Countdown to Midnight, page 19
“Our best intelligence is that Iran’s missile programs are controlled by the Revolutionary Guards,” Demopoulos pointed out carefully. “Which makes smuggling a long-range rocket out of Iran a clear violation of our country’s independent sanctions against the IRGC. And that, in turn, makes the Gulf Venture a legitimate target for covert action, either to disable the tanker in port . . . or to seize the ship outright when it’s at sea. Plus, the chance to examine one of its most advanced missiles up close would open a goldmine of technical intelligence about Iran’s real military capabilities.”
There was a long, awkward moment of silence while Horne’s face reddened even further. Inwardly, Reynolds started a mental countdown to the explosion she saw coming.
“Have you lost your mind?” the DCI finally barked. “Do you seriously expect me to approve provocative action of that sort? Purely on the basis of what can only charitably be described as rumor and lunatic speculation? And at a time when this whole administration is doing its goddamn best to improve our diplomatic relations with the Iranians? I’m supposed to wreck a major foreign policy initiative being pushed by the president of the United States himself? And to do what, for Christ’s sake? Stop Tehran from sending some piss-ass country somewhere one lousy rocket?”
Obviously opting to try to save his career rather than take up the offer to argue openly with Horne, Demopoulos stayed quiet. A muscle twitched slightly at the corner of his mouth, though—revealing his inner fury at being lectured like a schoolboy by a man whose sole qualifications for the DCI job were his political connections.
The DCI’s heavy-lidded gaze slid to Reynolds. “What’s your view on this, Miranda?” he asked, with deceptive calm.
She shot a quick glance at Demopoulos. She could almost read the appeal for support in his eyes. Oh, hell no, she thought coolly, there was no way she was joining him at the chopping block. Not with Horne already starting to sharpen his axe. Besides, she was confident that the Analysis Directorate chief had let himself be played by whoever was really feeding him all this material about missiles and oil tankers and all the rest.
If she had to place bets, her guess now was that his private GLASS ISLE material had its ultimate origins in Israel. The Israelis were already locked in an undeclared war with Iran. Their small navy and commando units periodically carried out attacks against Tehran’s shipping, especially targeting its oil tankers and weapons shipments. To date, they’d been successful more often than not, but the logistical strain of carrying out a prolonged campaign so far beyond Israel’s borders had to be immense. Luring the U.S., with its much larger and more powerful Persian Gulf naval task force, into joining in against Iran would be pure profit for her counterparts in the Mossad. Well, she decided, going down in flames to help the Israelis out of a jam was definitely not part of her career game plan at Langley.
Firmly, Reynolds shook her head. “Even assuming there really is a missile hidden aboard that tanker, so what?” she asked caustically. “The interagency consensus—one shared by all of our closest allies—is that Iran’s nuclear program hasn’t been able to produce a working fission bomb yet, right?”
Reluctantly, Demopoulos nodded.
“So what’s the real threat here?” Reynolds continued remorselessly. “Does anyone here seriously believe that a single rocket, armed, at most, with a conventional high-explosive warhead—no matter how large—really poses some type of an existential threat to the U.S.? Or to any of our allies, for that matter?”
Gamely, Demopoulos tried to recover lost ground. “Conventional weapon or not, it’d be a hell of a black eye for the administration and for the Agency if the Iranians or one of their terrorist group surrogates managed to lob a warhead into New York or Washington or Houston,” he warned. “The kinetic impact alone could knock down a skyscraper and kill a lot of people.”
“Maybe so . . . if everything went right for them and wrong for us,” Reynolds allowed with an unconcerned shrug of her shoulders. “But how many times did you say the Iranians have tested their Zuljanah rocket?”
His mouth tightened. Plainly, he saw where she was headed. “Twice, so far,” Demopoulos said quietly.
She smiled sweetly back at him and then went ahead and stuck her metaphorical shiv right between his ribs. “And what happened on that second launch, Phil?”
“We think the payload vehicle malfunctioned on its way to orbit,” he conceded tightly. “Which apparently forced the Iranian launch crew to order it to self-destruct.”
