“You guessed, but yes, that’s right. They signed a deal saying if Iran would give them lots of oil, China would block any American effort to get the United Nations Security Council to do anything significant about its nuclear program. They’ve been doing a lot of deals with each other ever since.”
He slipped his computer into his bag. “That explains a lot.”
“Oh yeah, these two countries are very cozy indeed. Anyway, China gets most of its oil from Iran. And they don’t just need oil—they need cheap oil because they sell the least expensive gasoline in the world. I think that’s to keep everybody happy driving all those new cars.”
“Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
Daryl closed her laptop and picked up her jacket. As she walked out with Jeff, she said, “China’s also been helping with pipelines throughout the Middle East, selling weapons and dual purpose technology. They aren’t just banking on Iran. The consequences for Saudi Arabia are a change in reality for them—and us. It got all its intermediate range ballistic missiles from China and I’ll bet you didn’t even know that Saudi Arabia had missiles, did you?”
“I guess not.” Jeff nodded to the guards as they exited the building. As instructed, one promptly sent a text to Henri Wille to let him know they’d left.
It was a lovely night outside and Jeff paused to take in the invigorating air coming down from the Alps. The sky was clear and Lake Geneva twinkled with reflecting stars. “Look at that,” he said, stopping a moment to take it in.
“Wow, very nice.” She took his arm and cuddled. “Let’s hang out here a few days before leaving for Italy, okay?”
“Sure, after we’ve written the detection program for Whitehall and UNOG. They’ll need to repave after this.”
As they took the long broad pathway leading to the road, Daryl continued. “The analysis is that if—when—Iran gets the bomb, Saudi Arabia will be compelled to call in its chits from Pakistan. Apparently they financed Pakistan’s nuclear program with that understanding. That was pretty clever. Saudi Arabia can say it doesn’t have a nuclear program but when the time comes to get bombs and the technology to support them, they just get it all from Pakistan. At the same time, China will sell Saudi Arabia ICBMs, the big boys. They will make the Middle East entirely nuclear. The very idea has everyone on edge.”
“Then they should do something about the Iranian nuclear program instead of just talking about it.”
They left the park surrounding the palace and stepped onto the sidewalk on the Avenue de la Paix. Their hotel was five minutes away.
Jeff glanced at a man talking on his cell phone, obviously waiting for a ride. Daryl cracked a joke and they laughed.
Just down the street a white Volkswagen Crafter crept slowly toward them.
It had been a very long wait. Morning had become midday then afternoon. There’d been a short rain around three o’clock. The men used empty water bottles in the rear of the van to relieve themselves. At one point Ahmed had taken a chance and sent Karim off for food and something to drink. Allah had been with them, according to Ali, and nothing had taken place during his absence. While he was gone Ahmed had moved the car’s location in the parking area, knowing an occupied vehicle would inevitably attract notice. Still, he decided not to risk it again as that itself might draw attention.
During the rain he’d rebriefed the men, reminding them that the guns were only to be used against the target—no one else—and then only as a last resort. His orders had been quite specific. Iranian agents would have to operate in Switzerland in the future and it was important they not be seen as a threat against the local police and citizenry.
Ahmed wished this were all taking place in Prague, a city he knew intimately. He understood what he had to do, where he was to go, and how to get there, but if anything went awry he would be forced to improvise. In the crowded streets of a busy unfamiliar city, he would almost certainly be caught.
He did not fear prison. Prison would be acceptable, if necessary. In time, his people would find a way to get him out. They always did. No, what he feared most of all was failure. He’d rather be killed today than face that.
Ahmed Hossein al-Rashid, as he appeared on his passport, was born Ebrahim Abadi, though that was a name he used only in Iran. He was the son of a wealthy Iranian family whose money predated the fall of the Shah. As a consequence, his father had become a zealous supporter of the Ayatollah during the revolution once the outcome was apparent. Ahmed had joined the Iranian army just after completing his schooling. There he’d excelled. He’d been trained in special operations and counterintelligence. He’d been rapidly promoted to captain and assigned to the Iranian intelligence service known as VEVAK, where his training had been expanded to include torture. VEVAK’s mandate was far-reaching, both domestically and internationally, and of all such Iranian operations it was the best funded and most professionally run.
Ahmed had done well since his assignment to Prague and recently had been promoted to major. His career choice often caused him to wonder if he’d ever return home, marry, and have a son. His father had asked him about that the last time they’d met and he’d promised that there was plenty of time for children, though he knew that was a lie.
Ahmed was ambitious and believed in a greater Iran. If he was not inwardly the zealot the mullahs wanted, he masked it carefully with a proper showing of devotion. At heart he was secular. He wondered if Hamid knew; he suspected he did. From what Ahmed had seen, most of the senior operatives in Europe were men like himself. The zealots were assigned the active roles in the missions.
The fact that he’d been ordered into the field along with Ali and Karim, his two best operatives, told him the value placed on this mission. It was an honor to be selected and he did not doubt that success would be rewarded, just as failure would be punished.
