Saneh nodded. “And the Israelis won’t risk the Guards being able to provide a WMD to any of their ‘terrorist pets’.”
“Exactly, we must maintain the status quo and allow our legitimate government time to develop our own weapons gradually and with diplomacy,” Rostam stated.
“Then what do we need to do to stop Dostiger? Is there any other information on how he is getting this weapon?”
Rostam tapped the report on his desk. “What you just read here summarizes all we have. I have already initiated a covert investigation into his dealings with the Guards but we’re limited in how far we can go with them. We cannot afford a confrontation with them while they remain so influential within the Supreme Council.”
“Do you want me to commence planning an operation in the Ukraine?”
“That is exactly what I want you to do.” Rostam didn’t usually trust women to lead field operations. From his perspective they had their uses, but only under the direction of capable men. However, currently he had no ‘capable’ men available. A recent Israeli counterintelligence operation had robbed him of two of his best operatives, so Saneh would have to do. “You are now seconded to Special Projects and will report directly to me. You are to be in Kiev within the next 48 hours and initiate a collection operation against Dostiger.”
“This is a priority mission?”
He nodded. “I’m overseeing this personally. My strike team is on standby and we will intervene as soon as you have the intelligence we need. I cannot overstate the importance of this operation. The Guards must be stopped. Do you have any questions?”
“Just one more, Sir. Is it likely that any other agencies are dealing with this situation?”
“I doubt it, but if they are, I am sure you can put your charms to good use.”
“Yes, Sir.” Her lips stretched. It was difficult to tell if it was a smile or a grimace.
“That’s all. Contact me once you arrive in Kiev,” Rostam said as he turned his eyes back to the reports on his desk. As she rose and turned to leave, he lifted his head. “And Agent Ebadi. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how useful a WMD would be to MOIS, do I?”
Chapter 12
Tehran
The Tandis shopping mall in central Tehran was an ideal location for a covert meeting. Bustling crowds and numerous exit routes were good for counter-surveillance measures while the thick concrete walls of the building blocked the signals of mobile phones and electronic surveillance equipment.
Ivan had planned his meeting meticulously. He had already conducted a reconnaissance of the venue, the security team was in place and now he just needed to wait. Browsing the shelves of a small bookstore, dressed in a cheap nondescript suit, he appeared to be just another middle-aged worker shopping during his lunch break. The store attendant barely noticed him as he glanced at his phone and strolled out into the white-tiled mall. The text message from his security team was brief:
Client is in location. Clean.
Ivan had rehearsed the route. A short stroll through the crowds took him to the discrete location he had selected earlier, a small local-style restaurant.
“Salam,” the well-dressed maitre d’ greeted him with a broad smile on his face and a flourish of his hand.
“Good afternoon. The booking is for two. The name is Amin,” Ivan replied in English.
The headwaiter was taken aback for a moment by the crisp British accent. He continued in English. “Of course, Sir, your friend is waiting.”
The rough-hewn wooden tables were packed with businessmen consuming traditional Persian food, drinking strong tea and smoking cigars. A light haze had spread across the room; the rich aromas of the food and the earthy smells of the cigars created a comforting atmosphere.
Ivan’s Iranian contact was sitting in a small booth near the rear exit. Two cushioned benches were built into the alcove, divided by a simple table. Dim lighting and ornate wooden barriers provided an element of privacy.
“Ah, Ivan, I hardly recognized you with your hair,” the man exclaimed as he shook the Russian’s hand vigorously.
Ivan self-consciously touched his wig as he sat down. “Ah well, don’t tell anyone I’m balding.” He cupped his hand to his mouth. “It’s a secret.” Although his appearance differed, his relaxed smile put the Iranian at ease.
“So, my friend, what is this information you are so eager to share with me?” Ivan asked as he lent forward, pouring dark tea for both of them.
“You must understand. This is very sensitive, very important.”
