Arvildsun. He then asked, “Can you tell me how long this mission will last? I was only told that you were to set up mobile electronic equipment to monitor Russian communications. But I was not told how long you would be here. I have enough food and fuel positioned for ten men, for a month. Will that be enough?”

  Watts looked at his Norwegian counterpart in the dim light of the instrument panel as they rolled down the dark highway and said, “If we haven't figured out what role the Russians are playing in this ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ business by then, it probably won't make any difference anyway.”

  Hotel El Centro

  ________________________________________

  Downtown Caracas, Venezuela

  Monday, 29 October 2007

  2345 Hours Local

  Newman was the last to arrive. Traveling as “Peter Oldham,” he had taken American Airlines Flight 2133 from Miami at 1930, landing at Simon Bolivar International Airport, fourteen miles west of the Venezuelan capital at 2230—a two-hour flight that showed as three because Caracas is one time zone east of Florida. Now, seated in the lobby of the aging Hotel El Centro with his two “colleagues” from “Petro-Research,” Newman was perspiring in the tropical heat. Over the heads of the three men, ancient ceiling fans struggled to move the heavy, humid, slightly cooled air. But at just twelve degrees north of the equator, the hotel's vintage air conditioner was fighting a losing battle.

  Army Master Sergeant Robert Nievos, sitting across from “Oldham” in an overstuffed leather chair, had arrived on a morning flight from Mexico City. He had been the first to arrive at the “Three Star” El Centro, on the corner of Sur 6 y Oeste 6, one block west of Plaza Bolívar. The CIA station had chosen the hotel for its proximity to the national capitol building.

  Nievos's appearance—short, trim, and wiry, with a pencil-thin mustache and hair pulled back in a short ponytail—belied that he was really a veteran Delta Force team leader. The passport in Roberto's pocket was from Argentina, where he had lived for a time as a child—the son of an American diplomat.

  The third man, Senior Chief Manuel Suazo, was a U.S. Navy SEAL. But his well-manicured beard and tailored tropical suit served to disguise his exceptional physique and his real line of work. Suazo had arrived in Caracas on a mid-afternoon flight from Bogota. Though Suazo was also using his real name, he was traveling on a Spanish passport.

  Newman/Oldham looked around the dark wood-paneled lobby searching for their “contact” who was supposed to have been there to meet them a quarter hour ago. In one corner was a young couple, apparently on a romantic getaway or their honeymoon. They were so wrapped up in each other that they were oblivious to the others in the room. At another cluster of chairs, two middle-aged couples were conversing quietly in German—obviously tourists. But at a third table, in the far corner, sat a man in the shadows reading a newspaper.

  “That guy has been here all evening,” said Nievos. “He was here when I came down for dinner and he was still there when I left for the airport to pick you up. I've been watching him since we sat down and he's not packing heat, so he's not a cop. Since nobody at the front desk pays any attention to him, my guess is that he's just a ‘watcher’ for the Valdez regime—put here to call in anything unusual on the cell phone he's carrying on his belt.”

  “Do you suppose he's ‘made’ us?” asked Newman.

  “Doubt it,” replied Suazo. “All three of us have good ‘paper’ that shows we work for Petro-Research—and with oil prices the way they are, this town is crawling with people from every country on the planet in every aspect of the oil business.”

  As the Navy SEAL was talking, a man who looked to be in his fifties entered the front door of the hotel. He was wearing glasses, a rumpled seersucker suit and had what appeared to be several large sheets of paper rolled up under his arm.

  “Well, well, here's our man,” said Nievos quietly to Newman and Suazo. “Let me do the ‘meet and greet’ since I'm the guy who supposedly knows him.”

  Rising from his chair, Nievos shouted out in fluent Spanish, “Eduardo—over here.” He then made a beeline for the man in seersucker, gave him a big abrazzo, kissed him on both cheeks, put his arm around his shoulder, and guided the new arrival toward the chairs where Newman and Suazo were now standing. Newman noticed that everyone in the room had glanced up at the minor commotion-and just as quickly, ignored it. The whole scene was so perfectly “normal” that it immediately relieved any suspicion that the four men could be up to anything untoward or nefarious.

  “Eduardo, this is Peter Oldham and Manuel Suazo,” said Nievos, introducing them effusively as they shook hands with the newcomer. “Peter is from our Oklahoma City Office and ‘Manny’ is from Houston,” the Delta Force NCO continued enthusiastically. “I've told them all about you. Now, what do you have for us?”