His first foreign posting had been to Prague. What he heard from Iran since coming to Europe troubled him. The mullahs were as corrupt as the Shah, and there was vicious, even deadly, infighting within the regime. There was no doubt the regime had lost the confidence of the people; that was obvious to anyone who cared to know. Another revolution was always a possibility. The mullahs, he believed, had squandered their chance.
Though he maintained a low profile and scrupulously preserved his cover as a student, about once a month Ahmed traveled to meet with his senior operatives, to dispense cash, to deliver instructions orally, and to learn how each network was progressing. He also served as a conduit for information he acquired through the Internet and forwarded to Iran by mule. For that he’d recruited Saliha. The trips kept him alert. His biggest challenge had been to be in constant readiness for when an operation came to him.
Ahmed glanced out the open window as he lit another cigarette. He was tired of waiting but he’d waited before. He’d learned through experience not to become impatient. Few operations actually came off and when they did they rarely developed as planned. That was the nature of his calling.
The men took turns waiting near the main entrance that ran through the park to the building. From there they could clearly see the exit. Throughout the day Ahmed had received periodic text messages informing him that the target was still at work inside. Then he was alerted that work had stopped. Perhaps he was taking a meal, or he might just be finished for the day. It was dark, and the building had long since emptied of employees.
Ahmed called Karim, who was standing watch, as if waiting to be picked up for a ride. “Soon, my brother. Pay attention.”
The city was quieter, clearly less lively than Prague. He leaned forward, watching closely. “Be ready, Ali. Any moment, I think.”
And there he was, walking with a woman along the broad pathway toward the street. Karim called him. “I see him. Do you? What about the woman?”
“Take them both. No more calls.”
Ahmed started the van, slowly exited the lot, then eased onto the street. Traffic was light. As he approached he saw the couple pass Karim, who then casually p
ut away his phone, turned, and followed.
“Get ready,” Ahmed said. Ali grunted as he positioned himself. Just as he reached the laughing couple, Ahmed brought the van to an abrupt stop. “Now!”
Ali flung the passenger door open and leaped out. Ahmed pressed a button and the van’s side door popped opened. He forced himself to look away from the action, down the street and into the rearview mirror to see if they were attracting attention.
Daryl screamed when she was grabbed from behind. She was swept forward, strong arms holding her tight in their grip. A large man ran at them and went straight to Jeff as Daryl was all but carried to the open door of the white van. She couldn’t get her arms free but threw her foot against the passenger doorjamb and spun them off so the man holding her could not force her into the vehicle. She screamed again for help.
The man behind her grunted as he struggled, making no progress. Then another man was helping him and a moment later had her legs forced into the van and the two of them were holding her down, pinned to floor. Once she was under control, one of them left. Daryl struggled against the other man but he had both her arms pinned behind her, nearly to her neck. The pain was excruciating and she feared he’d pushed her arms out of their sockets.
On the street the large man had bowled over Jeff, catching him completely by surprise. His carrier slid from his shoulder and the laptop skidded to the side. The men rolled on the sidewalk as Jeff fought. The large slowly man gained the advantage but he could not manage to get the American to his feet. That was when another man came over and pressed a gun to Jeff’s head.
“Come, or I kill you, then kill the woman. We have her already.” His voice was calm, too calm for what he was saying, with only the trace of an accent. “Stop, I said. Or you die right now!”
Jeff ceased struggling and a moment later was inside the van. The door slammed shut, then the man with the gun climbed behind the wheel, and drove off.
“Jeff!” Daryl said before someone clamped his hand over her mouth. She bit him. He cursed, then struck her hard. Jeff kicked the man, then kicked him again as he struggled to pull Jeff back.
The mustached man in front shouted something in a foreign language and a gun was pressed against Jeff’s face. He could see Daryl, her eyes suddenly wide in fear.
The driver said, “Stop it or we kill you and dump your bodies. No more fighting. That is finished.” Then he snapped an order in the other language and the couple were quickly bound with clothesline and gagged.
Ahmed pulled onto Route de Meyrin, melding with the evening traffic. He watched the mirror closely but they’d attracted no notice that he could see. He reassured himself that as problematic as the snatch had been, it had taken less than one minute. In the dark, it was not likely that it had been noticed, or at least not sufficiently to summon the police in time to do anything.
But he had to get rid of the van at once. Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go. Within a few minutes he easily found the empty shop again. He pulled up to the garage, nosing the van nearly against the doors. He stepped outside, quietly closed the door to the van.
Nothing.
There were no sounds beyond the ordinary, nothing to see that wasn’t there earlier. He moved to the street itself and as casually as he could looked in both directions while he lit a cigarette. His hand was shaking slightly. Back at the van he rapped on the side door. This was the dangerous part. They had to get the couple into the back room without attracting attention.
Ahmed pulled out his gun, using his body to shield it from the street. “Cooperate and you’ll be free in a few hours,” he said evenly. “All we want is to talk to you. Struggle, we’ll kill you and leave you here. You understand?”
Jeff nodded. Daryl glared at Ahmed fiercely. I’d better be careful of her, he thought as he moved aside to let Ali and Karim pull them out. They then pushed and led the couple across the front of the store, along the pathway to the rear where Ahmed joined then. He put his gun away, then unlocked and opened the heavy metal door.
