Whiplash d-11

by Dale Brown

  “Then what?”

  “We take a boat.”

  38

  Room 4

  CIA Campus

  Breanna was just securing her gear in her office on the CIA campus when the small communications cube on the corner of her desk sounded a tone.

  “Clear,” she told the computer, allowing the communication. The secure nature of the building, as well as her small staff and the late hour, meant that there was no one nearby to hear what she was saying. But Room 4 wouldn’t have been Room 4 without a high-tech guarantee of security protecting even the most casual conversation. Inaudible waves of energy vibrating from the walls — more nanotechnology — killed all sounds five feet from her desk, making it impossible for anyone outside of the room to hear.

  “This is Danny.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The tag marker we put on Tarid was diluted because of the rain. We want to tag him again.”

  “Do it. You don’t need to hear from me.”

  “The problem is, he’s on his way to Iran. We want to follow him.”

  Ordinarily, Breanna would have said “Go” right away, but what she heard about the visit made her pause.

  For all of a half second.

  “All right. How are you getting there?”

  “That’s why I called. We’ve tracked his flight schedule and have a pretty good idea of what his planes are. It’s too late to get on the flight with him,” Danny added. “And besides, if we take a commercial flight, there’s always a chance someone will find something in our gear.”

  The Iranian secret police and intelligence agencies also made it a habit to follow westerners in the country. While they could get around that, Danny wanted to avoid the hassle.

  “So what were you thinking?”

  “We want to fly into Baku, Azerbaijan. There’s a flight to Egypt from Khartoum in about an hour and a half that goes up to Cairo. If you can get a plane there and get us up to Baku, we’ll make it just in time. But we need help renting some boats and getting gear together. I can’t take anything on the first leg.”

  “Baku?”

  “I was there during the Iraq War.”

  Zen had been there, too, flying a still classified mission he never talked about.

  “All right, Danny. Tell me what you need.”

  “You may want to get a pen. The list is kinda long.”

  * * *

  Reid had already gone to bed when Breanna called him.

  “Don’t you have a family to go home to?” he asked tartly, pulling on his glasses and sitting up in bed. “And don’t you get any sleep?”

  “Don’t worry about my family,” said Breanna. “Our subject is on his way to Iran.”

  “Yes?”

  “Danny, Nuri, and two other Whiplash people are following him.”

  “Into Iran?”

  “That’s where he’s going.”

  “Why do we need to go to Iran?” Reid asked.

  “Because the marker is going to fail and we won’t be able to follow him soon. I talked to Ray Rubeo. His people think we’ll lose the signal in another three or four days. The computer estimates about a week. Either way, that’s going to be too short.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “There’s no way we can risk losing him now. They have a plan that will get them to the airport in Tehran before he lands. Tagging him there should be easy. If not, they’ll follow along until they can get close.”

  “Losing the political agreement with Iran is a much bigger risk,” said Reid. “If this blows up, the trip is sure to be scuttled.”

  “What good is the agreement if they’re cheating?” said Breanna.

  Reid reminded her that the consensus of the analysts who followed Iran was that the operation to refine the weapons grade material was being conducted by a splinter group of some sort, not the government itself. There were serious doubts about how effective or lasting such a program could be.

  “You’re getting pressure from Edmund,” said Breanna. “Is that why you want to hang back?”

  He had, in fact, been getting pressure — a phone call from the deputy director of operations as well as the big boss, both of whom implied that he was going over to the other side — that being defined as any entity not under their full control. But Reid didn’t think he was responding to the pressure at all.

  “I’m merely saying there’s no need for haste or too much risk,” he countered.

  “So you don’t think they should go to Iran?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Good,” said Breanna. “They’re going to need some supplies and logistical help.”

  Reid put his elbows on his knees for a moment, thinking. Late night phone calls were one of the reasons he had turned down the DDO’s job. Not the major reason, but still one of them.

  “If things go wrong, Breanna, they’re going to have our heads,” he said finally.

  “Isn’t that always the case?”

  “Yes, of course it is.” Reid sighed. He knew they should go — the trail would undoubtedly lead back there at some point anyway. “Let me get dressed and make some coffee. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

  39

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  Twelve hours later

  For nearly two thousand years Azerbaijan in the southern Caucasus had been little more than a vassal state, the rump end of kingdoms whose capitals lay hundreds and even thousands of miles away. The high desert and rich hills had seen more than their share of conflict, while the people who lived there had fought countless times to rewin their independence.

  The land’s austere beauty was part of the problem. The mountains that marked three of Azerbaijan’s borders seemed to beckon adventurers, and no one who saw the calm sea at its east could withstand the temptations of the mild climate and lush vegetation nearby. At times it seemed as if everyone who came to Azerbaijan wanted to rule it.

  With the collapse of the Soviet Union in the 1980s, Azerbaijan had gained independence from its most recent ruler. And with the increased demand for oil and minerals in the years that followed, the country prospered. Its deepwater oil fields offshore were the envy of the world; vast resources lay untapped, making it potentially one of the most important producers in the twenty-first century.

