by James Phelan
This was why she had been moved around by the FBI. This was why they had told her to be so careful—and she had been, but part of her had always been sceptical, had always resented it.
Every now and then she heard Russian voices outside the room. The man who’d hit her had a Russian accent, too—but it didn’t feel like Russia, if that were possible.
Of all the people to think about now, she thought about Lachlan Fox. Not her family, not her new friends or her old friends nor any of thousands of other memories. She had dreamed about him like she had done so often, and she felt guilty because of it.
Something was up with Hutchinson—he wasn’t quite himself. Fox couldn’t figure it out. Maybe he was nervous about what was about to go down.
Fox took Gammaldi aside, along with the two GSR security staff, Emma Gibbs and Richard Sefreid.
“Al, I want you to get a boat and keep in out of sight of the café,” Fox said, “but as close to the waterside area of the café as you can get.”
“Where am I going to get a boat?”
“Surprise me,” Fox said. “The Feds are organising a police boat on the other side of the lake, but I want an escape option close by in case I have no other choice, okay?”
Gammaldi nodded.
“And look sharp,” Fox said to him. “I need your A-game, Al. Even if you see Maria Rosaria Carfagna, I need you to concentrate.”
“Got it,” Gammaldi replied, taking a bite out of an egg-and-bacon baguette.
“How about us?” Sefreid said. “We don’t want to be holed up here at the hotel waiting to hear word that you’re okay.”
“No way is my man going out there with you again without me watching out for him,” Gibbs said.
Fox smiled and pulled out a tourist map so they could trace sight-lines.
97
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON DC
McCorkell was in one of the smaller rooms of the Situation Room complex, watching the big screens as they flicked through satellite images. If he found what he expected, there would be a B2 Stealth bomber in the air with JDAMs ready to rain down.
“That piping there—is that the gas pipeline?”
The Air Force Major checked the notes that corresponded with the files.
“Yes, the Iran–Pakistan–India gas pipeline, about 2800 kilometres of it. This is the border with Pakistan right … there.”
The image paused and he drew a line with a laser pointer.
“It takes gas from the South Pars/North Dome gas condensate field located in the Gulf,” the other guy in the room said. He was a CIA analyst with glasses so thick he could watch a ball game from the parking lot. “It’s the world’s largest gas field, shared between Iran and Qatar.”
“We’ve got a lot of eyes in the area, mainly tasked with looking at Taftan,” the Air Force Major said. “Town located in Chagai District, Balochistan, Pakistan, their only legal official border crossing into Iran. This is the most up to date sat image of where the gas pipeline heads into Iran. It was taken by a War-fighter 3, eight hours ago.”
Satellite images of the town cycled through.
“What’s this place?”
“That’s Zahedan, the capital of the province of Sistan and Baluchistan in Iran,” CIA explained.
“We have a UAV overflight scheduled for tonight for an infrared sweep,” Air Force said.
“Why infrared?”
“They’ve been busy at night,” Air Force said, evidently impressed with himself, clicking through more images.
“Zahedan has a population of almost 600 000,” CIA man said. “The place is dry as shit and as picturesque as Satan’s asshole. It’s a sandy land formation that swallows up any water that falls on it, be it rain or irrigation water.”
McCorkell nodded. “Do you think Pakistan is complicit in this—giving so much water to Iran?”
“Given the current political situation?” CIA man replied. “Unlikely.”
“You’re the pro in this area.”
“Yeah, I am, spent most my working life in Iran,” CIA replied. “Look, the relationship these countries share goes back a long way. In ’47 Iran was the first country to recognise the newly created state of Pakistan, a relationship further strengthened in the ’70s to suppress a rebel movement in Baluchistan, a tri-state conflict across provinces of Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. The Shah offered considerable development aid to Pakistan including oil and gas on preferential terms … even assisted Pakistan financially in its development of a nuclear program after India’s surprise test detonation—Smiling Buddha in ’74. Both countries opposed the Soviet occupation in Afghanistan, because they were providing covert support for the Afghani mujahideen.”
“And we were with them on that, too.”
“Bill, here’s what we found,” Air Force said.
On the screen was an image of a massive structure, like a covered velodrome, Madison-Square-Garden big.
“This—what’s this?”
“That’s a high-security fence, enclosing a couple of acres, with a gravel road that’s run by perimeter security vehicles,” Air Force said. “If there’s a heavy-water plant in this city, this is it.”
McCorkell leaned forward for a closer look at the image.
“Does the main building look new to you?”
“Yes.”
“The serious rail upgrades are new, definitely in the last few years,” CIA said. “Is that airstrip sealed?”
“Yes. Two hangars, each big enough for a C130. I’d call those buildings there—” he pointed with a laser pointer, “barracks.”
“How tall is it?”
“Triple storey.”
“Go back a few months—maybe we can find it in construction, some kind of before and after—”
“Already did that,” Air Force replied, and clicked to an image of bare land.
“When was this?”
“Eighteen months ago … Here’s one—”
“That’s it,” McCorkell said, standing up and looking closely at the big LCD screen. The warehouse was nothing more than a maze of foundation piles.
