by David Bruns
Her eyes broke away from the screens. “May I help you, sir?”
Don smiled nervously. “Yes, three o’clock appointment with the director.” His tone made it sound like a question, even though he had checked the time and location three times. In the drive over from Fort Meade, he had debated with himself about what the DNI wanted.
The Iranian attack on the USS Donald Cook two days ago had spiked tensions in the Gulf, but Iran was only a small part of his current job as deputy J2 at Cyber Command.
The receptionist gave him a bright smile. “Oh yes, Mr. Riley, the director will see you immediately. Go right in.”
The director’s office was large enough to fit at least ten Cyber Command cubicles, without including the separate sitting area with a leather couch and two armchairs arranged around a low coffee table. Out the window, Don glimpsed treetops and the blue skies of springtime in Virginia.
When Judith Hellman glanced up from her desk, her normally stern face took on a warm look. “Don, come in.” She strode across the room with her hand extended.
Don shook the director’s hand with a firm grip. Hellman was a tall, handsome woman with fiery red hair and a personality that could flip on a dime. Any other time Don had met her she’d been all business, but today she seemed relaxed, borderline friendly.
“It’ll just be a few minutes before Roger joins us.” She waved her arm at the sitting area. “Join me for a coffee while we wait?”
In this setting, “Roger” could only mean Roger Trask, the director of the CIA. The thought of sitting with two of the most powerful people in the US intelligence community for coffee on a Friday afternoon did nothing to stem his curiosity or ease his nervous stomach.
He followed Hellman to the sitting area, where she had a thermos of coffee waiting. “I swear if you took a blood sample right now, I’d be fifty percent coffee,” she said with a laugh. Don’s nervous chuckle sounded like a noise from a squeaky toy. Still, his hand was surprisingly steady when he took the proffered cup.
Hellman sat on the couch and crossed her legs. Her hazel eyes studied him. “How’s the leg?” Don’s index finger unconsciously probed at the scar tissue through the material of his pant leg. The bullet wound from Rafiq Roshed’s handgun had long healed, but he still thought about it every day.
“Fine, ma’am. PT is complete and I have a clean bill of health.”
“And Captain McHugh’s family?” Hellman said. “Do you keep in touch?”
Don focused on his coffee. Brendan McHugh, his best friend, hadn’t made it back from North Korea.
“I do,” Don said finally. “Liz is still at the Bureau. She’s the strongest woman I know. And a great mother. Brendan—Captain McHugh—can’t be replaced, but his family is doing okay.”
Hellman nodded, her mood suddenly subdued. As she attempted to restart the conversation, the door opened and the CIA director strode in.
Roger Trask was an energetic man in his midsixties with a full mane of thick gray hair. “Don! Good to see you.” His handshake was warm, his meaty palm enveloping Don’s clammy grip.
Hellman and Trask chatted for a few moments, trying to include Don in the conversation, without much success. Don’s anxiety multiplied as the minutes ticked by. He plucked at the collar of his shirt.
“So, you’re feeling healthy, Don? Up to snuff?” Trask’s genial exterior faded and he had a sharp look in his eyes.
“Absolutely, sir.” It was the truth. He did feel good. Don had committed himself to a brand-new healthy regimen in his life. Between daily exercise, a healthy diet, and no snacking in between meals, he had already lost twenty pounds and he was up to running a 5K in under thirty minutes, a personal best.
The CIA director set his coffee cup on the table. “We may have a new assignment for you,” he said. “Something new we’ve been cooking up.”
Hellman let out a snort of derision. “Something you’ve been cooking up, Roger. I’m happy to keep Mr. Riley right where he is at CYBERCOM.”
Don watched the verbal jousting, but inside he was bursting with curiosity.
Trask knew how to build anticipation. He steepled his fingers. “Your team’s actions in the North Korea situation were exemplary, Don.” He shot a look at Hellman. “The DNI has given me permission to replicate that kind of operation into a new directorate.”
Don leaned forward in his seat as Trask paused for a sip of coffee.
