Covert Action (Command and Control Book 5), page 29
Timur Ganiev was tall, with an athletic build and a slight dusting of gray in his hair. He was dressed in a conservative dark blue suit and dark tie, with a matching traditional tubeteika skull cap embroidered with gold thread. The camera crew tracked his movements like they were stalking a rare wild animal.
Ganiev made a beeline for Secretary of State Hahn. Without waiting to be introduced, he held out his hand and said, in excellent London-accented English, “Mr. Secretary, it is a great honor. My name is Timur Ganiev.”
“The honor is all mine, President Ganiev,” Hahn replied.
Don hid a smile. It was a little funny that both men spoke with British accents while neither was British.
Ganiev waved his hand. “You flatter me, sir. The Central Asian Union exists only in the hearts of the people, and I am not their president.”
“Yet,” Hahn countered.
Ganiev put a hand on his heart. “Inshallah.”
God willing, Don thought, and maybe with a little help from Uncle Sam.
And maybe Timur didn’t need any help. Beneath his understated personality and self-deprecating manner, Timur Ganiev had a blend of charisma and personal magnetism that Don had seen among the most successful politicians. Based on the reactions as he worked the room, Timur also knew how to form instant personal connections.
The camera crew passed in front of Don. The woman was handling sound as the cameraman prowled beside their target.
Ganiev made his way through the members of Congress and then to the U.S. ambassador. He knew everyone’s name and rank without prompting, and his smile was warm and inviting to each.
Don hung back from the impromptu receiving line. He was not part of the official delegation. He was the help. Also, he did not want to be on camera.
But he wasn’t fast enough. Ganiev reached Don and held out his hand.
Don accepted the greeting and stammered out, “Mr. Ganiev, my name is—”
“Donald Riley,” Ganiev finished for him. “Deputy Director of Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency. I know who you are, Mr. Riley.”
His grip was firm, his gaze penetrating. Don realized that Ganiev had signaled the camera away. This guy was as savvy as they came.
“I hope you have a very pleasant stay in my country.” Ganiev cast a sidelong glance at Stellner, who hovered a few meters away making no effort to hide his sidearm. “But please do not stay too long.”
Ganiev turned to the woman who was part of the camera crew.
“Have you ever met someone from the CIA, Nicole?” he asked her.
Nicole regarded Don coolly. “Unfortunately, Timur, I have.”
Ganiev laughed. “Mr. Riley, this is Nicole Nipper, a very famous journalist who has chosen to waste her time making a documentary about me, of all things.”
Nipper’s expression made her opinion of the CIA plain. “Timur, we’re behind. The French delegation is waiting.”
Ganiev gave an exaggerated shrug. “I must leave you, I’m afraid.”
Don’s phone buzzed. He stepped away to take the call.
“Hello.”
“I’m calling from the clubhouse.” Anne Hart’s voice came through the receiver. Even though he was using a secure satellite phone, their conversation was scripted.
“Your bill is due,” she continued. “Would you like me to charge it to the credit card you have on file?”
Don's mouth went dry. Orazov had shown up to the meeting with Harrison. The operation was a go. Because of the unusual logistics of having the U.S. delegation only fifty miles from the scene of the assassination, the final kill authorization had been designated to Don.
He had three codeword options: “I’ll review the charges when I get home” meant abort; “I’ll call later with a new credit card” meant stand by; and “Charge it to the card on file” meant proceed.
“Sir?” Anne said.
Don’s mouth was dry. This was it, the moment of truth. He didn’t agree with Serrano’s plan to assassinate Orazov, but that wasn’t his decision. His responsibility was to make sure the kill operation did not impact the safety of the delegation.
“Sir?” Anne prompted. “How would you like to handle the charges?”
“Charge it to the card on file, please.”
“Very good, sir. Have a nice day.” Anne disconnected the call.
When Don rejoined the group, Timur Ganiev was gone.
43
40 kilometers west of Bukhara, Uzbekistan
Harrison sat at one of the chipped Formica tables. His foot tapped a nervous tattoo on the worn linoleum floor.
Calm down, he told himself, but it was no use.
He crossed his legs to stop his tapping foot and tried to focus on the TV. There was special coverage of the Jade Spike ceremony.
The subtitles were in Uzbek, but the TV images were easy enough to follow. Harrison caught a glimpse of a stage built inside of the huge concourse. Crowds of well-dressed people milled about. He spotted the U.S. Secretary of State seated in a box with an American flag draped across the front. He saw no sign of Don Riley, but he guessed his friend was pulling his hair out running security for a Cabinet member sitting inside a Chinese facility in Central Asia.
The buzz of an incoming text startled Harrison.
When he’d given up his personal mobile device, Harrison had insisted that all his calls and texts be rerouted to the burner. Don had objected, but Harrison stood his ground. He was still worried about Jenny. The compromise reached was that any incoming communications would be stripped of any identifying data before being relayed to Harrison’s new device.