“Inside,” he said as the men shoved the couple in.
Once the door was closed Ahmed spoke to Karim. “Get the bag out of the van and bring it here. Then drive to the commercial district I pointed out earlier. You know where it is?”
“I do.”
“Good. Leave the van with the keys in the ignition. Perhaps we will get lucky and someone will steal it. Leave the driver window open to make it easy. Drive carefully but not suspiciously. Then take your time returning on foot. Make certain you are not followed.”
“I won’t be.”
“Good. Give me your gun.”
“What?”
“Your gun. You are not a gangster. You have no need of it now.”
Karim handed it over and went out to the Crafter. Ahmed heard it start, then move off. He turned his attention to the couple, thinking for a moment how best to do this.
20
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
POLICE GENDARMERIE CORNAVIN
PLACE DE CORNAVIN 3
8:22 P.M. CET
Yvette Chappuis had just made the turn onto the Avenue de la Paix when she saw it.
She slowed her car, gradually pulling to a stop, and watched in horror as two men struggled with a young couple, finally forcing them into a white van. She was certain she’d seen a gun. As the van pulled away she lifted her cell phone and made a call.
A sergeant at the Police Gendarmerie Cornavin, just down the street near the corner of Rue de Lausanne at Route de Meyrin, was soon speaking with her. The report of an abduction was always to be taken seriously—this was, after all, Switzerland—but one within a stone’s throw of his station and immediately in front of UNOG was priority. He took the vehicle description, handed the slip of paper to dispatch, and within two minutes of Yvette spotting the abduction an alert had gone out.
The sergeant then asked the citizen to describe what she’d seen in more detail, concluding the call by telling her an officer was on the way to take a statement.
Her call and the sergeant’s quick response was the last bit of luck the Geneva police would have for some time. No cruising police car observed the right van, though fourteen were pulled over in the next hour. None contained abductors or victims.
It wasn’t until shortly after midnight, many hours after the report, that a cruising Meyrin Commune police patrol car spotted the white Volkswagen Crafter van in the commerce center parking lot. The driver window was down and the keys were in the ignition. It had all the appearance of an abandoned vehicle.
The shift commander, Ulrich Spyri, went to examine the van himself. He stopped his car some twenty feet from it, then climbed out, stretching after so many hours in his office. He instructed the waiting patrol officer to search the extended area around the vehicle. It was dark, the sky overcast, the air chilly, clinging this hour to the winter so recently gone.
For centuries, Meyrin had been little more than a sleepy village. Then, almost overnight, with the construction of the nearby international airport it had ballooned to a population of twenty thousand. The commune police force saw to the routine duties of law enforcement: conducting patrols, maintaining order, enforcing traffic laws. And tonight they were assisting the canton police in locating a vehicle much like this one, reportedly used in an abduction.
Spyri walked slowly about the vehicle, playing his flashlight across the panels of white, examining each of the wheels carefully, bending down to look under it. Nothing.
Next, he carefully opened the left door and examined the driving compartment. Again nothing. He spotted the button for the side door and pressed it, heard the door unlatch and partially open. He went around the vehicle, leaned in, and took a long minute to examine the interior, moving his light from point to point. He spotted two liter bottles of a yellowish liquid, likely urine, and the discards from a meal for more than one man. He climbed in, held the flashlight low, then ran it slowly back and forth across the soiled carpet. “There,” he said under his breath.
He reached out and lifted something up with his fingertips.
Blond hair. This was the van.
At his car, Spyri called in, alerting the canton police and dispatching a forensic team. Afterward, he stood beside his car and looked slowly about. They could be far away by now. They might have made the switch here, then driven off and were well into France or Italy by this time. Or they were not that far from here at all, hoping the police net would be extended and overlook them.
Whichever it was, or if it was something else, he was certain his men had no chance beyond blind luck in finding the couple. No chance at all.
The van was soon traced to the name of Franco Rivaz, reportedly a resident of Geneva, but no one by that name lived at the address given. Then word came from UNOG security. They were missing an American couple, computer experts. They’d left the building shortly before the abduction and never reached their hotel. A laptop had been recovered from the sidewalk near the street in front of the exit. The British Foreign office had been alerted.
The Geneva Gendarmerie remained on the case, joined by the canton police as well as by a detail from the UNOG Police de la Sécurité Internationale. One of those was Henri Wille, who’d learned of the abduction by telephone and had assigned himself to the team sent to locate them.
“They were a nice couple,” Henri said, shortly after meeting Spyri for the first time.
“We’re doing our best,” Spyri said. “Maybe we’ll find them.”
By now every officer in the region was on the lookout for the young couple or anything of a suspicious nature that might lead to them. But without more information, without an address, or even a part of the city in which to focus, there was little hope they would be found.
Henri drew a deep breath. “Sometimes miracles happened.”
Just then Spyri’s cell phone rang.
21
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
CYBERTERRORISM–COMPUTER FORENSICS DEPARTMENT
Trojan Horse Page 13