by C. A. James
“I don’t know, McCaig,” said Christine. “Your theory is growing on me, but it’s just so . . .”
“It explains everything!” said McCaig. “Who benefits from war? It sure as hell ain’t Iran. Iran’s going to get its ass kicked. Sorry Colonel, but it’s true.”
“I am realistic, Captain,” said Zarrabian.
“It’s the guys who make bombs and planes and ships,” said McCaig. “The guys who sell oil, and the guys who build new bridges, roads, and power plants after the USA bombs the country back to the Stone Age. Billions and billions of dollars. Trillions of dollars. Who benefits? Those guys!”
Christine shook her head. “You’re saying that a bunch of industrialists and politicians are starting a war? Like that James Bond movie, Tomorrow Never Dies? It makes a good movie, McCaig, but seriously?”
“Ms. Garrett is right,” said Zarrabian. “This conspiracy you are proposing is very hard to believe, especially here in America.”
“Just go with me on this theory for a few minutes,” said McCaig. “Assume this was carried out by a group of American politicians, industrialists, and a few military men. To start with, why did they train Zarrabian and the others in Arizona? Because their the whole operation was an American operation.”
“Well, if we accept this hypothesis,” said Zarrabian, “it also explains why our camp had almost no staff, just a couple drivers, and why our orders came by video link from just two superiors.”
“Damn, you’re right!” said McCaig. “Conspiracies have to be small or someone spills the beans.”
“Guys, you can’t be serious,” said Christine. “This would be a conspiracy like never before. We’re talking treason. Death penalty stuff. Politicians planning military attacks on their own country.”
“Unbelievable or not, the more I think about this, the more it makes sense!” said McCaig.
“And you think they could pull this off in secret?” said Christine. “Nixon’s Watergate conspiracy was just eight guys, and they couldn’t keep it hidden. Anyone plotting a conspiracy like this would need dozens of trusted conspirators in key government and military positions. They’d have to be men who had known each other for decades. They would have to trust each other one hundred percent.”
“Why would such men plot treason against their own country?” asked Zarrabian.
“They wouldn’t see it as plotting against their own country,” said Christine. “Not that I’m taking your side yet, McCaig, but many conservatives would see a war with Iran as long overdue.”
“Here is another puzzle piece that fits,” said Zarrabian. “It explains the problem of smuggling explosives and weapons into the country. They did not have to. They were already here.”
“It explains the targets, too,” said McCaig. He turned to Zarrabian. “Didn’t you say your original target was the Bay Bridge, and that you were supposed to just damage it? Something that could be repaired?”
“That was our mission, yes.”
“And your superiors made it clear you had to avoid civilian casualties? Some bull about how Iran wanted to show that it could retaliate without harming civilians? I’ll bet you liked that part.”
“It is true. I was not pleased about the prospect of targeting civilians, and might have rejected the mission if it involved the deaths of many citizens, even though America has no such moral guidelines when it comes to its wars. My team changed our target to the Golden Gate Bridge. We decided to destroy it rather than merely damage it. But we planned our mission carefully to clear civilians from the bridge before we destroyed it. It would have been much simpler to drive large explosive-filled trucks onto the bridge and detonate them immediately, but many would have died.”
“Wow,” said Christine. “They wanted to avoid casualties because they were bombing their own country.”
“It also explains why my country tried to assassinate me when I contacted them,” said Zarrabian.
Christine looked puzzled. “But if they’re really not involved in all this, why wouldn’t they try to keep you alive? Wouldn’t your story exonerate Iran?”
“They do not know my story,” said Zarrabian. “All they know is that a group of Iranian soldiers, including one high-ranking officer, disappeared or defected. They have no idea why or how. We represent a huge risk. The best way to eliminate that risk is to eliminate me.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Every new piece fits the puzzle.”
“There’s still a big one that doesn’t,” said McCaig. “How did those attack helicopters and the Harrier jet get there so fast? And wasn’t it amazing that an aircraft carrier just happened by at the right time?”
