Twelve Days

by Alex Berenson

  “Had me worried,” Hebley said. “But that was a complete one-eighty.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They shook his hand and then they were gone.

  But the real verdict came from Hunt, as they settled into the black car that would take them to Langley for a full debrief. For the second time that day, she brought her lips to his right ear. “Well done, Brian. Play your cards right, you might get laid tonight.”

  His response was immediate. And would have been embarrassing if anyone besides Hunt had been there to see it.

  “Hey ho,” she said, looking at his crotch.

  “Ho hey.” Taylor had never felt better, not even on the day he’d found the uranium itself. He had not just survived the Lion’s Den. He had made the lions eat out of his hand. Now he was due for his reward.

  If only he hadn’t been so very, very wrong.

  5

  TEL AVIV

  No one had ever accused Vinny Duto of being a patient man.

  Today he had no choice. For his flight to Israel, he had borrowed a jet from his friends at Boeing, who were still good for a favor or two. Nonetheless, he brought along a pair of bug zappers to make sure that the conversation he was going to have couldn’t be recorded. He trusted the guys who’d lent him the plane. But not that much.

  The jet itself was nothing fancy, just an old 757 that would need to refuel in Rome on its way to Tel Aviv. Duto didn’t plan to touch Israeli soil, though. He would have a drink with Rudi in the cabin while his pilots stretched their legs, or whatever it was pilots did after a five-thousand-mile flight, and then go home. He wanted no Israeli immigration records of this trip.

  But when they landed at Fiumicino, a message from Rudi waited on his Samsung. Not tonight. Chemo wiped me out. Duto cursed to himself. He was not a sentimental man, and he didn’t fear death. It came for everyone, and it would come for him, too. Meantime, he had choices to make, chits to cash, problems to solve. A preoccupation with mortality was an indulgence, a weakness.

  Still. Lung cancer. He called Jerusalem.

  “Vinny.” A whisper.

  “I hoped I’d get to see you tonight.”

  “My doctors have other ideas.”

  “I have a present for you.” Duto nudged the box with his toe. A radio-controlled Hummer, almost two feet long, one-twelfth scale. RC cars were Rudi’s only known indulgence.

  “Unless it’s a new lung, you can keep it.”

  “Better than a new lung.”

  A faint sound that Duto recognized as a laugh.

  “What if I come to you tonight? In Jerusalem?” Though he hated to leave a trail.

  “Vinny.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Another laugh. “I hope I live long enough to watch it happen to you, Vinny.”

  “Rudi.”

  “It’s good. Everybody else treats me like I’m dying. You’re the same prick as ever. You landed already at Ben Gurion?”

  “Rome.”

  “All right, stay there tonight. I feel better in the morning, I’ll call you.”

  “Thank you—”

  Rudi hung up.

  —

  Duto splurged, booked himself a room at the Artemide. He hadn’t been to Rome in thirty years. By the time he checked in, the sun had set, but he had time at least to take a cab to St. Peter’s, see the great dome, cross his chest and pretend to pray. Instead, he made the mistake of logging in to his email.

  He spent the next six hours taking advantage of the time difference to keep his D.C. staffers busy. So be it. The Vatican wasn’t going anywhere. And when he woke in the morning, he found a text from Rudi. BG 4 p.m. So he’d lose two full days to this chase. He hoped the conversation would go well, though he had reason to believe it wouldn’t.

  —

  The man at the base of the 757’s stairway looked only vaguely like the Mossad chief whom Duto remembered. He was a crumpled copy fished out of the trash. The old Rudi was lean and strong, with the ropy muscles of middle age and a shock of dark curly hair. The new Rudi was bald, even his eyebrows gone. His neck and shoulders had sunk into themselves, like a careless surgeon had taken them out and lost a bone or two before putting them back.

  Duto started down the stairs. Rudi shook his head and dragged himself up, step by step. He reached the top step breathless, as if he’d just crested Everest. Duto wrapped him up, dragged him inside, where he flopped into a cracked leather recliner that had probably seemed luxurious in 1987.