“You know I am always generous. If the information is as significant as you say it is, then the reward will match.”
The Iranian lowered his voice, “We have information indicating the Guards are attempting to source a weapon of mass destruction.”
Ivan stopped pouring the tea, the cup left half full.
The Iranian continued. “Reliable information, of course.”
Ivan put the pot down and smiled. “How?”
“They are talking to an arms dealer based in the Ukraine, a man known as Dostiger. This is everything we have on him,” the man said as he slid a memory stick across the table.
Ivan listened intently as the Iranian explained. He took no notes, relying on the stick and his memory.
The meeting finished quickly. Within an hour Ivan was in the back seat of a car headed for Tehran International Airport. He summarized the meeting into a few short paragraphs and typed the message into his phone. Then he attached the contents of the memory stick, compressed the file and embedded it into an innocuous-looking document. Within thirty seconds the file had passed through no less than fifteen separate email accounts before it arrived in an innocuous-looking Hotmail account monitored by staff in the PRIMAL bunker.
Chapter 13
Sydney, Australia, Present Day
Aden Bishop sat in a cafe alongside the Elizabeth Bay Marina, rolling the ice cubes in his gin and tonic and watching the sailing boats return from a day out on the blue waters of Sydney Harbor. He smiled as he watched a couple laughing and walking along the wooden decking of the wharf, their young daughter racing ahead, trying valiantly to catch a seagull. He was envious for a moment. Sometimes he wished he could lead a similarly idyllic life. Since that fateful day eight years ago when he’d accepted an invitation from Vance, he’d been exposed to the dark underbelly of the world. There was no going back.
He downed his drink with a shrug and caught the eye of a passing waiter. “Another Bombay and tonic, thanks, mate,” he said with a smile.
“Straight away, Mr Bishop.”
He grimaced at the formality. As a regular at the café, he knew all the staff, yet they still insisted on Mr Bishop. Like most of the people in Sydney that knew him, the staff simply thought of Bishop as a business executive: the kind that was successful enough to forego a suit and tie, comfortable in a polo shirt and jeans.
To the casual observer Bishop was nothing special. An average-looking man with a crooked nose, short dark hair and a strong jaw. Yet, subtle differences set him apart from the soft corporate types. Piercing eyes, dark brown to the point of being black, showed an alertness absent amongst those enduring the daily grind of office work. His casual clothing hid the solid build of an athlete, a conditioned warrior. Not many noticed these subtleties and even fewer guessed at who the real Aden Bishop was, nor the shadowy world he inhabited.
Today was an opportunity for Bishop to reveal this world to an old friend, something he eagerly anticipated. He had just checked his battered watch when a familiar voice startled him.
“Hello, Aden.”
Bishop looked up into the smiling face of Mirza Mansoor.
“Mirza, it’s bloody good to see you.” Bishop jumped to his feet and grasped the lightly built Indian’s hand. “Been far, far too long. I haven’t seen you in over a year.”
“Closer to two, I think.”
“You might be right. The last couple have sped past, that’s for sure.” Bishop directed Mi
rza to the other chair as he spoke. “And you—look at you. Haven’t changed a bit.” Bishop may have developed a few gray hairs and a few more wrinkles but Mirza still looked the same as he had in Sierra Leone. His fledgling moustache had grown into a neatly trimmed beard but his hard Asiatic features showed no signs of age. Bishop had always thought he looked like a modern version of a Mongol warrior. There had to be Genghis Khan’s blood somewhere in his lineage.
“We all grow older as surely as we grow wiser, my friend,” Mirza said as he sat down.
“Well, I don’t know about wiser,” Bishop replied with a grin, as the waiter delivered his next gin and tonic. Mirza ordered an iced tea; a practicing Muslim, he didn’t drink alcohol.
“So, Mirza, what do you think of Sydney?” Bishop asked, gesturing out towards the harbor where the sun’s rays had only just started to drop behind the white sails of the Opera House.
