“Yes, Your Excellency. I’m simply saying this: Oleg Stefanovich had help from at least two people, a man and a woman. This much we know for a fact. We found three bodies in the wreckage of the Gulfstream, but DNA testing was conclusive—Oleg Stefanovich was not among them. The identities of the other bodies have not yet been determined. But my people are operating under the premise that Oleg Stefanovich is still alive, as are his two associates. This is why we have issued bulletins to that effect to the entire country. This is why our manhunt continues unabated. We have growing confidence that Marcus Ryker is one of the people involved in this conspiracy. We believe he may very well be on Russian soil as we speak and may even be the person trying to get Kraskin out of the country.”
“Then find him,” Petrovsky demanded, “and kill him.”
49
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was known by some as the “Hinckley Hilton.”
The reason was painful for anyone in the U.S. government charged with protecting the nation and her leaders. The hotel had been the scene of one of the worst failures in the history of the Secret Service. On March 30, 1981, John W. Hinckley Jr. fired six shots at President Ronald Reagan as he was exiting the building after giving a speech to union members. Hinckley had hoped to kill the American leader to impress the actress Jodie Foster, with whom he’d become obsessed by repeatedly watching her in the movie Taxi Driver. His plot had been thwarted, but narrowly.
As they pulled into the hotel’s protected side entrance on T Street, CIA director Richard Stephens couldn’t help but note the irony. He had come to the Hinckley Hilton, of all places, to ask the current president of the United States to pardon two men who had successfully conspired to assassinate at least two and possibly three other world leaders. What had the world come to?
Rushed inside by his protective detail, Stephens met with the Secret Service’s special agent in charge. The SAIC gave him the documents Langley had faxed ahead and then led the team through the bowels of the building to the holding room just off the main stage. Stephens checked his watch. It was 8:47 a.m. The president—well off-script but bringing the house down with a series of impromptu anecdotes and one-liners—was still speaking.
When he finally finished and entered the holding room, Clarke was in a buoyant mood, high-fiving hotel staffers and agreeing to selfies.
“Richard, my friend, that was a barn burner, eh?” The president beamed, slapping his CIA director on the back and asking an aide for a Diet Coke.
“I’m afraid I just got here, Mr. President,” Stephens demurred. “But I need your full attention, sir. We have a situation developing.”
“Of course, of course—just give me a minute to nosh a bit,” said Clarke, heading over to a light breakfast buffet set up against the far wall. “I’m starved. Was talking to so many people at the breakfast, I never actually got to eat.”
“Mr. President, with respect, this is time sensitive, sir.”
“Just give me a moment. These cinnamon rolls are amazing. Here, have one.”
“Sir, we have an urgent situation in Russia,” Stephens replied, waving off the plastic plate the president was dishing up for him. “I need a few minutes, sir. Could we clear the room of everyone but our security details?”
This got Clarke’s attention. “It’s that serious?” he said, straightening up while taking a sip of soda.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is.”
“Very well,” the president said.
He didn’t clear the room. Instead, Clarke led Stephens out the door, down several hallways, and outside to his waiting motorcade. “Ride with me back to the White House,” he said as a Secret Service agent opened the back door of the armor-plated limousine known as the Beast.
The two men climbed in together. Sixty seconds later, the motorcade began to roll. The president took a bite of a Danish and nodded for the CIA director to proceed.
Stephens lowered his voice and gave as concise a summary of the situation as he could.
“A pardon?” the president asked. “This is a joke, right?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. At the moment, the U.S. intelligence community has only a handful of informants inside the North Korean and Iranian governments, none of them higher than mid-level bureaucrats. Whatever else you think of him, Oleg Kraskin has been to Pyongyang and Tehran with his father-in-law. He knows all the players on a first-name basis. He knows exactly what Luganov said to the Dear Leader and to the ayatollah and what those men said in return. He’s been briefed on the Russian intelligence profiles of every single person he ever met with in Iran and North Korea, and we can assume he has close working ties with senior aides to both leaders. The way we assess it, Ryker may very well be telling us the truth. Kraskin may know things vital to U.S. national security, things very few people know. I’m not thrilled about this idea. But I believe it’s our only course at the moment, and if we’re going to do it, we need to do it fast.”
“Richard, Oleg Kraskin shot two Russian leaders in the face,” the president said. “Marcus Ryker helped him.”
“Sir, with respect, Oleg Kraskin saved us from potentially going to nuclear war with the Russian Federation, and Marcus Ryker helped him.”
“You do understand the political risk this exposes me to if this thing comes out in the press,” the president whispered, almost inaudibly.
“I concede it’s a risk, sir.”
“An enormous risk.”
“But consider the flip side, Mr. President.”
“Meaning what?”
“Consider the scandal that will engulf your administration if what Ryker and Kraskin are telling us is true—that Pyongyang has an arsenal of advanced Russian nuclear warheads sitting atop ICBMs capable of reaching every American city and are planning to transfer some of them to Iran, whose leader openly makes threats to wipe us off the planet. What do you think would happen if people found out you turned down the best lead on understanding and neutralizing the situation we’ve ever had?”