  “Don’t die, Rudi. Trouble if you die.” Duto poured him a glass of water and tried not to stare as five long minutes passed. Finally, Rudi sighed and put down the glass. He looked around the cabin, his eyes settling on the jammers, each the size of a deck of cards, with a single green light blinking steadily on top.

  “I’m not sure I’m comforted by the fact you think we need those.”

  “With your accent, nobody could understand you anyway,” Duto said.

  “You don’t like my English, learn Hebrew.” Rudi coughed lightly into his hand. “This an agency ride?”

  “Boeing. Tell me I’m seeing the chemo and not the cancer, Rudi.”

  “It’s good I look like this. Means they’re still trying to beat the thing. That’s what I tell Esther.” His wife. “I’m not sure she believes it.”

  “Do you?”

  Rudi tapped his chest, like he was carrying a baby inside and not a tumor. “You want to hear all about it? My sad story?”

  Duto found himself shaking his head.

  “I didn’t think so. So your turn to talk. And it better be worth my time, Vinny. My very limited time.”

  Duto explained the last month, how he’d gotten a tip that led Wells to Glenn Mason, how Wells tracked Mason to Turkey and killed him. How Duto and Shafer and Wells were convinced that the uranium in Istanbul hadn’t come from Iran.

  “You think some other service is setting Iran up?” Rudi said. His brow lifted as he tried to raise his nonexistent eyebrows. “Us? You think we did this?”

  “I wanted to ask.” Even though I already know you didn’t. Unless Aaron Duberman works for the Mossad, and that’s a conspiracy too far.

  “No.”

  “You’ve been out of the loop—”

  “Even if I were dead, I’d hear. And we’d never do it, if you caught the Mossad tricking you this way it would destroy the U.S.–Israel relationship forever. Come on, Vinny. You didn’t fly all this way for that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What, then? You think the FSB, Putin making a mess? Too risky.”

  “Agree.”

  “Then what?”

  “What if it’s not another country? What if it’s a private group?”

  “I’m supposed to be the one who’s sick. Maybe you have a brain tumor, Vinny. It’s impossible.”

  “How well do you know Aaron Duberman?”

  Rudi leaned back in his seat. “Christ,” he muttered.

  Duto explained that Mason had lost millions of dollars at Duberman’s 88 Gamma casino in Macao before quitting the CIA and disappearing. That a Pakistani ship captain connected to the smuggling had also lost tens of thousands of dollars at Duberman’s casinos. That Duberman had never explained the rationale for his massive donations to the President.

  Rudi stared him down. Duto knew the look well: You expect me to believe this nonsense? “It’s thin, I know. But it fits.”

  “You haven’t gone to anyone with this.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Because you know how crazy it sounds.”

  “It’s the only explanation for Mason. Remember a few weeks ago, I asked you about those assassinations in Europe, the bankers and the others helping Iran?”

  “You think it was the same group.”

  “Duberman’s first try at stopping the program.
When he saw it wasn’t working, he decided on something more radical.”

  “All right. Say it’s true.” Though Rudi didn’t sound convinced. “You don’t think we asked Duberman for this?”

  Duto lifted his hands. “Of course not. But he’s important over here, newspapers, political donations, you must have a file on him.”

  “We started paying attention to him about ten years ago, he spent $135 million on Radio Zeta, that’s a national channel here, lot of influence. We’re going to look at someone like that. Then he donated $180 million to the Holocaust Museum for what they’re calling the Memory Project, you know about that?”

  Duto shook his head.

  “They’re keeping it quiet. A lot of people have tried to lock down the survivors, get them on video before they die, and they’ve been successful. This is coming at it from the other end—”

  “The Nazis? Why would they—”

  “It’s not about putting anyone in jail. They’re old, too. Find the ones who want to relieve their consciences. See if they have any physical evidence they want to share. It’s controversial, because some people think it equates us and them, why should we need them to prove what we already know? And because we’re paying them—”

  “Paying?”

