by Ward Larsen
“That’s the million-dollar question. We were able to recover DNA evidence from both—hair and some sputum. Unfortunately, there were no matches in any of our databases.”
“What about region or ethnicity?” Slaton asked. He knew this was a growing track of analysis, the intelligence agency equivalent of commercially available DNA heritage profiles.
“We just got the results. Both samples matched positively as Persian. One registered as being Azeri, a common ethnicity among the ruling class and Revolutionary Guard.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Slaton conjectured. “You’re suggesting the Iranians are testing nerve agents on humans in Sudan?”
“I know it’s far-fetched, but that’s how the evidence is stacking up. We’re still pursuing a couple of other leads.”
Bloch said, “The Iranians have long pursued nerve agents. They suffered greatly during the Iran-Iraq war when Saddam Hussein used his extensive arsenal against them. Tens of thousands of Iranian conscripts died terrible deaths on the front lines. But the chemical program has never been a top priority for the mullahs. They view nuclear weapons as more imperative, a response to what they view as a threat from Israel. This would suggest a major change in strategy.”
Slaton said, “I take it you’ve analyzed the agent?”
“It’s definitely Russian, an offshoot of the Novichok line. We watch their program closely, and have an extensive database of samples we’ve been able to acquire and analyze—don’t ask how.”
Another photo appeared on the main monitor. Slaton saw what had to be the delivery system, two shiny cylinders connected by an intricate web of tubes and brackets.
“This is the hardware used to deploy the agent. It employs a binary process, each canister having a precursor compound. Independently, either chemical is harmless. Put them together, aerosolize, and you’ve got a deadly product. We’re still running estimates, but the projected lethality is on par with anything we’ve ever tested.”
Slaton studied the device on the screen. “The engineering looks very … specialized.”
“What do you mean?” Bloch asked.
“I’m not sure,” he hedged. “Certain parts look more complicated than they need to be. The mounting hardware has unused attach points on the sides, and the overall arrangement seems odd.”
“Some of our technicians noticed the same thing,” Sorensen replied. “Unfortunately, trying to guess the intended use is a pure guessing game. We’re moving the whole assembly stateside for further study, but that will take time. For what it’s worth, we’ve identified the cylinders as Russian.”
“How?” Bloch asked.
“Our engineers identified characteristics in the metallurgy that signify Russian manufacture. The piping and mounting hardware are Chinese—the kind of thing you can get at pretty much any hardware store on earth.”
Slaton heard a loud chime in the audio background. After a pause, Sorensen said, “I need to ring off—something just arrived and I need to have a look.”
“Brief us in when you can?” Slaton asked.
A pause. “David, you did really well … you got Kravchuk out. I was assuming you’d be on the next flight home.”
“Then you don’t know me as well as you think.”
“Okay. We’ll talk soon.”
The connection broke, and for a time Slaton stared at the monitor. He was wondering the same thing Sorensen had been wondering. Why not just go home?
He remembered long ago, in a Mossad safe house, being spurred by a piece of junk mail into discussing the prospect of retirement with another operative. Like Slaton, the other man had never considered it, but his reasoning was novel: he said he never expected to live that long. It takes twenty years to get a retirement, right? the man had said. What are the chances? His words had proved prescient: he’d died six months later in a tunnel explosion in Gaza. For Slaton, that theory had hardened for years afterward. The notion of drinking double Scotches in a hardwood-paneled room, reminiscing with friends about the good old days—it simply had never been part of his future. Then he’d left Mossad, started a family.
He felt Bloch’s eyes on him.
“I find myself wondering why you want to see this through,” Bloch said. “I think it might be because you see a threat to Israel.”
“I see a threat to us all.”
The former director nodded, although Slaton doubted he was convinced.
“Don’t worry about my motivations,” Slaton said.
“As you wish. And while we wait for Miss Sorensen to call us back?”
Slaton considered it. “I’d like to listen to that SD card again. Can you pull up the file on a computer?”
“But of course.”
SIXTY-THREE
Having listened patiently to grievances from the assembly of clerics, Sultan spent thirty minutes airing his own.
For too long, he admonished, the caliphate of Mesopotamia had been divided, torn apart by infighting—exemplified by what he had just heard. The Western powers had invaded, bringing with them their high-tech armies and apostacy. They sold weapons to the oil-rich Saudis, gave hope to the Kurds, flew missions from Turkish air bases, conspired with the Jews. Not only was Iraq defeated and subjugated, but it was surrounded. Muslims near and far were desperate for change, a leader who could bring the faith together as one.
And now that leader had arrived.
He delivered his message confidently and with all reverence for the Prophet, peace be upon him. Sultan set out his vision, beginning with an end to the turf wars between the various factions. This, he told the sheiks, had long been Islam’s problem. The faith had fractured into too many sects, too many tribes, to fully exercise its power. The pope ran a flock of nearly a billion and a half, a top-down hierarchy of faith in which one man set the course. The Vatican had its share of politics and backstabbing, to be sure, but when the white smoke announced a successor, Catholics across the world fell in line. Only when Muslims found that kind of unity could they leverage their true power.