  As they sat, “Eduardo” placed the papers he had been carrying on the low table centered among the four chairs and unrolled the sheets with a flourish, saying loudly enough for the “watcher” to overhear, “As you asked, señor Oldham, these charts show the current oil and gas leases throughout the country. I have marked out the available concessions and the areas where we can apply for permits to explore. As you know, most of the proven reserves are in the area around Lake Maracaibo, but I am convinced that with the new equipment you are bringing in, we will succeed in finding more elsewhere.”

  Once again, Newman was impressed with the “tradecraft” of his colleagues. Bill Goode had told him that his “man in Caracas” was a first-rate field operative, and the unassuming, bespectacled “Eduardo” was already living up to the advance praise. He had just established for anyone who was listening a superb rationale for the gamma-wave/neutron particle detectors and the bulky “Backscatter” PMMW equipment that was en route to Caracas. Only a uniquely trained eye would know that the equipment wasn't used for oil exploration.

  Then, as the men bent over the papers spread out on the low table, appearing to study the charts, Eduardo said to Newman, “Do you know when the specialized exploration equipment will arrive, Mr. Oldham? I must make arrangements
at customs.”

  “Here is the bill of lading,” Newman replied, handing Eduardo a sheet of paper that he took from his pocket. “As you see, the equipment is in two containers on an Evergreen containership due in tomorrow from Houston.”

  “Very well,” the CIA man said with a smile. “Now, before you retire for the evening, you must accompany me to one of the most beautiful sites in Caracas, the fountain in the Plaza de Bolívar. It is just across the hotel courtyard.”

  The four of them walked leisurely through the lobby and across the plaza to stand in front of the fountain. Eduardo, positioned between Newman and the two Special Operations men, raised his arms expansively and gestured toward the spraying water, saying loudly, “There is no more beautiful sight in all Caracas.” Then, much more quietly he added, “… and no better place to talk without the fear of eavesdroppers. Even if someone is hitting us with a parabolic dish or directional mike, the sound of the water masks our conversation. If you keep facing the fountain the cameras will not be able to read our lips.”

  Suazo smiled and said, “Well done.”

  Newman, seeming to admire the sculptured man on horseback rising out of the rushing water, asked the CIA operative, “You know that we have two missions?”

  “Yes,” responded Eduardo, “I was contacted directly by Deputy Director Goode and told that you are here to set up the search for nuclear weapons and to ‘deal’ with El Presidente's friend, Samuel Mubassa. My instructions are to help you with both. Do we have anything more about when and how the nuclear weapons are to be delivered? That part of the mission is the most difficult.”

  “Roberto is coordinating that task,” said Newman, nodding to Nievos. “We're supposed to receive any new information via D-DACT—and you should be getting the same word, directly from Bill Goode at Langley. We may have new information in the morning.”

  Eduardo nodded and replied, “The more we know about how the nukes are being delivered here, the more effective we will be in using this special equipment to keep track of them.” Then, turning to the Navy SEAL, he said, “So Manuel, I take it you are here to eliminate the Samuel Mubassa problem.”

  “Not exactly,” answered Suazo. “I'm here to eliminate Samuel Mubassa.”

  The man in the seersucker suit nodded and said with a slight bow, “I stand corrected. Will you need any special equipment?”

  “No thanks, Eduardo. My ‘hunting rifle’ is a Barrett .50 cal. Model 82A3 with ten-round magazine and Leopold ten-power scope. It'll be in one of the containers that arrive tomorrow from Houston. But I could use some help getting this guy Mubassa's schedule down.”

  “That should not be a major problem,” said Eduardo. “He is very close to President Valdez and staying at El Presidente's guesthouse. I have a very good source who can tell us nearly every movement that Mubassa makes with Valdez at least twenty-four hours in advance.”

  At this point Newman interrupted and asked, “Can your source find out if Valdez knows about the shipment of nuclear weapons?”

  “Perhaps,” responded Eduardo. “He is very good.”

  “Do you trust him?” asked the Marine.

  “Of course I trust him, Mr. Oldham,” responded Eduardo, looking offended. “He is my older brother.”

  Residence of Senator James Waggoner

  ________________________________________

  Old Dominion Drive, Belle View, VA

  Monday, 29 October 2007

  2355 Hours Local

  The phone rang only twice before the “senior senator” picked it up and said, “Hello.”

  “It's Alan Michaels. Senator, you asked me to call when we put the City Edition of the paper ‘to bed.’ Well, it's rolling off the press and the story is top right, above the fold.”

  “Good work, son,” said the Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee to the young Washington Post reporter. “I trust you kept my name out of it?”

  “Of course, Senator,” replied Michaels. “I'll read the lead ‘graph’ if you want.”

  “Go ahead,” said Waggoner, reaching for his “nightcap”—three fingers of expensive bourbon in a water glass.