“It’s no secret the Iranians are our biggest headache right now. It’s sucking up all the energy at the White House and Congress, but the shattering of ISIS has created chaos out there. They haven’t gone away, they’ve just gone underground—and online. We’ll see them again, re-formed into a new threat in a new place.”
Since the defeat of ISIS inside Syria and Iraq, the level of online activity had spiked. More and more Salafist jihadi groups were flooding the Web with propaganda, inciting more young people to join the cause.
“In my view, the strength of the North Korean op was how your team identified the real threat amidst all the noise. You were willing to look past the obvious answers, think outside the box. And when it came time to go after that threat, you were able to put together cyber assets, analysts, and field operations assets into the kind of team that got the job done.”
Don kept the thoughtful look on his face. “What do you have in mind, sir?”
Trask sat back in his chair and let Hellman take over. “I’ve authorized the formation of a new group inside the Operations Directorate at CIA. Cutting-edge stuff. We’re calling it Emerging Threats. We want you to lead it as DDO.”
DDO: Deputy Director of Operations. Don sat back in his seat. A new task group was a huge responsibility.
“This is rocket fuel, Don,” Trask said. “North Korea made us wake up to the fact that we need a team that looks in the darkest corners for the next big threat. Cyber is a contact sport. We need to have embedded cyber operators who can take action in real time.”
“I can choose my own team?” he asked.
Trask nodded. “You’ll also have the ability to draw on NCS assets as needed. Analysts, too.”
National Clandestine Service assets. CIA-trained case officers. Covert action operators from CIA’s Special Activities Division. Military operators from the Joint Special Ops Command. Access to those kinds of assets meant the DNI was serious.
If he chose the right people around him, he could make this work. The key would be his core team.
“You’re thinking about the midshipmen,” Hellman said with a chuckle.
Don nodded. “They’re commissioned officers now, ma’am. Well, two of them are. Goodwin graduates in a few weeks. Everett and Ramirez are in the fleet. That makes them fair game for recruitment, right?”
“They’ve proven themselves,” Hellman said, “but remember: They need to agree to the transfer.” She toyed with her coffee cup. “If I’ve learned anything after thirty years, it’s that this life … it’s not for everyone. After North Korea, they may not want that kind of responsibility.”
Her comment made Don pause. Because of his guest lecturer status at the Naval Academy, he saw Goodwin regularly, but his contact with the two women had been sporadic.
Trask stood. “I’m not sure about the rest of you, but the weekend is calling. I’m going to take my leave, Director.”
Don stood also, but Hellman said, “Stay for a moment, Don.”
As the door closed behind Trask, Hellman poured herself more coffee.
“This is a great opportunity for you, Don, but we should talk about a few things. As a DDO, you’re playing in the big leagues. Politics, infighting, budgets.” She sighed. “Do you hear what I’m saying? This will be much different than being the deputy J2 at CYBERCOM.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She studied his face. “I’m sorry about your friend. I only met Captain McHugh once, and as I recall, he wasn’t a fan.”
“Brendan spoke his mind, ma’am. That’s why he was good at what he did.”
CHAPTER 3
Gulf of Aqaba, near Haql, Saudi Arabia
From a distance, the massive yacht shone like a gleaming jewel on the dark ocean. Alyan Sultan al-Qahtamni leaned forward in the custom leather seat of the helicopter until his face nearly touched the glass.
Al-Buraq came into sharp detail as they drew closer. Sixty meters of the finest seagoing custom-built luxury money could buy. The ship was at anchor, but the clever illumination on her superstructure made her seem as if she were racing forward into the dark seas of the Gulf of Aqaba. In Arabic, her name meant “lightning,” but the religious overtones were clear. Al-Buraq was the winged steed who carried the prophets of Islam to heaven.
Both the forward and aft helicopter landing pads were occupied and both of the side landings were down, a sure sign that the owner of the yacht, Saleh bin Ghannam, had put the yacht staff on shore leave for the evening. As was his custom for a meeting of the Arab-Israeli Benevolence Coalition, he kept only a skeleton crew of trusted security men on board.