“Why is that a problem?” asked Christine.
“There are no military bases anywhere near San Francisco that have that sort of aircraft. Those three aircraft must have flown from a US Navy assault ship. It’s like an aircraft carrier, but for helicopters, Harrier jets, Ospreys, and anything else that can take off vertically without a runway.”
“OK, why is that a mystery?”
“It’s not a mystery so much as an amazing coincidence. First of all, you don’t normally fly fully armed military aircraft in domestic airspace on your typical sunny day. So those aircraft didn’t just happen to be there by good luck. Second, it’s very rare for one of those Wasp-class navy ships to be anywhere near our own coastline. They spend their time where there’s trouble.”
“So,” said Christine, “you’re saying it couldn’t have been a coincidence, that someone had to be sure the ship was there on the right day?”
“Exactly. Or make sure that the attack was on a specific day when the ship was already going to be near San Francisco.”
“Why is that a problem?” she asked. “If this conspiracy included a navy admiral, couldn’t he have changed the ship’s schedule on some pretext?”
“Not likely,” said McCaig. “Even an admiral can’t just order a ship around. Their missions are coordinated far in advance. A ship like that isn’t a single ship, it’s a whole carrier group. At least a half-dozen escorts.” He turned to Zarrabian. “Colonel, didn’t you tell me you changed just about everything about your mission? The target, the plan, and the date?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So how did they know when to be there? They couldn’t have a huge Wasp-class aircraft carrier sitting there for weeks.”
Zarrabian’s head dropped, and he stared at the floor. He mumbled something and shook his head.
“What was that?” said McCaig.
He spoke slightly louder. “Ibrahim. I was a fool. I didn’t trust my instinct. Of course, it all makes sense now.”
“Who was Ibrahim?” asked Christine.
Zarrabian looked up again. “He was the traitor. Strangely, he is also why I am still alive. You know, of course, that I was climbing on a rope below the bridge when the helicopters attacked my operation.”
“Yes, we have photos of you. Why on Earth did you climb down that rope just as the helicopters were approaching?”
“Ibrahim came to the training camp a few weeks after the rest of us arrived. He was reserved and spoke very little. We thought he was a strange man, but our private lives were of no concern. Our goal was to accomplish our mission. The only time he spoke more than a few words was when we changed our target to the Golden Gate Bridge. He became very angry and told us we were going against our orders.
“He also caused a delay. We would have been ready a week earlier, but Ibrahim made a mistake while testing the detonation electronics and damaged them, and we were forced to find a replacement part. I see now that it was no mistake.”
“Because it delayed the mission until the day the navy’s ship would be nearby,” said McCaig.
“That must be why. Then as we were preparing the explosives on the bridge, he suddenly disappeared. I needed every man. It was a chaotic time, because the Harrier had already been shot down and the helicopter gunships were in sight. We only had moments to complete our preparation
s. I saw a rope tied to the railing. It made no sense. When I looked over the railing, he was standing on a steel girder under the bridge, talking on a cell phone. I knew in an instant that he was a traitor, that it could not be a coincidence that he was under the bridge at the very moment the helicopters arrived. I had to kill him quickly to prevent any further communication with the enemy—I mean, of course, the conspirators in your government.”
“And now we know,” said McCaig. “He must have been giving out your plans and location the whole time.”
Zarrabian shook his head again. “He was taking cover. He knew the helicopters were going to kill us, because he was the one who called them in.”
“Wow,” said McCaig.
“One more question,” said Christine. “Who fired the missile at the Harrier jet?”
“It was Ibrahim,” said Zarrabian. “Why do you ask?”
“TJ and I reviewed videos of the Harrier. The pilot ejected just one half second after Ibrahim fired the missile. Nobody can react that fast, and the ejection sequence takes the pilot a couple seconds.”
“You mean . . .?”