Reynolds turned back to Horne, who wore an expectant expression on his florid face. “There you have it, Charles,” she said calmly. “I don’t believe this is a threat worth getting all worked up over.” Her shoulders lifted again. “Anyway, we have excellent coverage of the entire Western Hemisphere. If Tehran does ship this missile somewhere within range of the U.S., we’ll spot it soon enough. And, if necessary, we can always blow it up on the launch pad then—without unnecessarily upsetting our masters in the White House.”
From the pleased look Horne gave her, she knew she’d made her point. She almost felt sorry for Philip Demopoulos. He should have known better than to hope she’d back him up on this. Besides, if he’d bothered to share that private source of raw intelligence material with her first, she could have warned him off before it was too late. No, she thought coldly, this was all his own fault.
The head of the Analysis Directorate had played games to make himself look good . . . and instead all he’d managed to do was guarantee that the CIA’s risk-averse director would turn a blind eye to whatever the Iranians were planning. If she’d honestly believed this missile they were smuggling posed a real threat, that would have bothered her. As it was, Miranda Reynolds was just grateful she’d been given the opportunity to bolster her own standing inside Langley at Demopoulos’s expense.
Twenty-Two
Almas Tower, Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Several Hours Later
Sixty-eight stories high, the shining steel-and-glass Almas Tower soared nearly twelve hundred feet into the air. Even then, it was only the eighth tallest of the more than two hundred high-rises that crowded Dubai’s skyline. Almas was the Arabic word for “diamond” and, seen from above, the tower’s shape resembled an enormous cut gemstone. It had been purpose-built to house firms linked to the UAE’s prosperous diamond, precious gemstones, and pearl trade—including Dubai’s Diamond Exchange. As a result, security was extremely tight. That factor alone had attracted the Quartet Directorate’s favorable attention back when the office tower opened. Now one of Four’s front organizations, Sykes-Fairbairn Strategic Investments, maintained a small office on one of the highest floors. Most of the time it was empty, serving only as a useful accommodation address that helped maintain the illusion that Sykes-Fairbairn was a legitimate investment firm with worldwide connections. Tonight, however, it provided a convenient place for a secure meeting only a hundred and sixty air miles from Bandar Abbas.
Nick Flynn stood at one of the office’s large windows, looking out across a sea of dazzling light. Dubai’s highways, skyscrapers, and extravagant, palm-shaped artificial islands were all brightly illuminated—turning night into near-day for miles along the coast. Life in this oasis of commerce and luxury ran around the clock.
Stifling a yawn, he rubbed hard at his tired eyes. Sleep had been scarce over the past seventy-two hours. He’d spent most of those hours arranging the safe departure of his Quartet Directorate ops team from Afghanistan—along with their gear, including the BushCat light plane and the Predator. Once that was done, and everything was on its way to storage in various warehouses Four owned in the United States, Middle East, and Europe, he’d flown directly here to confer with Fox and Gideon Ayish about possible next moves.
Just at the moment, however, they were all waiting to hear back from Fox’s contact inside the CIA. At a muttered “damn” from Fox, Flynn turned away from the windows in time to see the other man put his smartphone down with a frustrated expression on his thin face. “No joy from Langley?” he guessed.
Fox shook his head. “None.”
“As we expected,” Ayish reminded him with a shrug.
“Low expectations are one thing,” Fox said wryly. “Having them met in reality is another.” He tapped the phone. “I did pick up one piece of fresh information from my source, but it’s not good news either. The Gulf Venture has moved from the shipyards to a berth at the Bandar Abbas oil terminal.”
Flynn frowned. “So whatever the Iranians and their Raven Syndicate allies are planning must be about to kick off.”
“That is the most logical assumption,” Ayish agreed.
“And even knowing that, the CIA is really just going to sit by on its high and mighty ass and do damn-all?” Flynn asked.
“Langley won’t step on White House toes,” Fox explained quietly. “Not when the threat seems so low.”
