The door was locked. He knocked three times and whispered a password. He could hear a good deal of muffled discussion but could not quite make out the words. Eventually, however, the door opened, and two burly bodyguards stood there with suspicion in their eyes. They patted al-Zanjani down and removed his sidearm. Then the older of the two asked for his papers and studied them carefully while the younger kept his hand on his own sidearm and never took his eyes off al-Zanjani’s. Finally satisfied, the older guard returned the papers and stepped aside. The moment al-Zanjani stepped in, the door was closed and locked behind him.
The IRGC commander now found himself looking at a thin, wiry, balding man in his late fifties with thick wire-rimmed glasses and a trim salt-and-pepper beard. He’d been sitting, reading the local daily paper and smoking a cigarette. But as al-Zanjani entered, the man stood. He wore a wrinkled white dress shirt that had been tucked into loose brown trousers and a belt that seemed to be fighting a losing battle to keep the trousers on the man’s gaunt frame.
“Dr. Abbasi, I presume?”
“Yes, that’s me,” said the man, snuffing out his cigarette and brushing away a few crumbs from his shirt. “How can I help you, General? We weren’t expecting you.”
“How could you have?” al-Zanjani asked. “I didn’t make an appointment. I didn’t want anyone to know I was coming.”
Abbasi nodded and looked down at the floor.
“Do you know how I found you, Doctor?” al-Zanjani asked.
Abbasi looked up and shook his head.
“You come here every night. My people say you come and drink—and not just coffee, I might add—and play poker and welcome the company of woman who are not, apparently, any relation to you. . . .”
Al-Zanjani’s voice trailed off. Abbasi said nothing, but his eyes returned to the floor.
“Do you see where I’m going with this, Doctor?”
Still, Abbasi made no comment, much less a defense.
“You’re getting tired—lazy—because you’re bored.”
“No, General,” Abbasi suddenly said, looking directly in the commander’s eyes. “I love my work. It’s just been slow—and since the agreement with the Americans, slower still. But I—”
Al-Zanjani held up his hand, and Abbasi stopped.
“It’s okay,” al-Zanjani said. “I’m not going to report you. After all, whom would I report you to but myself? No, Dr. Abbasi, I have a new assignment for you.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a rocket scientist, Haydar, the best in all of the Republic. But some genius thought it valuable to have you babysitting a program that is going nowhere.”
“It’s not their fault, sir. I volunteered for the assignment. I can do the work. Please, give me another chance.”
“No, Haydar, you’re missing my point,” al-Zanjani replied. “You’re wasting your talents here, and we’ve been wasting your time. But I’ve come to change that. Can you keep a secret, all of you?”
Al-Zanjani looked at each man, waiting for each to see the seriousness in his eyes and nod his consent.
“Very well, then,” he continued. “I have negotiated the purchase of five nuclear warheads from North Korea. The Supreme Leader approved the purchase himself. I briefed him and President Afshar earlier. But the warheads were not built in Pyongyang. They’re Russian-made, 750 kilotons, and could annihilate the entire island of Manhattan—or the entire cities of Washington, Chicago, Dallas, or Los Angeles—in a matter of milliseconds. Can and will. That will be your job—fitting these warheads on five of our most powerful missiles. Tomorrow I leave for Pyongyang to coordinate the transportation of these warheads. They should be here by the fourteenth or fifteenth of October. You have until Nowruz to make them operational. The Supreme Leader was very clear on this point. You will have all the money you need and any personnel that you request. But you must have all five fully ready to launch, able to reach those five U.S. cities by the Persian New Year.”
“Nowruz? That’s March 20.”
“Yes. A Friday, as it happens.”
“A holy day.”
“For a holy war.”
55
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Mr. President, how could you say all that?”
The call had ended, and Evans was aghast.
“You saw what was happening,” the president said, still on his feet. “Petrovsky was boxing me into a corner, and a dangerous one at that. I had to say something.”
The national security advisor now stood as well, trying to make sense of what had just taken place and figure out how to contain the damage.
“But, sir, you flat-out lied to the president of Russia.”
“So what? The man himself is a liar,” Clarke shot back. “You heard what he was accusing me of—what was I supposed to do?”
Evans had no idea how to respond.
“Look,” Clarke said, “get Director Stephens back on the horn. Tell him to make the deal with Ryker immediately and get him on a plane back to Washington.”
This stunned Evans all the more. “But, sir, you told Stephens—”
“I know what I told him, but the situation has changed,” he snapped. “Petrovsky is accusing me of acts of war. What’s more, he’s making Ryker the central issue in the whole thing. Well, I’m going to show that son of a—”
“Sir, please—this is a mistake,” Evans said, knowing the risk of cutting the man off but hoping to calm the president and get him to focus on how to undo the mistake. “I know you’re angry, but—”
The president was in no mood to be second-guessed. “Enough,” he said. “I’ve heard all I care to hear. Whatever you guys have to promise Ryker, make the deal. Get him on a plane back to Washington immediately. I can stall the Russian ambassador for the rest of the day. But I need Ryker in a bed at Walter Reed—preferably comatose—first thing tomorrow morning or heads are going to roll, starting with yours. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Evans said quietly, whiplashed by the sudden turn of events, though not entirely convinced Clarke was wrong. “Anything else, sir?”