“We had daily passes for a while there, looking at a terrorist training camp on the Pakistani side; we got six weeks’ worth of dailies.”
“Can you slideshow it?”
“Yes—starting with day one.” Air Force brought up the image: day one showed a bare area where the warehouse was yet to be built. Same for the next ten shots, then earth-moving equipment started showing up, serious trainloads.
“Angles change slightly each day,” CIA said.
The hole in the ground grew bigger each day, and wear tracks in the gravel and dirt were clearly visible, but none of the machinery seemed to have moved.
“These—what are they, lights?”
“Yes, lights on generator stands.”
They had a couple of dozen big portable lamps set up. These guys were working only by night.
“Do you have any night shots?”
“Sorry.”
By the end of the series of images, a massive concrete basement had been poured—easily six times the size of the warehouse that now stood, meaning there was underground space.
“They didn’t want us watching them work,” McCorkell said. “They didn’t want to call attention to it.”
“They did that at Chalus too,” CIA said. “Northern Iran, on the Caspian?”
“That was the underground nuclear weapons development facility built in the Alborz mountains,” McCorkell said, recalling a long-ago Pentagon briefing.
“So they’ve got the know-how…”
“Okay, keep working through all the images you’ve got—everything—and focus on what comes and goes from this point in time. Page me when you’re done.”
“Sure thing,” Air Force said.
McCorkell moved to the door.
“Bill?”
He turned.
“Do you really think it’s
a new Iranian nuke thing?”
“Well, look at that,” McCorkell said, pointing to one of the smaller monitors, which showed a static overhead image of IR-40, Iran’s forty-megawatt heavy-water reactor located in Arak. “They built that, and it’ll produce twenty kilos of plutonium a year from spent nuclear fuel,” McCorkell said. “That’s enough for two nuclear weapons a year. And what you’ve just shown me—” he pointed to the image on the big screen, “that’s easily four times the capacity. We know they’re seeking bids for two additional nuclear reactors to be located near Bushehr. We know in 2008 a fourth Russian shipment of nuclear fuel arrived in Iran destined for the Bushehr plant. So do I think this is a new nuke thing? Let me just say, there’s plenty of countries out there that hope it’s not. But if we confirm it is, we’ll have to do what’s responsible. It shows sanctions aren’t working, and at the end of the day, we’re still the big stick in the—”
Tony Niemann stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath.
“Guys, can you give Bill and I the room?” he said.
They packed up their notes and left. The senior intelligence man took a seat opposite McCorkell, waited for the door to close.
“Bill,” Niemann began. “We know about this, in Iran.”
McCorkell tilted his head to the side, expectant.
“It’s complicated,” Niemann went on. “We’re not going to act on it.”
98
BELLAGIO, LAKE COMO, ITALY
“I’m not afraid. I’m going to do this; someone has to,” Fox said.
Hutchinson nodded. He looked back across the water at the mountains surrounding the lake under the sun’s first rays.
“You really want to get him?”
“Of course I do,” Hutchinson said. “You know that.”
“What are you prepared to do?” Fox asked him. They stood alone in a corner of the suite; the rest of the team had headed to their base of operations and positions.
“Everything within the law,” Hutchinson replied. “But what are you saying?”
Fox looked at the few boats out on the water already. He thought about Amar, the look on his face as he died. “With these people, you’ve got to be prepared to go all the way,” Fox said. “Because Babich won’t give up this fight until either he’s dead—or I am.”
“We can do this other ways, Lach. We just need him to start to talk. You need to bait him with this Iran stuff—”
Fox looked Hutchinson in the eyes. “He’s been a step ahead of you and me the whole time. What makes you think he’s going into this meeting blind?”
“You’re thinking this and you still want to go in?”
“I do, and, like you said before I left New York, I’m not going to trust anyone, especially him,” Fox said. “He doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s certainly not going to help us. You swore to uphold the law, not me, and certainly not him.”
“Come on, Fox, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying one way or another, this ends this morning,” Fox said.
Hutchinson looked pained. “Look, Lach, you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do,” he said. “But know this: we’ve got your back. And no matter what happens in there, no matter what Babich says or how he tries to get to you, all you have to do is get him to admit some guilt and we’ve got the leverage we need. Just don’t … Just try and keep your head, okay?”
Gammaldi was getting tired of haggling with the guy—he only wanted the boat for a couple of hours, and the owner was being testy about not being able to get work done without it. He could have bought it outright for what the guy was suggesting he pay in a hire fee.
“Look,” Gammaldi said, pulling the stack of euros out of his wallet and flicking through it. “I’ve only got … 820—”
“That will do,” the man said, snatching the cash from Gammaldi’s hand.
Fox walked to the café, alone. He knew there would be protection, knew what he wanted, but the butterflies were still there in his stomach. His hand throbbed; he hadn’t taken painkillers this morning, he wanted to be as sharp as possible. The streets were busy, mainly locals by the look of them, and he pulled the collar of his coat up against the wind.
He passed a couple of brawny-looking guys waiting outside the café. They watched him intently, jackets open, faces passive.