Saleh was the kind of man who liked to control his environment—completely. As the former head of the Saudi secret service, Saleh made his money the old-fashioned way: by trading in secrets. Indiscretions of the royals, business deals with multinationals, even arrangements with the right kind of Israeli. All done in the service of his beloved country, of course. For Saleh, his life’s mission would be complete only when the Saudi Kingdom was raised to the status of a true world power.
For that to come to pass, all other regional powers needed to come under the sway of the House of Saud.
The MD 902 Explorer helo slowed, then hovered, as the pilot waited for clearance to land from the security team on Al-Buraq.
Alyan watched as another helo lifted off from the yacht. He had been told the Israelis would be arriving by boat from the nearby port of Eilat, Israel, so that must be their visitor for the evening. For Saleh to invite a potential business partner to his yacht for a full meeting of the coalition spoke volumes about the strategic importance of that partner.
Perhaps Saleh was finally recognizing the need to increase the pace of their investments in the Nile River basin, just as Alyan had been advocating for the last year.
The pilot acknowledged a command over the radio and pushed the cyclic forward. Al-Buraq came into sharp detail as they came in for a landing.
It was a beautiful ship, with long, clean lines, and technology integrated into every nook and cranny. Undoubtedly filled with electronic surveillance devices of every possible design. Alyan laughed to himself. One could take the man out of the secrets business, but never the secrets business out of the man.
The pilot executed a gentle touchdown and the side door opened immediately. The security man who greeted Alyan was armed with a submachine gun on a strap around his neck, a sidearm, a Taser, and a knife. And his hands. All of Saleh’s men were ex-Saudi special forces and trained killers.
“This way, sir,” he said in Arabic. With his free hand, he gestured toward the staircase aft of the landing pad.
“I know the way,” Alyan said. The security man spoke into his throat mic and stepped back with a nod.
The meeting room of the Arab-Israeli Benevolence Coalition was in the heart of the big yacht, one level below the main deck. The richly carpeted hallway leading to the room was a tribute to the owner’s long career. Pictures of Saleh with world leaders from the decades: Ronald Reagan, Anwar Sadat, Muammar Gaddafi, Abdullah II of Jordan, Erdogan of Turkey, Sheikh Khalifa of the United Arab Emirates, and finally, the current leader of the House of Saud.
Alyan noted that Saleh scrupulously avoided showing pictures of himself with famous female world leaders. In his less guarded moments, the old warrior railed against the recent efforts to allow more freedoms to women in the kingdom.
Alyan rapped on the door to the meeting room and entered. The sharp smell of burning tobacco nearly stopped him in his tracks.
“Finally,” growled Haim Zarecki, as he crushed out a cigarette. “You’re late—again.” He slipped a fresh Noblesse from a silver case and lit it even as smoke from the last cigarette leaked out from between his lips. The arms dealer’s skin was the color and consistency of water-spotted parchment, and he wheezed as he spoke.
From the clock on the wall above Zarecki, Alyan could see that it was two minutes past ten. He ignored the comment and dropped his mobile phone into the EM-shielded box by the door—another of Saleh’s meeting requirements.
“Salaam alaikum.” Saleh’s voice came from behind a cloud of cigar smoke. “Welcome to my humble home, my friend.”
“Alaikum salaam,” Alyan replied. He sometimes thought that Saleh smoked at these meetings as a way to fight back against his Israeli compatriot’s cigarettes.
In contrast to Zarecki’s obvious illness, Saleh was the picture of health. The hair brushed back from his forehead was snow white, contrasting with the deep bronze of his skin. High cheekbones, a firm jaw, and a generous nose gave the retired intelligence chief a royal look. His sharp eyes took in the newcomer at a glance, leaving Alyan with the feeling that he’d been measured and found lacking.
Alyan suppressed a flash of annoyance at Saleh’s demeanor as he took a seat next to the third man in the room, Itzak Lehrmann. Although he was a decade younger than Lehrmann, he liked to think of the man as a generational ally.