“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“Not a drama at all, mate. Means a lot to me that you could make it. Although I do have an admission to make,” Bishop said, pausing to sip from his glass. ‘I may have brought you to Sydney under false pretenses.”
Mirza turned to him with a look of shock on his face. “Do you mean tomorrow is not your birthday?”
Bishop snorted into his drink. Wiping the gin from his face, he laughed, “No, Mirza, my birthday is December. Remember we visited the temples in Cambodia on my thirtieth.”
Mirza frowned. “I believe you are right, so why did you say it was your birthday?”
“Because if I didn’t have a good excuse, you wouldn’t have cut short your job in Papua New Guinea. You’re far too loyal to your employer. You’ve never had a day off and you’ve never turned down a job. You’re the most steadfast man I know.”
The Indian dropped his head and studied the tablecloth.
“Mirza, I invited you here because I have a proposition.”
Mirza looked up as the waiter placed his drink on the table. He thanked the man and took a sip from the glass. “What sort of proposition?”
“I want you to come and work with me.”
“In logistics? I don’t think I’m cut out for that sort of work. I’m a soldier, Aden, not an officer.”
“A soldier that guards oil pipelines. Come on, Mirza, is that what you really want to be doing? Let’s face it, you’re a glorified security guard,” Bishop said.
Mirza’s hard features darkened with embarrassment. “I have a good job, Aden. A good job that lets me support my mother. Some of us have responsibilities, not all of us can run around the world chasing pretty girls and driving fast cars.”
Mirza was back studying the tablecloth, his ears and face red with shame. For a man who had served his country as a warrior, to be called a mere security guard was a slap in the face.
“Mirza, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
The former soldier looked up, his eyes shining. “That’s the problem with you, Aden, you never think.”
Bishop contemplated his friend’s words for a moment before the awkward silence was broken by the shrill ringtone of Bishop’s phone.
He pulled it from his jacket, checking the number.
“Excuse me, Mirza, I have to take this.”
Mirza nodded and Bishop headed over to the railing on the side of the wharf. He answered the call, the screen of the phone indicating the line was secure.
“Bishop, it’s Vance. Sorry to call during your break but we have a situation developing.”
“What’s up?”
“Getting a lot of reporting that something big is going down in the Ghan with the Iranian Guards. It’s a little sketchy at the moment but I think they’re trying to get their grubby little hands on a WMD.”
“In Afghanistan?”
“Yep, the Khod Valley, to be precise.”
“The Iranian Revolutionary Guards Corps are trying to recover a Weapon of Mass Destruction in Afghanistan? Are you taking the piss, Vance?”
“Look, Bish, I ain’t gonna go over the details now. Bottom line is we need you back ASAP. I’m recalling the whole team.”
“Yeah, OK, but what about Mirza?” Bishop asked.
“Mirza? Damn. I forgot about that. I guess that’s up to you, buddy. If you think he’s ready, we’ll use him. We’re gonna need all hands on deck for this one. “
“What about transport?”
“The Gulfstream will be at Sydney airport in a little under an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
“OK, see you soon, buddy. Bunker out.” Vance terminated the call.
Bishop looked back across to where Mirza was still sitting watching the boats on the harbor. He pocketed the phone and walked back.
“Walk with me, Mirza, I want to talk to you about something,” he said, taking his jacket from the back of the chair. He left some money on the table and the two men walked down the wharf.
“Aden, are you alright? The phone call wasn’t bad news, was it?”
“Huh? No, not at all. I just have a lot on my mind.”
“You still haven’t told me why I am here.”
“Mirza, are you happy with what you are doing?”
“Like I said, it allows me to look after my family.”
“What if money wasn’t an issue? Would you still do what you do?”
Mirza stopped and turned to face Bishop. “The truth? No, I wouldn’t. There is no honor in it. I joined the army to be a warrior. To protect women and children, not pipelines and politicians.”