“Low?” Flynn retorted. “That rocket I saw on the move is bigger than some of our ICBMs. You can pack a helluva lot of explosives on something that size.”
The older American nodded patiently. “True, Nick. But one missile with a conventional warhead still only adds up to the modern equivalent of a WWII-era V2 rocket. A weapon like that might take out a block and do a lot of damage, but it’s not a city-killer. And Iran doesn’t have nukes. Not yet, anyway.”
And then, in the blink of an eye, Flynn saw the piece of this puzzle they’d all been missing from the very beginning. Son of a bitch, he thought, feeling suddenly afraid. As hard as they’d worked this problem, he and the others in Four had still been acting as though it was just the usual spies and counterspies variant of a low-stakes poker game—one where move met countermove and deaths could be counted on one or two hands. But now it turned out that the bastards sitting across the table were actually going all in—and this game was really being played for the life and death of hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions.
“Iran may not have nukes,” he said tightly. “But Russia sure as hell does.”
Ayish furrowed his brow. “What reason do we have to believe Moscow would ever provide the Iranians with such weapons?”
In answer, Flynn leaned over the table and flipped open the folder Fox had brought with him. It contained all the photos they’d been accumulating from the beginning, those retrieved from Skoblin’s computer and other sources, and now the images he’d taken outside Bandar Abbas. He pulled out their single blurry black-and-white contemporary picture of Pavel Voronin and slid it across to the two older men.
“This guy Voronin is my reason,” he said flatly. “Why else would Tehran need the Raven Syndicate? That rocket they’ve stowed aboard the Gulf Venture is Iranian-made from top to bottom. So’s the oil tanker itself, for that matter. And the Revolutionary Guard Corps doesn’t exactly have a shortage of trained killers in its own ranks. So the Iranians have zero real need to rely on Voronin’s ex-Spetsnaz mercenaries as muscle for this MIDNIGHT operation of theirs.” He shook his head. “All of which indicates the Raven Syndicate must have brought something extremely important to the table. Something the Iranians couldn’t provide themselves. Something like a nuclear weapon.”
Fox stared down at the photo. “Giving the Iranians a nuke? What would Voronin hope to gain from going that far?”
“Money,” Flynn suggested. “And lots of it.” He shrugged. “Remember, this guy and his old boss Grishin were willing to sell his own country’s stealth bomber to the highest bidder.” He paused for a moment. “So what’s the going price for a fusion bomb these days?”
“A very large sum, indeed,” Ayish said quietly. He frowned. “But I do not believe that even someone like Voronin could gain access to a nuclear weapon. Not without explicit authorization from the very highest levels of the Russian government. Moscow’s security protocols for its nuclear arsenal are much too strict to be easily circumvented.”
“They are,” Fox agreed slowly. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes darkened. “Unfortunately, Gideon, it’s only too clear that President Zhdanov himself is Voronin’s patron and protector.”
Ayish shook his head stubbornly. “You think Zhdanov would approve providing Tehran with such a weapon? The means, I grant you. But the motive? What can Russia hope to gain from so dangerous a move?”
“Plausible deniability,” Flynn told him. “If anything goes wrong, the shit hits Iran—and not Russia. By using the Iranians as his front group, Zhdanov can smack one of Moscow’s enemies hard and escape retaliation.”
“A daring and vicious concept,” Ayish agreed carefully. “But while I agree that Piotr Zhdanov is certainly an ambitious and evil man, he is also not a fool. I don’t see how Moscow could hope to retain control over a nuclear weapon once it was in Iranian hands. Iran may be an ally of Russia, but it is not a vassal or a puppet state. If the radicals in Tehran change their minds and decide to use their new bomb as they see fit, even against Russia’s interests, what are Zhdanov’s safeguards?”
“The Raven Syndicate,” Flynn said, working it out. “My bet is that’s why we keep finding Voronin’s men so deeply embedded in this operation. His people are along to make sure that warhead is used for its intended purpose . . . and not for something else—like being taken apart and reverse-engineered to advance Tehran’s own nuclear weapons research.”