He hoped like crazy the answer was no.
“Yeah,” Clarke said, walking around the desk and getting in Evans’s face. “You tell Ryker he works for the Agency now.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. I’m not going to tolerate him going rogue for one second more. The moment he sets foot on American soil, he agrees to work for the Central Intelligence Agency, or there’ll be no pardon and I’ll simply hunt him down and hand him over to the Russians.”
“Sir, Marcus Ryker left government service after the deaths of his wife and son. Even if he did want to come back, bringing him into the CIA creates a liability you neither want nor need.”
“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear, Barry,” Clarke replied. “Ryker joins the CIA, or we cut him loose.”
“Mr. President, with all due respect, Ryker is never going to accept that.”
“I couldn’t care less,” Clarke shot back. “He can take it or leave it, but it’s not open for negotiation.”
Night had fallen in Russia.
Oleg slept on the couch in the living room of the large suite. Having grabbed a spare pillow and blanket from a closet, he’d passed out shortly after nine. He had eaten little all day and insisted all the tension was wreaking havoc with his appetite.
Jenny had the master bedroom to herself. She’d agreed to let Marcus check on her every few hours. Her fever had risen several degrees since their arrival at the hotel, and she had vomited twice. Marcus found her curled up on the king-size bed in a fetal position. She was wrapped in the cotton bathrobe that had been hanging in the bathroom. The sheets and blankets were all rumpled and askew, suggesting she’d been tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. At least she was asleep now and breathing peacefully, and Marcus felt a small measure of relief.
For his part, Marcus had tried sleeping on the floor of the living room, a few feet fro
m Oleg. Yet rest would not come. For one thing, he was starving. He couldn’t risk going out to eat, much less order room service, so he ripped open one of the rucksacks and sorted through the provisions they’d taken from the dacha. There were several cans of tuna fish, a few sleeves of crackers, two jars of pickled herring, and six fresh oranges. Though he easily could have eaten it all by himself in one sitting, he knew they were going to need to make it stretch. He just had no idea for how long.
After scarfing down a snack, Marcus brewed a cup of black coffee in some Russian version of a Keurig machine. Then he settled into a large overstuffed chair and put his feet on the coffee table. Oleg was snoring, but Marcus didn’t care. He pulled his Bible out of his rucksack and opened to the first chapter of Proverbs, intending to get a head start on the coming month. If he had ever needed wisdom, it was now.
One passage almost jumped off the page. He’d read it a million times before, yet never had it resonated like it did that night.
My son, if sinners entice you,
Do not consent.
If they say, “Come with us,
Let us lie in wait for blood,
Let us ambush the innocent without cause;
Let us swallow them alive like Sheol,
Even whole, as those who go down to the pit;
We will find all kinds of precious wealth,
We will fill our houses with spoil;
Throw in your lot with us,
We shall all have one purse,”
My son, do not walk in the way with them.
Keep your feet from their path,
For their feet run to evil. . . .
But they lie in wait for their own blood;
They ambush their own lives.
So are the ways of everyone who gains by violence;
It takes away the life of its possessors.
Setting the book down, he leaned back in the chair and stared at Oleg. The poor man had been lured by Luganov into a wicked, brutish world. The would-be czar and his inner circle had run continuously toward evil. He had lain in wait, ambushing the unsuspecting. They had filled their homes with spoil. And it had cost them everything.
Marcus felt himself gaining a second wind. A plan began to form in his mind. He would leave Jenny in the room, take Oleg, and start driving southeast, headed for the Valdai forest after all. After several hours on the road, he would pull over and find a place with Wi-Fi. Marcus was certain he would have heard back from Hwang by then. At that point, he would tell Hwang exactly where Jenny was. He would ask him to alert Nick and get whoever was stationed near St. Petersburg to pick her up and get her immediate medical attention. He had no doubt his friend would do exactly what he asked. If he hadn’t heard back from Hwang by that point, or if Hwang refused to help, Marcus decided he would simply email Vinetti directly. Either way, there were risks. Making contact would confirm to the Agency that Marcus was still alive and give them a lot of clues as to where he and Oleg had just been. Yet these were risks he was willing to take to make certain that Jenny was going to be okay.
From there on out, he and Oleg would be on the run. They’d ditch the last remaining satphone. They’d have no one left to talk to at that point anyway, and Marcus didn’t dare take the risk that either the NSA or the FSB could get a bead on them electronically. They’d also ditch the Mercedes and steal another car—a 4×4 probably, something better suited to the winter conditions—and keep moving. They had cash. A lot of cash. They could buy fuel and food along the way. The farther they distanced themselves from urban areas, the less likely they were to be spotted or recognized. Russia spanned eleven time zones. That gave them a lot of room to maneuver.
Marcus sat in the darkness considering his plan from every angle. There were holes and thus risks. But the administration had cut them loose. He had to unload Jenny and go dark. He checked his watch again. It was 10:12 p.m. He began packing their things and wiping down the room. Oleg didn’t know it yet, but they were leaving in an hour.