Inside, the café was warm and smelled of good coffee and freshly baked bread. There were a few people scattered around the tables, and he saw Babich sitting at a long table that fronted the large window facing the lake. On the way over he was stopped by two men, both of much the same appearance as the two outside. One ushered him to the men’s room where he was searched for bugs—shoes, hair, in and around his ears.
“I feel like I have to buy you dinner now,” Fox said as they walked him out.
Fox sat next to Babich, waited silently for a full minute until the Russian rested his coffee on the table and closed his newspaper. Through the window the morning sun twinkled on the water. Boats putt-putted; it was too early or too cold for the rich to frolic in their playground.
Lachlan Fox looked Babich in the eyes and saw three things: a K, a G and a B. He may now be a businessman, thought Fox, even a world leader, but once a KGB officer, always a KGB officer.
Brick sat in a black Mercedes van parked at the back of the restaurant next door to Guzzi’s.
He crouched in the back with Ivan; Luigi was up front in the driver’s seat. The three men wore black tactical assault gear and Kevlar vests, and had their full complement of weaponry ready to roll.
99
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON DC
“I don’t follow,” McCorkell said.
“You don’t have to,” Niemann replied. “Look, I’m sorry, but this decision has been made.”
McCorkell stood, paced down to the end of the conference table and back.
“You son of a bitch,” McCorkell said. “What, I won’t be around for much longer so you leave me out of this? I’ve been cleaning shit up in Iran ever since your agency … Nearly sixty years you’ve been fucking with that country.”
“As directed by decisions made in this building,” Niemann said. “And now we’re handling this delicately. Or, what, you want to take designated targets to the president like you did with the North Korea thing in ’04?”
McCorkell felt anger clench his jaw; he breathed through it. He’d once been part of the decision-making process that green-lit a Tomahawk strike that had taken out a key component of North Korea’s nuclear program being shipped in from China. Unconfirmed collateral damage in the town of Ryongchon was the unfortunate byproduct of a successful operation that set their nuclear program back four years. Action like that needed to be taken here, now, at this Iran site.
“Bill, please, take a seat so we can talk this through.”
100
BELLAGIO, LAKE COMO, ITALY
Lachlan Fox had come for answers; Roman Babich wanted the questions to end. Both were in the military once, a life never truly left: there was no such thing as an ex-Special Forces soldier.
There was a dangerous tension in the air. Fox was at ease but on alert. Babich had not a care in the world.
“Have you ever been face to face with an animal that could kill you graveyard dead, Mr Fox?”
Fox remained deadpan, expressionless.
They called it the Hub: FBI agents crammed into a pre-war apartment two blocks south of the café. The windows sweated between the drawn curtains. Shirtsleeves rolled up, it was go time. Coffee was perpetually on the boil; the chatter was constant and hushed.
It was a secure, anonymous apartment block in the city. The living room and bedroom were littered with gear and cables, the tech crew having covertly tapped into the power mains via the roof. Modernity met a renaissance colour palette, the paint on the walls thicker than it was bright. On screens and over speakers the agents saw and heard from several vantage points in and around the café on the lak
e: Lachlan Fox in colour and black and white, blurry from a long-lens camera operating from a boat docked out on the other side. His voice and Babich’s were recorded by a digital mic inside the café, but the real-time radio feed was having issues coming through. The six agents were all far more nervous than they let on.
Hutchinson hovered, watching, plotting, directing, palms sweating despite his experience. There were too many guns out there near Fox that didn’t belong to his men. Too many unknowns. He looked at the image of Fox onscreen: the reporter looked his thirty-two years and then some. Not old exactly, more like a guy who’d seen a lot of darkness … Hutchinson knew something was very wrong, knew he was gambling, knew he had the manpower to stop the worst from happening. No doubt, when it was over, whatever happened, however it went down, Fox wouldn’t forgive him. No doubt.
Sirko waited in his hotel room, could see the café through gaps between buildings and the topiary trees the locals were so fond of. He drank from the water bottle beside him and waited a moment, calmed his breathing and heart rate. He ran a hand through his short dark hair, adjusted his foam earplugs. He had seen Babich go in. He had watched Fox go in. Both men he wanted dead, one especially. They had minutes to live.
He lay prone by the window, behind the lace curtains. He sighted his rifle, adjusted his position, the gun steady on its tripod, the garage-door radio detonator ready by his left hand.
Alongside the agents in the Hub were the FBI legal attaché from the Rome embassy, the local police liaison, and a Russian cop from Interpol; silent sentinels, taking a back seat to Hutchinson. One of his junior agents did the rounds with coffee, which was much better here than back home. Hutchinson was five cups in and sweating bullets.
Three techs, two FBI agents and a specialist from the NSA worked laptops, tweaking sight and sound. Another two were handling communications with agents out in the field, guiding their charges in real-time like pro coaches watching the plays from afar. Lachlan Fox’s voice wasn’t coming through, but the conversation was being recorded. An image of his back—streaming from a small camera on their man inside the café—was on the main screen, a thirty-two inch LCD in the centre of the trestle tables. Over Fox’s shoulder in the centre of the frame was the face of Roman Babich.