  Baku, the capital on the Caspian Sea, had become a boomtown since independence, fueled not just by oil riches, but by the disposable income of Russian oligarchs and mafiya types, who found its mild weather, newly built nightclubs, and relaxed attitude toward wealthy foreigners extremely welcome. Baku had its old, center city, an ancient core bounded by medieval walls that seemed not to have changed in hundreds of years. But much of the city was very new, buffed by flash. There was chrome on everything, cars and buildings, even people. Money flowed freely in new Baku, attracting other money, drawing the good and ill it always draws.

  Even so, the man at the marina was dubious when Nuri and Danny arrived to pick up the boat. It was 8:00 P.M., and all of his employees had gone home for the day. The only reason he had stayed was the prospect of receiving twice his normal fee for leasing the craft.

  Still, the money wasn’t quite enough to stop him from asking questions.

  “Why so late?” he asked as Nuri began counting out the hundred euro bills.

  Cash had been his first stipulation.

  “It’s not late,” said Danny. He’d slept on the plane from Khartoum to Egypt, but those two hours represented all the rest he’d had in the past two days.

  The marina owner took the hint and stopped asking questions. Holding the euros was reassuring. He fanned through them and decided it was none of his business what the two foreigners wanted to do with the boat.

  As long as it was back in one piece.

  “By Thursday evening, yes?” said Nuri. “To your dock.”

  “With a full tank of fuel.”

  “Yes. A full tank of fuel.”

  “If it fails to return—”

  “It’ll
be back,” said Danny.

  “If it fails to return, you will be responsible for replacing the entire vessel. The credit cards will be charged.”

  “Of course.”

  The owner fixed Nuri with his gaze. He had pegged the black man as an American — he had the unspoken arrogance all Americans carried — but this one was harder to decipher. His English was not like the other man’s, or like the American who had first contacted him about the possibility of leasing the boat. And he used euros, a European’s first choice of currency. But he was too dark to be an Englishman. He certainly wasn’t French or German.

  “If I have to replace the fuel,” said Nuri, “I want to make sure that’s filled up now. To the brim.”

  “Of course it’s filled up.”

  “Show me.”

  “There’s no need.” The boat was not, in fact, filled to the brim, or even three-quarters of the way up. A fact the owner was well aware of, since he had used it just that afternoon. “If there is a discrepancy, we can settle it when you get back. Don’t worry. Take the boat.”

  “I want you to come with me and check,” insisted Nuri.

  “No, no, go — I’ll take your word. Write it down. I have to see my wife. If I’m not home soon, she’ll call her mother and they will start talking. Then I will have much trouble.”

  “How full you figure it is?” Danny asked as soon as he and Nuri were alone on the dock.

  “I’d guess somewhere between half and three-quarters,” said Nuri.

  It was closer to half than three-quarters, but they had already arranged for more fuel, along with a second boat that was waiting for them about a mile down the coast. Hera and Flash were there as well.

  Danny and Nuri sped southward, blowing some of the carbon out of the engines as they went. The boat was a Phantom 21, sporting a massive engine and capable of somewhere around 75 knots — expensive to lease but well worth the price. They touched fifty knots before throttling back to enter the marina at a controlled speed.

  Standing on the dockside waiting as they approached, Hera did her best to keep her mouth shut, trying to block the remarks that came into her brain from traveling to her tongue. Danny and the others had been cold to her the whole trip, through Egypt and on the flight here. Even Flash, who talked to everyone and was everyone’s friend, barely spoke to her.

  Separation from Whiplash was inevitable. It wasn’t fair, she thought — she had done her job, and done as well as anyone else. But that’s the way it was going to be.

  As long they didn’t blame her for McGowan’s death. She knew it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t been anywhere near him and she’d done her job. Getting stuck in the prisoners’ pen wasn’t her fault.

  “All right, Whiplash, let’s go,” shouted Danny as he nudged the boat next to the dock. “Hera, you’re with me.”

  She tossed down their gear bags and jumped into the boat. Nuri, meanwhile, clambered out and got into the second boat, a Sunseeker with twin Mercruisers. Not quite as fast as the Phantom, but no slacker, either.

  “We gonna race?” said Flash, handing down a pair of jerry cans filled with fuel.

  “Let’s just get across the Gulf in one piece, all right?” said Danny. “Nuri, we’ll stay in touch.”

  “Yeah. What are we going to do if Tarid doesn’t get on that plane?”

  “Then we’ll definitely have a race on the way back,” said Danny, gunning the throttle.

  40

  Pentagon

  Breanna picked up the phone a split second after it started to ring.

  “Breanna Stockard.”

  “Jeffrey Stockard,” replied her husband.

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  Zen laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I’m waiting for a call.”

  “An important one, I bet. You have your serious voice on.”

  “All my phone calls are important,” she said.

  “Even the ones from me?”