Lehrmann was impeccably dressed in his preferred garb: a dark blue, double-breasted jacket, white shirt, dark tie, and lapel pin. While technically a banker by trade, Lehrmann had made his real fortune in legal money laundering, mostly real estate deals. The über-wealthy Lehrmann family was the closest thing Israel had to business royalty.
Two Israelis, two Saudis—an unlikely grouping if there ever was one—bonded by the shared goals of financial and political power. As billows of cigarette smoke curled in the artful illumination, the silence in the room lengthened.
“Well, let’s get started,” Zarecki growled. Another cigarette butt joined its companions in a nearly full ashtray.
Saleh set his cigar aside and jetted a fresh cloud of smoke across the table. As he touched the control panel on the glass-topped table, the surface came alive with graphics. Another touch and the image morphed into a map of the Nile River basin.
Across the table, Zarecki moved his ashtray so as not to cover up the Central African Republic.
Spanning 4,500 kilometers, the Nile River was popularly associated only with Egypt, but Alyan had foreseen decades ago that the real wealth of the Nile lay upstream. As if on cue, Saleh reoriented the map to zoom in on the countries of the upper Nile basin: Sudan, Eritrea, and Ethiopia.
Alyan’s gaze traced the Nile south from Cairo, as it snaked across the desert to Khartoum, in Sudan. There, the mighty river broke into two branches: the White Nile ran from Lake Victoria, deep in the continent of Africa, and the Blue Nile drew its flow from the mountains of Ethiopia and Eritrea. A half dozen bright red bars transected each branch of the Nile River, denoting the location of dams being built.
The dams were the reason these four men were in the same room. The Arab-Israeli Benevolence Coalition, through an elaborate series of shell companies run by Alyan, had invested billions in each project. Each dam equaled potential untold wealth to the men at this table.
Like the Aswan High Dam, built in Egypt half a century ago, each new dam tamed the waters of the Nile, reducing uncontrolled flooding in the rainy season and making farming and development much more predictable. But the real wealth lay in the rapid industrial development in the nations bordering the mighty Nile and its tributaries.
Dams meant plenty of cheap electricity, predictable water supplies, and millions of customers hungry for a chance to live a modern lifestyle in the twenty-first century—all ingredients needed for massive business investment.
And th
e coalition won at every turn. Their initial investment in the dam construction paid them interest—heavily padded by Lehrmann’s connections—as did their share of the energy-generation revenue. Now they were about to embark on the expansion phase of their plan: luring multinationals to invest in the region.
There was only one problem—the Egyptians. After the political instability of the Arab Spring, the Egyptian political elite never fully recovered. While the countries controlling the flow of the Nile River built dams and made plans for their future, Egypt was locked in political turmoil. Now the fate of Egypt was in the hands of its upstream neighbors, causing tensions to ratchet up on both sides of the growing conflict.
The members of the coalition spoke in English, the only language they shared.
“Have we made any headway with the damned Egyptians, Saleh?” Zarecki grumbled as he sucked another cigarette to the filter.
Water treaty negotiations between Egypt, Sudan, and the Ethiopians had been going on for the better part of a year now with little to show for it. The Egyptians wanted guarantees of water flow during all seasons. The upstream countries wanted the freedom to fill their massive reservoirs quickly, which would reduce downstream flows for as much as two years or more. Then there was the fact that Sudan and Ethiopia would control water flow indefinitely to Egypt, which was unsettling for a nation that only existed because of the Nile.
Negotiations were stalled. Alyan feared that the next step was armed conflict, and armed conflict was bad for business.
“We have not.” Saleh discarded his cigar. “In fact, I have new intelligence that suggests a much bigger problem than Egyptian saber rattling.” His fingers tapped the keypad, and the map cleared. In its place was a photograph taken from a car window at night. The blown-up image was grainy, but the face unmistakable.
Zarecki smacked an age-spotted fist on the table and cursed. “Where was this taken?”