“I thought as much,” Bishop said, looking him in the eye. “Mirza, I want you to come and work with me.”
“Doing what? Shipping cargo around the world?”
Bishop cut him off with a laugh. “Mirza, I don’t ship cargo.”
“But you said you work for Lascar Logistics?” Mirza looked confused. He had always thought Bishop worked for Lascar, one of the world’s largest air freight companies.
Bishop started walking again, heading into the adjacent park, distancing them from the tourists on the wharf.
“Mirza I work for an arm of Lascar Logistics known as Priority Movements Air Lift, or as we call ourselves, PRIMAL.”
“So you do express delivery?”
“Not at all. We conduct clandestine operations across the globe targeting those who exist outside the reach of justice.”
Mirza stopped walking and stared at Bishop for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he shook his head in disbelief, “you said targeting those who exist outside the reach of justice?”
“Yes.”
“Like who?”
“Criminals, warlords, drug dealers, corrupt politicians, businessmen—the list is long, Mirza. It’s a full time job.”
Mirza eyebrows furrowed but his eyes gleamed. “What? Who? I don’t understand. Are you some sort of super government agency? Who do you work for?”
“PRIMAL works by our own rules, Mirza. We find injustice and we correct it. It’s that simple.” Bishop grasped his friend by the shoulder. “Remember Sierra Leone? It’s the same but without the red tape and political bureaucracies. That’s where the honor is, Mirza, bringing a little justice to the world.”
“Who funds your operations?”
“Let’s just say that PRIMAL has a very wealthy benefactor. The question is, Mirza, are you interested in joining us?”
The two men were standing at the end of the parkland where the open grassy area met a major road. Bishop extended his arm to flag a passing taxi. A cab darted out of the humming traffic and pulled in against the curb. As Bishop opened the door, he turned back to face Mirza.
“There’s a Lascar jet waiting at the airport. No doubt you have hundreds of questions, but this isn’t the place.” He gestured towards the waiting cab. “I’ll explain more on the plane. You in?”
Chapter 14
Lascar Island, South West Pacific
Any teenage gamer would have stood slack-jawed in awe had they
found themselves in the PRIMAL Operations Room. The ‘Bunker’, as it was known, was crammed with computer workstations linked to high definition screens covering the bare rock walls of the room. The monitors displayed everything from satellite imagery to helmet camera feeds and real-time news footage. They were PRIMAL HQ’s situational awareness, the eyes into the world that allowed the Bunker’s staff to direct covert activities worldwide.
Everyone was busy at their terminals when Vance barreled into the room.
“Heads up, team. Orders Group in 2 hours,” the voice of the Director boomed.
Chen Chua, PRIMAL’s Chief of Intelligence rose to greet him. “The intel brief is good to go, Vance. We just have one new piece of information since your last update.”
“Outstanding. Give me the lowdown,” Vance said as he settled into his huge padded chair in the center of the room.
The slightly built Chinese-American raised a remote control and one of the wall screens displayed a digital map. “OK, we just completed a trace on one of the numbers communicating between Afghan and Ukraine. The handset was originally purchased by a Ukrainian firm, Antonov.”
Vance swiveled his chair to face the screen which had zoomed in on satellite imagery of an airfield. “You talking about Antonov, the Ruskies who make jets?”
“Close. They’re Ukrainian, not Russian. The imagery you see is of Antonov’s headquarters and testing facility just outside of Kiev. It seems Dostiger is using someone there as a front man. Similar to how PRIMAL uses Lascar Logistics as a cover.”
“Got it. So how did we trace the handset?” Vance asked.
“Our usual contact checked some databases,” Chua responded curtly. His agent within the US National Security Agency was one of his most sensitive sources. The ultra-secret government organization wasn’t aware that someone was accessing its information or its satellites, and Chua wanted to keep it that way.
Vance nodded. “Alright. Continue.”
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