“The pilot must have prepared to eject before the missile was fired. Ibrahim may have been waiting for a signal from the pilot.”
“Another piece of the puzzle,” said Zarrabian.
“All the pieces,” said McCaig. “They all fit.”
“No, there is still one more piece” said Zarrabian. “I was never kidnapped by Americans. I was in the Grand Bazaar in Tehran, with my beautiful wife and my little girl. I saw them killed. I saw the Bazaar in ruins. I felt the weight crushing my chest, and I woke in a hospital badly injured. Yet you say this could not have happened. This piece of the puzzle is still wrong.”
Zarrabian looked at the floor. Nobody spoke for a long time. Christine finally broke the silence.
“Well, what’s next?”
McCaig looked at Zarrabian. “The white flag is still flying, Colonel. The terrorist is not in this room. He’s in an office in the Washington somewhere.”
“I believe it is more than a white flag flying between us, Captain McCaig. My enemy and your enemy appear to be the same man. Unless I am mistaken, we are now on the same side of this battle. Me to save my country, and you to save yours.”
“Senator, we intercepted a phone call from TJ McCaig to his former partner at the FBI,” said Patterson.
Blackwell saw a hint of a smile cross Senator Platte’s face.
“So you traced the call and have McCaig’s location? You’re about to capture the Iranian? I need some good news, Jack,” said Platte.
“No, sir,” said Patterson. “McCaig used a prepaid phone and then turned it off. All we know is that his phone call went through a cell tower somewhere west of Modesto in Central California.”
Platte’s half-smile disappeared. “What did he want?”
“He asked about Zarrabian’s family. He wanted to know if they are alive.”
Senator Platte stood up from his desk and walked slowly to his window, hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out the window for a long minute. “Jack,” said Platte without turning, then paused again.
“Sir, we’re not sure what this means. It’s probably nothing,” said Patterson.
Platte turned back. The bright sky behind him made his face dark. Even silhouetted, Blackwell could see a seething anger in his eyes.
“I promised your mother I’d look out for you, Jack. Lord knows why, but I did. I pulled strings, cleaned up your messes, called in favors. Do you realize where you’d be today without me?”
“Sir, I—”
“Nowhere, Jack,” said Platte. He raised his voice. “You’d be nowhere! Maybe working at some junior-level manager slot, a slobbering drunk, with an ugly wife and three disgusting kids!”
Platte leaned over Patterson and put his hands on the arm of Patterson’s chair, his face just inches from Patterson’s. His voice became soft and sinister. “I made you what you are today, Jack. A two-star general. Chief of staff to the president of the United States. Wealthy and respected. Do you know how much that cost me? Do you?”
“Respectfully, sir, I earned these stripes.”
“No you didn’t. You have no idea. No idea. Every time you fucked up, I pulled your ass out of the fire. Every time your career stalled under the weight of your ineptitude, I jump-started it. You have talent, Jack, but you fucked too many times. And now this!”
He pushed himself up and walked back to the window. “All these years, everything I did for you, and when I call on you to do this one thing and do it right, you fail me.”
“Uncle Dean, I think you’re making more of this than—”
“Don’t you ‘Uncle Dean’ me, Jack! I’m 'Senator' to you.”
“Sir, McCaig just asked one harmless question about Zarrabian’s family!”
“You see what I mean, Erica? You understand, don’t you?” asked Platte.
Blackwell felt surprising disgust at this family squabble. She’d always figured there was nepotism regarding Platte’s nephew Patterson—that was hardly news in Washington. But this? This was more than a little nepotism. It sounded like Patterson was little more than his uncle’s puppet.
Her mind spun back through the years: the campaign, the wheeling and dealing for political appointments, her surprise when Patterson’s name came up, strong endorsements of General Patterson from key party leaders, Whitman’s unexpected agreeability. None of it made sense at the time, but now it did—it was all Platte, wasn’t it? Platte had manipulated the campaign, the entire party’s machinery, Blackwell, and the president himself, to get his nephew on the president’s staff.