The president was silent.
“And don’t worry, sir,” the director added. “It won’t leak. I’ll see to that.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Richard,” the president said. “This is Washington. Everything leaks.”
Six minutes later, the motorcade pulled through the steel gates and onto the White House grounds.
“Mr. President, I need an answer. I’ve got all the paperwork right here,” Stephens said, handing Clarke a black folder marked TOP SECRET in large, red block letters. “It just needs your John Hancock.”
But Clarke refused to even look at the folder.
“Forget it,” he said, stepping out of the limo. “My answer is no.”
50
A new message was waiting for Oleg Kraskin.
“Look,” he told the others. “General Yoon just wrote me again.”
Marcus and Jenny moved quickly to the desk where Oleg was hunched over the laptop, which Jenny had wired to their remaining satphone in order to stay off the hotel’s obviously insecure Wi-Fi. It was the fourth communication from the general in the last several hours, and it presented a grave setback to their strategy.
Back at the dacha, Oleg had cautiously made contact with the general, assuring him he was alive but giving no further details. But it seemed the North Korean had finally confirmed Oleg’s involvement in Luganov’s death. In his next message, Yoon had expressed his admiration for Oleg’s stand on principle. He said he didn’t approve of the methods but felt he knew Oleg well enough to know the man was “doing what was necessary to save the lives of millions.” He went on to say that Oleg’s courageous actions, however dangerous, had both shamed and inspired him.
To date, I have been a coward, he’d written. I have been abetting evil that could lead to war on the most horrific scale ever seen in human history, and I have done nothing to stop it. But now I know I must try, and I need your help. I can provide you vital information, but I cannot stay here. You must guarantee me
you can get me and my family out to safety, to freedom. Then I will tell you everything I know. Can you do this?
The prospect of facilitating the defection of such a highly placed and well-informed North Korean military official was intoxicating—and fraught with danger.
With input from Marcus and Jenny, Oleg had written back. It was possible Yoon was being used by North Korean intelligence—working hand in glove with the FSB—to lay a trap. Moscow desperately wanted to find out precisely where Oleg was and take him out. If they were using Yoon’s messages to track Oleg’s computer IP address, finding him would not be difficult. But they’d decided they had to take the risk. Marcus and Oleg needed the information Yoon could provide, not just for the security of the U.S. and her allies, but to seal their deal with Washington and secure their own freedom.
Ready to help you, if I can, Oleg had replied. But can’t do it alone. Will need to call on friends to help me. Only way to get such help is to know exactly what kind of information you are willing to provide. How specific can you be?
Nineteen minutes later, Yoon had responded.
Sickened at what has transpired since Dear Leader learned of events in Moscow. Leadership here feels liberated. Moving fast to enact changes before new Russian president is up to speed. DL has ordered generals to rewire command and control system so that they alone can launch warheads at a time of DL’s choosing. Will no longer need authorization—either written or electronic—from the Kremlin, as had been the arrangement with Luganov. Also: deal to sell five of most powerful Russian warheads to Iran has been approved by DL. Iran will transfer one hundred billion U.S. dollars in two disbursements. Should happen this week. Transfer of warheads set for next week. I’m in charge of managing transfer.
It was on the basis of this—plus all that Oleg had learned in his personal meetings with the North Korean and Iranian leadership—that Marcus had formulated their offer to Washington. So far as Oleg knew, the deal was being discussed by the NSC, and they’d have a positive answer within the next few hours. So far as General Yoon knew from Oleg’s next message, however, the Americans were going to need a lot more.
But in the third exchange, the general had called their bluff.
Nothing more unless I get a detailed plan from you to extract my family and me. I should not have to remind you of the risk I am taking or that time is of the essence.
Amid a flurry of ideas from his colleagues, Oleg furiously typed a list of questions they needed answers to before proceeding.
1. What exact kind of warheads do you have?
2. How is the transfer to Iran supposed to take place?
3. What day?
4. From where?
5. Who on the Iranian side will be orchestrating the transfer?
6. Where will the warheads enter Iran?
7. Where will they be stored?
8. How many people in NK know about the deal?
9. Who in Russia knows about the arrangement?
10. Will you be traveling with the warheads all the way to Iran to ensure their safe delivery?
Now, hours later, here in the Tsar Palace on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, they had their reply, simple and to the point.
Where is your plan?
General Yoon was done giving freebies. He was playing hardball and figured he had all the leverage.
“What do we do now?” Oleg asked, ready to type.
Marcus wasn’t sure. Jenny was.
“Nothing,” she said.
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“He made us wait. Now we make him wait.”
“What if he goes dark?”
“Then we’re no worse off than we are now.”
“Are you kidding?” Oleg asked. “We’ll be far worse off. If we have no specifics to give the White House, why should the president agree to make the deal with us?”
“Because Yoon isn’t going to go dark. His greatest fear right now is that we might go dark.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. What happens if we stop responding to him?”
“We lose our chance at freedom.”