  “Especially yours. It’s just — I’ve been waiting for you to call all morning.”

  “It’s beyond morning. A half hour beyond,” he added. “I thought we were having lunch.”

  “Oh, crap!”

  Breanna looked down at her computer. The alarm noting lunch was buried under eight windows, half of which she couldn’t even remember opening.

  “Guess it’s off, huh?”

  “I forgot all about it. I lost track of the time. I’m sorry.”

  “You need a secretary,” said Zen.

  “I have a secretary.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Lunch.” Ms. Bennett had in fact reminded Breanna that she had an appointment before leaving.

  “So: We having lunch, or not?”

  “No. I can’t. I–I have to get something cleared up.”

  “What you were working on last night, huh?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  Breanna wanted to talk about the situation but couldn’t — she and her husband had agreed that they wouldn’t discuss anything involving national security on her side, and party politics on his. While they occasionally bent the rules, Zen would have immediately ended the conversation if she began talking about the mission.

  It was too bad. There was no one whose opinion she trusted more than her husband’s, especially when it came to dealing with the Washington bureaucracy.

  “It’s all right,” said Zen. “I’m a little squeezed myself. I have an appointment with the President at one. Which means it’ll be about two when I get in there.”

  “You’re seeing a lot of her lately. Should I be jealous?”

  “Ha. I’m her favorite thorn. In the side or elsewhere. You going to be home for dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because Teri’s thing is tonight.”

  “Which thing?”

  “Concert thing. Spring concert.”

  “Oh right, right, right.”

  “I’m missing a reception at the Korean ambassador’s home for it,” said Zen, as if this was the greatest sacrifice in the world. Zen hated receptions, and wasn’t very fond of the Korean ambassador, either. “So you better show up.”

  “I’m showing.”

  Breanna looked at the windows on the computer. She had a lot to do, but it was difficult to focus on any of it while the Whiplash mission was under way. She knew she had to separate herself — and yet she couldn’t.

  Maybe it would be better to go over to Langley and work from there. At least she wouldn’t be checking the secure message system every few seconds, and looking at SpyNet, and checking the news…she could hook directly to MY-PID and get regular updates.

  Her secure sat phone beeped. It was a call from Danny, asking for an update.

  “Zen, I have to go,” said Breanna, barely getting the words out of her mouth before hanging up.

  41

  Approaching the Iranian coast

  It was a little over 250 miles from Baku to the coast of Iran. The speedboats made the trip in just over four hours, dodging a small patrol craft operating out of Babol.

  The Voice gave them directions the entire way. Danny still felt it was intrusive but he was beginning to think of the system as a personality, rather than a computer. It definitely acted differently than any computer he’d ever dealt with before.

  Technically, MY-PID was simply the sum of its various connections and databases. The programmers had kept the interface portion extremely basic, using techniques and routines developed and tested at Dreamland. Most of these, at their very core, were barely more sophisticated than the routines that worked GPS units, or the so-called personal assistant bots that gathered Web and media feeds for smart phones. But the sheer volume of the data available to the system and the algorithms it used to sort through them shaped the MY-PID’s interaction with users in the same way a human personality did.

  The Voice was like a brainy, overknowledgeable kibitzer, an egghead that could be extremely valuable, but at the end of the day was s
till an egghead. In many ways it reminded Danny of Ray Rubeo, though the computer wasn’t quite as full of himself as its real-life analogue.

  They were already in Iranian waters when Breanna called, using the Voice’s communications network.

  “Danny, your subject is on his way to Tehran,” she told him.

  “Roger that. We’re like zero-two minutes from shore.”

  “I see.” Breanna paused. “I thought you were going to hold until we were positive he was in the air.”

  “Schedule is a little tight, Bree. We have a bus to catch.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “You wish you were out here, huh?” said Danny. “It sucks sitting behind a desk.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Her voice had made it obvious. “I know exactly how you feel,” he told her.

  “We’ll trade notes when you get back.”

  “Deal.”

  The Voice warned that a car was approaching on the road a few yards from where Danny wanted to land. He cut his speed, drifting to let the vehicle go by before moving closer to shore. As he coasted, he looked back for Nuri. Though the boat was only a mile or so behind, Danny couldn’t see it; the night was too dark and it was too low to the water. The engines were plenty loud, but the hum from his own craft drowned them out.

  “Trouble?” Hera asked. It was practically the first word she’d said since they left Baku.

  “It’s just a car. We’ll let it pass,” he said. “You ready to use your Farsi?”

  She told him, in Farsi, that she was as ready as an old woman to bake a cake — an expression her Iranian grandfather had used to indicate that he was willing to do whatever had to be done.

  The Voice translated for him.

  “Simultaneous translate to Farsi,” Danny told the computer. “As long as it’s chocolate.”

  He repeated the words as the Voice reeled them off.

  “Your pronunciation is off,” said Hera. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s a joke. I like chocolate cake.”

  “Oh.”