  “The headline reads, ‘White House Allows Terrorist to Escape,’” began Michaels. When Waggoner only grunted, the Post reporter continued. “Samuel Mubassa, suspected of being the principal funding source behind the Islamic Brotherhood terrorist organization, has been allowed to flee to Venezuela. Intelligence sources have told the Washington Post that Mubassa, who allegedly made hundreds of millions of dollars in the United Nations' corrupt Oil for Food program, is now being protected by the Valdez regime in Caracas. Congressional critics say that this is ‘simply the latest in a string of colossal failures by this administration to take appropriate action against terrorists who now threaten the U.S. with nuclear weapons.’”

  When Michaels stopped to take a breath, Waggoner interrupted, “That's just fine, son. I'll read the rest in the morning. But tell me, did you put in there somewhere that the administration is ‘covering up’ the threat of nuclear terrorism?”

  “Absolutely,” said the young reporter, thinking of Woodward and Bernstein and how nice it would be to win a Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism. “You didn't give me very much about who is covering up what—so I'd like to talk to you some more tomorrow about that. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “Shoot, son,” said Waggoner, “I'm not going to start meeting you in parking garages like that sissy FBI ‘Deep Throat’ fella …”

  “Mark Felt,” interrupted Michaels, trying to be helpful.

  “Whatever,” said Waggoner. “That's not what I'm about. I'm trying to keep the innocent citizens of this country from being attacked by bloodthirsty killers. The American people need to know that people like Mubassa are financing nuclear murder—and the White House is covering up the magnitude of his crimes.”

  “Well, for Wednesday's edition can I get more from you on who at the White House is involved in this cover-up—and what should be done about it? Are we talking impeachment here?” asked the reporter.

  “I'll think about it,” answered Waggoner, curtly. “Don't call me. I'll call you. Good work—and good night.”

  RUNNING

  AWAY

  ___________________________________________________

  ___________________________________________________

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Press Room

  ________________________________________

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Tuesday, 30 October 2007

  0815 Hours Local

  Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, “said the President as he walked into the White House Press Room. He and the First Lady had returned to the White House from Camp David shortly after dawn, and, for a change, no one in the media even knew he had been gone.

  The nine members of the Fourth Estate, four cameramen, and two producers who were present when the President unexpectedly entered the Press Room, literally fell over themselves in their surprise at seeing the Commander in Chief. In nearly seven full years in office he had made only eight such unannounced visits to meet with members of the White House press corps—and it was usually during a holiday period when the “second string” was on duty.

  Although this Tuesday morning was not a holiday, most of the “A-List” faces and names from the print and broadcast media had still found reasons to leave Washington as rumors circulated that the “Islamic Brotherhood” planned an attack on the nation's capital.

  “Mr. President,” shouted one of the print reporters, “are we on the record?”

  “Sure,” said the Chief Executive, adding, “although I warn you in advance that I only have a few minutes—and you might ask me some questions that I just won't answer for security reasons. But you may quote me. Next question.”

  By now the only two TV news crews present had established connections with their networks, and both producers were whispering into their headsets trying to convince their
respective news assignment desks that they should cut away from scheduled programming and go live from the White House.

  “Mr. President, have you seen this morning's Washington Post article that says your administration allowed a terrorist to escape?” asked one of the producers.

  “I read two things every morning,” replied the President with a smile, “The Washington Post and the Holy Bible—so that way I know what both sides are up to.”

  “What do you have to say about allegations that your administration is covering up imminent threats of nuclear terrorism?”

  “Well here I am,” he said, still with a bit of a wry smile. “I wouldn't be standing here if we were busy covering anything up about an imminent nuclear threat.”

  “Let me put it differently,” said a young wire service reporter. “Are we at risk from terrorists using nuclear weapons in this country?”

  The President paused a moment, then said, “A group claiming to be the ‘Islamic Brotherhood’ transmitted such a threat on a videotape several days ago. It was similar to a threat that the same group issued shortly after the attack on Saudi Arabia. The group insists that we release the terrorists detained at Guantanamo and that we—along with every other Western country—withdraw all of our people from what they call ‘Islamic lands.’ We will not make concessions to terrorists. And if they—or anyone else—attacks the United States, there will be a swift, sure, and overwhelming response.”

  Now the remaining reporters were clamoring to get their questions answered. One of them asked, “What do you say to the calls from some in Congress for a preemptive nuclear attack on Iran?”

  Once again the Chief Executive chose his words carefully as he said, “I'm not going to forecast or foreclose any of our options to protect the American people.” He then added, “However, I do want to note that those who seek freedom and justice can find no better friend than the American people. And those who choose to threaten harm to the American people will find no greater enemy than our Armed Forces.”