  “Not interviews. Papers and pictures. Anyway, Duberman is funding it. Seven, eight years ago, he made the donation. Not a pledge, either. He promised on a Sunday, the money came by Wednesday. So the Prime Minister started to see him. Maybe twice a year. Two or three times, I sat in also. And I can tell you, yes, back then he was very worried about Iran. We told him the truth, we’re doing what we can, but war is unrealistic, they have fifteen times as many people as we do, all we can do is push the levers we have.”

  “He ever hint he might do anything himself?”

  Rudi considered. “No. Though in the last meeting, he said something I thought was strange, he asked me directly if I had the resources I needed. The PM didn’t like that. He said, Aaron, we’re a grown-up country, we have our own military, we set our own budgets for our foreign policy. Duberman knew he’d gone too far. He apologized.”

  “That was the last time you saw him?”

  “Maybe we shook hands at a cocktail party. But the last time we ever talked seriously, yes. After that, I asked our analysts for a full report on him. They ultimately concluded he was honest in his support. He has homes here, and he dated Israelis even before he married Orli. Not one of these American Jews who constantly meddles but has never been here.”

  “Which gives him even more incentive.”

  “It’s an interesting theory. But you know what happens if you go to the President or your new DCI with this. And no evidence.” Rudi shook his head. “If we had strong leads that the uranium wasn’t from Iran, I would know.”

  “I’d settle for a weak lead.”

  “I’ll ask. But everyone knows I’m sick. They’ll wonder why.”

  “Whatever you get, I’ll be grateful.” Now they had come to the question Duto didn’t want to ask. “We have one more lead. Mason’s boss was a woman.”

  “That leaves half the planet.”

  “This operation was put together right and tight. Somebody found Mason. Not Duberman. He wouldn’t have known where to look or how to make the approach. He had to have a cutout. This woman. She would be a professional, or at least a semipro.”

  “Just say it. You think she’s Mossad. An Israeli. A Jew.”

  “Do you think Aaron Duberman would have used someone who wasn’t Jewish as a cutout?”

  “A billionaire Jew pushing the United States into war. With the help of a mysterious Jewess.” Rudi chomped down hard on the last word. “This is Protocols of the Elders of Zion stuff, Vinny. Tell me again how Israel benefits if it goes public.”

  What Duto had feared he’d say. “You want us to invade Iran, Rudi?”

  “If that’s the alternative to this, maybe.”

  “You have to get in front of it. It’s gonna come out, Rudi. You help, I’ll make sure you get credit.”

  “Here I thought you came all this way to ask me for a favor. Turns out you were looking out for me. Vinny Duto, King of the Jews.”

  Before Duto could answer, Rudi’s eyes opened wide. He raised a hand to his mouth and began to cough, racking heaves that shook his body. Like if he coughed hard enough he would spit out the tumor. Duto rose from his chair, but Rudi shook his head, no no no. Duto ran into the bathroom for paper towels. By the time he came back, a film of bright red blood covered Rudi’s palm. He lifted it to Duto almost triumphantly.

  “In case you were wondering whether I was faking.” Rudi mopped his hand. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I have to think about this, my friend.” Weariness had replaced the anger in his voice. “I’m not sure I’ll have anything even if I do decide to help.” He pushed himself up, his arms shaking. Duto rose, too, but Rudi flapped a hand at him. “No.”

  “Let me, please—” Duto reached for him. Rudi grabbed his right index finger and twisted it back, the last trick of the weak against the strong.

  “I’m serious. I’ll show myself out.”

  6

  NINE DAYS . . .

  RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA

  The first king of Saudi Arabia, Abdul-Aziz, had procreated with a stallion’s vigor. His progeny continued the tradition. Sixty years after Abdul-Aziz’s death, more than a thousand men and women could claim him as a grandfather.

  But General Nawwaf bin Salman was more important than most. The eldest son of the Defense Minister, he commanded the Saudi missile arsenal, more than a thousand Chinese-made Dongfengs that could reach any target in Iran or Israel. And as part of his job, Nawwaf ran the Saudi nuclear program.