“But Yoon doesn’t know that. Remember, he’s not doing this to help us. He’s doing it to save himself and his family. If we don’t make a deal with him—assuming this whole thing is legit—then from his perspective you have your freedom, and he’s trapped behind enemy lines, never knowing when the day might come that you decide to show a copy of his messages to his superiors. Then he’s finished.”
Oleg was aghast. “But I’d never do that. The general is my friend.”
“Maybe so. But look at it from his perspective.”
“What do you mean?”
“Luganov was your boss, your wife’s father, the grandfather of your only son . . .”
“And?”
“And you shot and killed him in his very own home.”
Bill McDermott was waiting on the steps of the North Portico.
As the president headed inside to prepare for his meeting with the Latin American leaders, the deputy national security advisor pulled Stephens inside the vestibule and off to a corner.
“Don’t you ever try an end run around Barry and me again,” McDermott whispered, referring to his boss, National Security Advisor Barry Evans.
“It wasn’t an end run,” Stephens protested.
“It was, and it better not happen again.”
“We’re talking about Russian nukes in the hands of two rogue powers.”
“It’s a bluff by two admitted traitors.”
“One of whom is your friend.”
“No friend of mine would betray his country.”
“What if he’s not trying to betray us but protect us?” Stephens shot back, keeping his voice down so as not to be overheard by staffers and reporters walking by.
“Come on, Richard—you really think the Russians gave Pyongyang 750-kiloton nukes and then gave their permission to sell them to the crazies in Tehran?”
“Look, I don’t know, and neither do you. But if this intel is good, we’re talking about the worst threat to U.S. national security in my lifetime or yours. And in case you’d forgotten, Bill, it’s my job to steal secrets. It’s what I swore an oath to do—to make sure the president has the best intelligence we can obtain from whatever source we can find at nearly any price. Do you really want it to come out on the nightly news or before a Senate investigatory panel that we had access to actionable intelligence regarding nuclear weapons in the hands of two of our worst enemies and we did nothing?”
Stephens had taken his best shot, but McDermott was unmovable.
“You’re getting conned by two con men,” he sniffed as he turned and walked away. “You need the president’s authorization to move forward, and you’re never going to get it.”
51
THIRTY-NINE THOUSAND FEET OVER THE ATLANTIC
Pete Hwang scanned through the movie options but found nothing worthwhile.
So he pulled out his laptop, connected to Wi-Fi, and found dozens of new messages. All of them could wait except one. Annie Stewart had written to him. But the moment he read it, a gloom settled over him. She wasn’t asking how he was doing. She was asking about Marcus.
Had Hwang contacted his various sources?
Had he heard back from anyone?
Did anyone have any leads on where Marcus might be?
What was his next move?
Stewart was quick to note that she was wasn’t writing on Senator Dayton’s behalf. These were personal inquiries, written from her own Yahoo! account, not from her government email address. Hwang knew she was emphasizing the distinction for legal reasons, lest a federal investigation ensue and the senator and his staff and all their records and correspondence with and regarding Marcus J. Ryker be subpoenaed. But it was also true—she was asking for personal reasons. That just made it worse.
Hwang cursed himself for being so touchy. He flagged down a flight attendant and ordered himself a stiff drin
k. Two, actually. When they came, he stared at the clouds a good ten thousand feet below him and sipped them slowly.
As he did, he flashed back to the day he and Ryker had met this stunning woman. He remembered it precisely. It was the fifth of May. It had been hot as all blazes in Kabul—one of the worst heat waves in Afghanistan’s history—and he and his fellow Marines had been assigned to serve as a protection detail for Senator Dayton, a big cheese on the Intel Committee. Annie Stewart had been a press assistant on the senator’s delegation, fresh out of graduate school, in her midtwenties. Hwang had been mesmerized from the moment she’d scrambled on board the chopper for the flight over Taliban country.
Born and raised on the outskirts of Houston, Hwang hadn’t grown up in a military family. Nor had he ever dreamed of becoming a Marine. His parents had come to the States from Seoul in the 1950s. They’d tried to raise him and his four older sisters in the ways of the old country, but he had turned out all-American and nearly all Texan as well. He’d picked up his parents’ language because he’d had to. They’d never learned much English, having secluded themselves in Koreatown in the Spring Branch community on the northwest side of Houston. He’d certainly inherited his parents’ work ethic. But that and their name was about it.
Owning and managing a string of dry cleaners was not his idea of a future. So Hwang had joined the Marines for one simple reason: to get the government to pay for medical school. He’d wanted to be a doctor since he was ten years old, and by the age of twenty he found himself a combat medic, assigned to the Twenty-Second Marine Expeditionary Unit, serving in a battalion landing team known as the One-Six—First Battalion, Sixth Marines.
When he’d met Ryker and Vinetti in boot camp, they’d immediately become the best of friends. Their sergeant, Bill “Big Mac” McDermott, drove them hard, yet despite the brutal heat, Operation Enduring Freedom had been going reasonably well for them all.
The Persian Gamble Page 19