And now a single man, Senator Dean Platte, was in control of the Senate Armed Services Committee and seemed to be a puppeteer controlling the White House chief of staff. It was unthinkable. What sort of man could wield such power?
Platte was staring at her, waiting for her answer. She kept her face neutral and chose her words carefully. It was clear she’d underestimated Platte.
“I think McCaig’s question about Zarrabian’s family indicates that we have a big problem, Senator,” she said.
“Thank you. I’m glad someone else in this room understands the gravity of the situation. Can you please explain it to Major General Patterson here? He seems to be a bit befuddled by the implications.”
“Well, Senator, the only reason McCaig would care about Zarrabian’s family would be to reassure Zarrabian that they’re alive.”
“Exactly! You see, Jack?” said Platte.
“Um, well, yes sir, but—”
“And Erica, why might Zarrabian need such reassurance?” asked Platte.
“Because Zarrabian thought they were dead,” she said.
“And?” said Platte.
“Well, Zarrabian is the only one who thought they were dead. That means McCaig must have had a long conversation with Zarrabian. Zarrabian probably told McCaig everything about his mission, including why he turned into a terrorist. Since McCaig knows the Grand Bazaar of Tehran was never bombed, he’ll be digging for facts. And we still have nothing on how McCaig and Zarrabian met or what they know about each other.”
Platte turned to Patterson. “You see, Jack? Now that wasn’t hard, was it? It didn’t even take a general to figure it out.”
“Yes, sir. I think I see the problem. You’re saying that if that reporter Garrett is with McCaig—”
“We know she is, right?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, we’re pretty sure she is. So she’s digging into Zarrabian’s story too.”
“Exactly! See, you’re not quite as dumb as I thought! Now Erica, can you fill us in on the rest of this?”
“Well, Senator, I don’t think we have a catastrophe yet. There’s no hard evidence, just Zarrabian’s story. If he’s captured alive, he’ll either sound crazy or like he was fed propaganda by his own country. And we’re on track for military action against Iran. You’ve got the senators lining up, the public is hopping mad, and th
e president feels like he has no choice. We just have to be sure Garrett never gets on the air with this story.”
“What about McCaig?” asked Patterson.
“He’s nothing,” said Blackwell. “He’s already discredited himself because he knew Zarrabian and didn’t say so. He looks bad, and we can throw the book at him if he becomes a problem.”
“OK, thank you Erica.” said Platte, “So all is not lost. It’s just Zarrabian’s word on everything.”
“Yes, sir,” said Patterson.
“And he’s officially dead, so if Zarrabian were killed and the body disappeared, there would be no questions.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” said Patterson.
“And don’t forget, Jack. Zarrabian is a terrorist. He kills people. If the three of them are together, well, McCaig and Garrett are taking a huge chance meeting with such a dangerous man.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
“Do you? This isn’t just your career at stake. The people I represent are very powerful people, Jack. Very powerful. They don’t like mistakes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They don’t like loose ends.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need to take care of this problem.”
Payback
Omar Bashir raised his hand to knock on Smith’s office door, but hesitated. He had to collect himself, calm his nerves. He was still smarting over his last encounter with Smith, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to let Smith see it. He took a deep breath, exhaled, smoothed his jacket, and knocked.
“Come!” yelled Smith through the closed door. Bashir entered and found Smith was reading a report. He didn’t look up. Bashir was annoyed but stood patiently. It was a power move—Bashir wasn’t as important as the paper on Smith’s desk.
Bashir stared out the window over Smith’s head and let his mind wander . . . .
A dozen youths were lined up, backs against a crumbling stone wall, waiting in the hot sun. Israeli soldiers slowly and lazily searched each boy and asked a few questions. When they finished patting down the last boy, they smoked cigarettes, joked amongst themselves, and made insulting comments about their detainees. The boys could do nothing but wait and sweat in the hot sun. It was infuriating.