56
U.S. EMBASSY, MOSCOW, RUSSIA
“What in the world are you talking about, Bill? You guys tried to kill him!”
Nick Vinetti had ordered everyone out of the SCIF—the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility—located in the bowels of the embassy’s basement. Alone and on a secure line back to the White House Situation Room, he couldn’t believe what McDermott was asking of him, and he was livid.
“Get ahold of yourself, Nick,” McDermott insisted. “The Russians must have intercepted the call. They tried to kill Marcus. We had nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t give me that crap, Bill. You told me yourself you’d decided Marcus was as much a traitor as Kraskin and the jury was still out on Morris. You as much as told me you guys were going to hunt Marcus down. But you guys blew it, thank God. And now you want me to fix it?”
“Just calm down, Nick, and listen to me. I’m not going to waste my time getting into an argument over things you’re not cleared for. But let me be direct. The president is not asking you to reach out to Marcus. Your commander in chief is giving you a direct order. Now, are you going to follow your orders or not?”
Vinetti ran his hands through his jet-black hair. The whole thing was preposterous. There was no way to find Marcus now. He was in the wind. But what choice did he have?
Delta flight 4383 landed at London Heathrow twelve minutes early.
The Airbus A330 wide-body jet was held up on the tarmac for some time until the ground crew could get to the gate, so whatever time had been gained in the air had now been squandered. Nevertheless, it was still only 9:06 p.m. as Pete Hwang disembarked, cleared passport control, and found a restaurant named Giraffe.
A plump young waitress in her midtwenties with a shock of pink hair and dressed all in black led him to a table for two in the back and handed him a menu.
“Don’t need one,” he said, having been there countless times in the past.
Hwang was famished. He’d slept though the meal service and only woken up upon landing. His body clock had no idea what time it was, so he played it safe and ordered a pot of black coffee with a plate of scrambled eggs, sausages, beans in tomato sauce, hash browns, and a scone, then turned his phone back on and connected to the airport Wi-Fi.
Emails began pouring into his in-box faster than he could process them. Several were from Annie Stewart. None were from the senator. Marjorie Ryker had written several times from Colorado, asking him to call her immediately. Carter Emerson from D.C. had written too, the first time he’d heard from the pastor since the funeral for Ryker’s wife and son. He, too, asked Hwang to call him immediately. He didn’t say why, but Hwang hardly had to guess.
Waiting at the bottom of the pile, however, was the message that most caught his attention. It wasn’t from an address Hwang recognized. It was from an AOL account, not Gmail. But he read it, hoping, and was rewarded. The message contained two useful facts. First, Marcus Ryker was indeed still alive. And second, he was making contact.
“Mr. Vinetti, you have a call from London.”
It was his secretary on the intercom.
“Who is it?” he replied, his voice strained and impatient.
“It’s a gentleman—won’t give his name, sir—but he says he has an early Christmas present for you.”
That was odd, Vinetti thought.
“Are you running a trace?” he asked.
“Already did, sir—Heathrow.”
Vinetti knew immediately who it was. “Put him through and hold the rest of my calls.”
A moment later, Hwang’s voice came on the line. “Nick, it’s me. I’m in London.”
“Pete—what’ve you got?”
“It’s Marcus. I’ve been emailing with him for the last few minutes. He’s ready to turn over Jennifer Morris and says he wants nothing in return.”
“Is he still online?”
“I assume so. His last email was moments ago. What do you want to do?”
“Tell him POTUS is re
ady.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just type it out and send it before he logs off.”
“Okay, done. Now what?”
“Tell him I’m standing by with the details, but there’s a time factor. If he’s going to say yes, he needs to call me now.”
Vinetti could hear Hwang typing on his laptop. “Sent it.”
“Good. What’s his response?”
“Hold on.”
There was a long pause—so long Vinetti thought the call had been dropped. “Pete, you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“What’s Marcus saying?”
“I’m getting nothing.”
Vinetti cursed under his breath. He was on his feet now. He’d switched to a headset, wireless but secure. He walked over to the windows and looked out at the snow-covered Russian capital, and then he heard his secretary again on the intercom.
“Sir, I have a call I think you’ll want to take.”
“I told you I need you to hold all—” Vinetti stopped himself. The irritation drained from his voice. “Which line?” he asked.
“Line four.”
“Thanks—Pete, can you wait a sec?”
“Of course.”
“I think it’s him on the other line.”
“Take it,” Hwang said. “Call me back when you can.”
“Will do.” Vinetti let Hwang’s call go and punched line four.
“Marcus, it’s me. You okay?”
He was greeted with silence.
“Hey, man, it’s Nick. Can you hear me? Hello? Marcus, are you there?”
57
THE PRIME MINISTER’S RESIDENCE—JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
Asher Gilad sat in the prime minister’s living room.
He could see that his old friend Reuven “Ruvi” Eitan was not simply disappointed. The PM was becoming angry.
“I don’t know? I don’t know? What does this mean, I don’t know? These are not words I want to hear from my Mossad director.”
The Persian Gamble Page 21