  Though program was not quite the right word. The Saudis had given billions of dollars to Pakistan to help that country build a nuclear arsenal. In return, Pakistan’s generals had promised that if Iran built a nuke, they would hand over a half-dozen bombs. The result would be the Persian Gulf version of mutually assured destruction, two sworn enemies with the power to obliterate each other’s capital. Both Pakistan and the Kingdom denied the deal. We have enough trouble with the North-West Frontier, Pakistan’s Defense Minister told the Secretary of State. You think we want to take a chance on the Arabs, too? We give the Saudis a bomb and it winds up in Washington, we know you blame us.

  Maybe. In June 2008, American satellites had spotted a massive construction project at a military base near the village of al-Watah, one hundred seventy miles west of Riyadh, the center of the Arabian desert. In summer, the area was one of the most unpleasant places on earth. Temperatures topped one hundred thirty degrees. Even Bedouins stayed away. Yet the Saudis had evidently decided the project couldn’t wait. Construction moved fast. After a few weeks, the satellites picked up the outlines of missile launchpads and fortified bunkers.

  The Saudis already operated two other missile bases, but al-Watah attracted the attention of the CIA’s Near East analysts. Its bunkers were set fifteen meters deep into the desert’s stony soil. Their concrete walls were six meters thick. Putting so much effort into a storage site for conventional warheads made no sense, especially given the base’s inhospitable location.

  The agency and the White House watched the site with alarm, waiting for the armored convoys and helicopter flights that would signal that Pakistan had made good on its promise. But they never came. In fact, after rushing to build al-Watah, the Saudis never used the base. Only seventy men lived in its garrison, guarding the perimeter and opening and closing the empty bunkers twice a day. The CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency had concluded that the base was a bluff of sorts. The Kingdom wanted to show the world that its military could handle nuclear weapons without actually committing to them.

  Wells understood the reluctance. Nukes would be the ripest of targets for al-Qaeda’s jihadis. Plus the Saudis preferre
d to outsource their national defense to the United States. For seventy years, the Kingdom had depended on the American military to protect it, most notably when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait in 1990. The biggest Saudi oil fields were a short tank ride from the Kuwaiti border. Even so, the Kingdom’s primary contribution to the conflict had been teaming up with Kuwait to cut a $36 billion check to cover the majority of the cost of the war. Like the United States Army was nothing more than a for-hire force.

  But Wells planned to let that bit of history be. He hadn’t come to the Kingdom to discuss Saudi-American codependency or ask for a guided tour of al-Watah. Instead, he hoped that General Nawwaf might lead him to the source of the highly enriched uranium. Given the Saudi interest in nuclear weapons, someone sitting on a private stockpile of HEU might have approached the Kingdom as a potential buyer before turning to Duberman.

  The trip was a long shot. But Wells’s only alternative was to sit in Zurich while he waited for Kowalski to set up a meeting with Mikhail Buvchenko. Instead, as soon as Kowalski’s driver dropped him at the Zurich airport, Wells called a Riyadh number whose true owner was known to only eight people. It rang the personal mobile phone of His Majesty Abdullah bin Abdul-Aziz, Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques, Prime Minister and King of Saudi Arabia.

  —

  Years before, Abdullah had asked Wells to find a Saudi terrorist cell. The King feared he could not trust his own security forces because other members of the royal family supported the jihadis. After the mission, Abdullah promised Wells the Kingdom’s lifelong support. Wells had already called in the chit twice. He didn’t like asking again, but under the circumstances the chance seemed worth taking.

  “As-salaam aleikum.” Abdullah answered this phone himself. As far as Wells could tell, he enjoyed having the chance to be a normal human being in this tiny way. He had a throaty smoker’s baritone, a Saudi Jack Nicholson. The vigor in his voice hid the fact that the King, born in 1924, had entered his tenth decade.

  “Aleikum salaam, Your Majesty.”