Sultan promised to bring a revolution to the heartland of Iraq, one that would spread like wind-driven fire. “For the first time in fourteen hundred years,” he said in summation, “a rightly guided caliph will rule.”
He watched the clerics closely, twelve bearded faces that comprised a rogue’s gallery of Sunni Islam. What began as scattered affirmation rose into a chorus. Soon all were standing with arms raised, praising Allah.
Sultan set what he thought might be a regal expression.
After an appropriate interval, he launched into his parting soliloquy. He timed his ending perfectly, the call to afternoon prayer sounding from speakers outside. He watched them race one another to the door, each wanting to be the first to the mosque across the street. Schoolboys in a contest of piousness.
He was alone in the great conference hall for less than a minute when Ibrahim appeared. He filled the doorway at the far end of the room and began clapping theatrically, each meeting of his hands echoing across the empty hall.
“A command performance!” he said as he walked across the chipped tiles.
“I am glad you approve. Was it convincing?”
“Absolutely! I can’t remember when I last saw them align behind anyone.”
“Perhaps fourteen hundred years ago?”
Ibrahim chuckled and stopped a few steps away. For the first time Sultan noticed the scars on his hands. Ibrahim had been imprisoned after the war, ostensibly because he was a high-ranking member of the Ba’ath Party. His family ties would have been enough—he was a half nephew of Saddam. Yet Ibrahim had done well, escaping from prison ten years earlier. Now, like Sultan himself, he had found his way back to the family. Ready to regain control of a country that had lost its way.
“Never forget,” Ibrahim said, “the first Rashidun Caliphs were no different from you. They were men of flesh and blood who saw opportunity and seized it.”
“Perhaps.”
“It is time to meet t
he party elders. Are you prepared?”
Sultan sighed. “The sheiks were exhausting … but yes, let’s get it over with.”
“Expect a more productive session. There is no need to show deference to this lot. They scheme not for paradise, but for profit and territory. And none will have it without your blessing.”
“As it should be.”
“As it once was,” Ibrahim corrected. “My advice is to be generous with al-Jaafari and al-Ahmed. They will be your generals, which makes them more important than the rest.”
“They control the bullets?”
Ibrahim smiled.
“There, you see? I am learning.”
“You have your father’s instincts. Give me ten minutes.” Ibrahim disappeared to assemble the new meeting.
Sultan winced and looked down. His weak foot had gone numb. He stood and began pacing the room, which usually helped. He took in the stained carvings on the ceiling, the dank rugs on the walls. This place had once been grand, and it would be again. He wondered if the first four caliphs had taken hold so easily. Having the clerics in line, he now needed only the backing of the Ba’ath Party … who, of course, had instigated the entire scheme.
And why wouldn’t they?
For decades the party had controlled every facet of Iraqi society. Under the rule of his father, no one could assume a position of importance—university professor, doctor, teacher, hospital administrator, government councilman—without first taking membership in the Ba’ath Party. Then came the war, and the traitorous government installed by the Americans. Baghdad fell to be dominated by Shiites who turned the nation on its head. They banned Ba’ath Party members from any position of importance—just as the Americans had done to the Nazis in the aftermath of World War II. Virtually overnight, Iraq had lost a generation of its best technicians and leaders. Lost its national identity.
But now the party was resurrecting itself, and by virtue of his lineage, Sultan was its chosen leader. The Sunni councils and governors had come quietly on board, as had critical leaders in the military. Everyone would do their part. The transition would play out quickly once the war to the south began to rage. The ayatollahs would be monumentally distracted, fighting for their survival. Tehran would pull assets from southern Iraq to defend the homeland. The Saudis, like usual, would rely on the Americans, who would balk at the thought of yet another war.
Yet the Ba’athist’s web of preparations went far beyond Iraq. Beyond the walls of one minor palace in Tikrit. In the Empty Quarter of Yemen, a group of Houthi commanders, fed up with being bombed by Saudi fighters, were quietly being rearmed for a new offensive. Another multiplicand to the chaos. Sunni militias in Syria, long on the back foot, would renew their fight against the government. Hamas recruiters in the West Bank had been getting a surge of volunteers, the urgings of local clerics having the predicted effect.
His father’s old networks, once widespread and reliable, had never really died. They had only gone dormant, waiting for the needed spark.
Waiting for the arrival of the Fifth Rashidun.
SIXTY-FOUR
There were times Nazir wished he had better training. Or for that matter, any training at all.
The drive from the air base to Jeddah Economic City seemed uneventful, yet he increasingly found himself watching the rearview mirror. A white Mercedes held his attention for a time, seeming to come and go, until he realized he’d been watching two identical cars. One of the drivers was male, the other female—a new reality in the kingdom.
He reached the apartment complex and parked his Air Force sedan across the street. He selected a spot between two work vans in the nearly empty parking lot of an under-construction strip mall. Military staff cars were relatively common throughout the kingdom, yet Nazir knew the price of apartments in Skyview Towers were well beyond the means of a staff sergeant. Along the same lines, he’d changed into civilian clothes after leaving the hangar.