Ayish sighed. “I will not take that bet.” He nodded reluctantly. “Very well, Nick, I accept your premise, deeply unsettling though it is. We have to assume that the missile concealed aboard the Gulf Venture is now armed with at least one live nuclear warhead.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, this knowledge doesn’t bring us any closer to understanding where and how our enemies plan to use this weapon.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Flynn agreed. “But one thing’s sure: once that tanker sails, it can go anywhere in the world. We can’t rule out any target. Not D.C. Not Los Angeles. Not London or Paris.”
“Or Tel Aviv or Jerusalem,” Ayish added somberly.
Fox nodded. “Indeed.” He got up from the table and went to the windows to look out across Dubai’s glowing skyline for a long moment. Beyond the brightly lit islands along the coast, a vast band of darkness showed where the Persian Gulf spread across the horizon. Dozens of smaller lights blinked out at sea, signaling the presence of ships ferrying oil, passengers, and other goods down the Gulf. These were some of the busiest waters in the world. With a bleak expression on his face, he turned back to the table. “Okay, if our fears are accurate, we now face a nightmare scenario—a nuclear weapon in the hands of fanatics ready, eager, and willing to use it. Fanatics aided and abetted by one of the world’s great powers. The question then is, what we can do to stop these people before it’s too late?”
“I don’t see that we have much choice,” Flynn said forcefully. “Somehow we have to organize a strike force and take that damned ship the moment it crosses into international waters.”
The older American shook his head with a slight smile. “I can always count on you for the direct approach, Nick. But in this case, I don’t believe Four can put together a team with the sorts of skills and special equipment needed. At least not in the brief time remaining before the Gulf Venture is likely to sail.” Wearily, Fox pulled off his glasses. With his eyes closed, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, obviously considering the situation. Then he put his glasses back on and turned to Ayish. “Which leaves your people, I think, Gideon,” he said slowly.
The Israeli made a face. “Many of the same problems apply,” he said cautiously. “True, in the past, my country has dealt some shrewd blows to Iran’s shipping, but staging our forces into this region is always difficult and time-consuming. Unless we already have an operation in progress or planned for the near future, Israel may also lack the ability to act with sufficient speed and power,” he warned.
“But you’ll still make the case?” Fox pressed.
Ayish nodded gravely. “I will.” His gaze fell on Flynn. “But I’ll need Nick here at my side when I meet with those who command my nation’s special forces. They are likely to ask some very difficult questions that he is best prepared to answer.”
One side of Flynn’s mouth quirked upward in a quick, sidelong grin. “You sure about that, Professor?” he asked dryly. “I’m not much of a diplomat. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Your reputation for speaking hard truths to those who really don’t want to hear them precedes you,” Ayish admitted with a hint of amusement. “But in this case, with time so short, I believe straight talk may prove far more useful to us than tact.”
Twenty-Three
Atlit Naval Base, South of Haifa, Israel
Very Early the Next Morning
Situated near the ruins of a Crusader castle originally built for the Knights Templar, Atlit was the headquarters for the Israel’s elite naval special forces unit, Shayatet 13, the 13th Flotilla. Widely considered to be at least the equal of the U.S. Navy’s SEALs, Shayatet 13’s force of highly trained frogmen and commandos carried out missions that might range from hostage rescues to the assassination of terrorist leaders to the capture of enemy ships in port or out on the high seas. First organized in 1949, at the very beginning of the modern State of Israel, even the fact of its existence was kept secret for nearly ten years. To this day, most of the details of its daring exploits were still shrouded in mystery and rumor.
Given that history, Flynn had been stunned when he realized where he and Gideon Ayish were being driven after arriving at Ben Gurion Airport aboard a night flight from Dubai. He’d expected Ayish to arrange a discreet briefing for a select few inside Israel’s military establishment—perhaps at the offices of his counterterrorism think tank, another Quartet Directorate front, in Jerusalem. Instead, they were met at the airline gate by a uniformed officer of Israel’s naval forces and taken straight to this closely guarded base on the coast just south of the port city of Haifa.