He went to the trunk and paused for a look around. Other than a pair of foreign workers—Sri Lankans, he guessed—who were installing a window in one of the new shops, there was no one in sight. He opened the lid and lifted out a cardboard box. It was extremely light, the drone inside weighing little more than the box itself.
He crossed the street and took the stairwell to the third floor. He’d been told by Sultan’s messenger that the only active security cameras were in the rental office two buildings down. The elevator lobbies were wired for surveillance, but the cameras had not yet been installed. This, however, could change at any time, and by keeping to the stairs there was virtually no chance of his image being captured.
He encountered no other tenants on the way up, but that was hardly surprising. His block of apartments was the newest, and on last count only three of the twelve units had been rented. The other blocks, too, remained mostly empty. As with the rest of Jeddah Economic City, the House of Saud’s urban planners were taking a “build it and they will come” approach.
Once inside the apartment, he threw the bolt and set the box on the kitchen island counter that served as his work bench. The place looked unchanged from his last visit. It was minimally furnished; there was a fusty brown couch, a scratched dinette ensemble, and one sheetless mattress on the floor in the bedroom. There were no dishes in the cupboards, no clothes in the closets. Given the tools scattered across the counter, along with the drones and their associated controllers, the place looked more like a workshop than a home.
He opened the box, removed the drone, and set it on the counter next to three others. Nazir already knew what his next chore would be. He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and extracted the three Ziploc bags Sultan had given him. He began in the bedroom, opening the bag with the most material and scattering a bit at the head of the mattress. The bathroom was next. He scattered contents from all three bags around the sink, and left two toothbrushes, which bore the name of the Corinthia Hotel in Khartoum, on the counter next to a tube of toothpaste. Two disposable razors he set down next to a travel-sized can of shaving cream—he’d already flushed half the contents of the can down the toilet.
He went to the shower and turned the handle to let the water flow for a moment—the first time he had ever done so. Then he shook out what remained in the bags over the wet screen on the bathtub drain. Nazir pocketed the empty bags; he would dispose of these later.
At the kitchen counter he tinkered with the drones, removing a propeller from one, opening the battery compartment of another. Each had its respective controller, and he made sure fresh batteries were installed in all four. He scattered a few tools around the counter, then stood back and measured the effect. It was good. Just the right blend of haste and industriousness. He turned toward the window of the main room.
A broad balcony was fronted by a sliding glass door. Nazir stepped out to the balcony, lit a cigarette, and reminded himself to take the butt with him. His part in the plot could never be hidden, but the bulk of the blame had to go elsewhere.
The panorama before him was the reverse of the one Sultan had seen yesterday. This was clearly the apartment’s selling point, the money shot for brochures. The balcony promised to one day offer a commanding view of the budding city, which so far was largely notional. Today there was but one focal point: roughly a mile distant, the triangular monstrosity that was Jeddah Tower. The entire concept could not have been more symbolic: a nation coalescing around a future king.
But plans, Nazir thought, have a way of changing.
He lifted a set of binoculars from the only piece of furniture on the balcony, a ten-riyal plastic table. He looked out across the flat desert to the north, then dragged the optics in a line toward the tower. Nazir settled his gaze on the observation deck two thousand feet above the ground.
Symbolism, he thought again. It can indeed be a powerful thing.
SIXTY-FIVE
Slaton had taken a seat at a small conference table. With a pair of scissors and glue stick in hand, he was cutting and past
ing—much as Davy might be doing at that very moment in preschool. When Bloch came into the room, he looked at his most accomplished assassin like he’d gone off the deep end.
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
“I’m making a case.” Slaton set aside the scissors and glue.
Bloch took a seat next to him.
“First of all,” Slaton said, “we have to remember that this recording was made surreptitiously, and certainly on Petrov’s orders. So the question becomes, why would he do that?”
“Absolution,” Bloch ventured. “If the nerve agent is ever misused, he has to be able to cover his motives for giving it to Iran.”
Slaton shook his head. “Listen to this line again.” The laptop Bloch had provided was on the table. Slaton queued up the section he wanted and hit play.
Petrov: “Just to be clear … you will never initiate first use?”
Slaton cut the audio. He waited.
Bloch thought about it. “He’s leading Rahmani. Drawing him to say certain things.”
“Exactly. When I first heard the raw recording, I thought it sounded odd. The exchange between the two men, the flow of the conversation—it seemed stunted, deliberately phrased. There were pauses where there shouldn’t have been.”
“Go on,” Bloch said.
“Voiceprints are getting very accurate. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to manufacture a false recording. But Petrov would have very convincing evidence if—”
“He’s going to splice it,” Bloch finished.
“That’s what I’m thinking. Look at this…” Slaton shuffled three pages. He had printed out a transcript, then clipped and rearranged certain sentences. He turned the first page to face Bloch.
Petrov: “This agent will provide you a strong new capability, but I will say what I’ve said before … chemical weapons must only be used for defensive purposes. I trust you would never employ them unlawfully. The international community is watching, as they should be.”