Looking at the text now, he didn’t need a phone number to know it was from Jenny.
Got an email from the Ironclad service Tim was using. It said the files have been released. Not sure what that means. I fwded it to you. When ru coming home?
Harrison clutched the phone harder. He knew what she was really asking him: When are you bringing my husband’s body home?
He cut a look at the two guards, but they were absorbed in the TV. He tapped out a reply:
Just need to finish one thing here, then I’m on a plane. I’ll check out the email.
He sent the text, then shot another look at Orazov’s men before he logged onto the internet. He quickly navigated to his personal email service and found the forwarded message from Jenny. The subject line read: IronClad final release of data files.
Harrison scanned the text. After a set period of time with no activity, the service automatically gave the account holder’s designated survivor full access to all files. The default setting was 250 days.
Had it really been that long? A sudden pang of loss swept over him. Two-hundred and fifty days. His best friend in the world had been dead for 250 days.
Harrison clocked another look at the guards, then clicked on the link in the email.
Tim Trujillo’s life was summed up in icons. Email, text messages, USAA bank accounts, photos, all backed up on the IronClad file system.
Harrison clicked on the email icon and scanned the list. He’d seen all of these before. The same was true of the text messages. As he read through the last few texts between Tim and Jenny, he felt his heart break all over again. And he felt the anger bubble up, too.
He clicked on photos. The most recent photo was a video. Harrison frowned. He didn’t remember a video in Tim’s photos. He checked the time stamp.
For a second, Harrison forgot where he was or what he was doing here.
The time stamp was 0113 on the day Tim was killed.
His finger shook so badly that he had to press the screen twice to get the recording to start.
The picture was jerky, but well-lit. It appeared as if Tim had recorded it from a hiding place. Harrison squinted at the screen. Inside a lighted airplane hangar, two men were standing in front of a Gulfstream. One man was facing the camera, a Chinese man.
Harrison paused the recording and zoomed in on the face. He sat back in his chair.
Impossible. It couldn’t be him.
Harrison looked away, blinked, and cleared his mind. Then he looked at the phone screen again.
Yan Tao, the Chinese Minister of State Security, was in a video saved on Tim’s phone. From the night Tim died.
Harrison checked the data associated with the file. He stared at the latitude and longitude. He didn’t need to look them up. Harrison had seen them so many times, he’d memorized the coordinates for the Tashkent International Airport.
He restarted the video. The Minister was arguing with someone, but the man was facing away from the camera.
“Turn around, damn you!” Harrison whispered.
When the man turned, Harrison all but dropped the phone.
He blinked, struggling to process what he was seeing with his own eyes.
The puzzle pieces in Harrison’s mind tilted, shifted, rearranged—and fell into a new pattern.
He’d known all along that the Chinese had the ability to erase all records of a private aircraft landing in Tashkent after hours. But here was proof that a Chinese jet had been in Tashkent the night of Tim’s death. Moreover, the flight back to Beijing would have taken them right over Tim Trujillo’s final resting place.
His mind reeled. His mouth was dry.
His best friend was dead because of what he saw that night. A secret meeting between the most powerful intelligence officer in China and someone Harrison would never have suspected of being in bed with the Chinese.
Then a new thought hit Harrison like a hammer blow.
Everything about the Orazov kill order was based on a lie. The intel was wrong, dangerously wrong. He had to stop this—now.
Quickly, Harrison attached the video to a text and fired it off to Don Riley.
Then, he powered down his phone, took a deep breath, and stood up in one sudden movement.
The guards startled to their feet, reaching for their weapons.
“Call Orazov,” Harrison said. “Tell him the meeting’s off.”
The weapons came out now. The guards separated so it was hard for Harrison to track both of their movements. “Why?” one said.
Harrison blinked, unsure what to say.
When in doubt, tell the truth.
“This meeting is a setup. They’re going to kill him.”
44
Samarkand, Uzbekistan
The seating layout for the Jade Spike ceremony reminded Don of the way the inaugural platform was arranged on the steps of the U.S. Capitol.
A stage, raised about two meters off the ground, had been constructed at one end of the concourse in the Samarkand International Commerce Center. It was semicircular in shape and tiered upwards away from the main dais. At the focal point of the fan shape stood a massive plexiglass lectern that looked like an ice sculpture.
Seating on the dais was reserved for only the most important officials in attendance. Seating went by rank: the higher your perceived worth, the closer you were to the speakers on the main stage.
Don watched all this from the raised security platform set back fifty meters from the stage. Security chiefs from different organizations all over the world circulated among long camera lenses. The floor space between the security platform and the stage was packed with a standing audience of thousands.
Immediately in front of the podium was an open area roped off from the standing audience and guarded by uniformed PLA soldiers. It held the now-famous Jade Spike for which the ceremony was named.
Don studied it with field glasses. The emerald-green ceremonial spike was about a half meter long, displayed on a bed of crushed red velvet. Next to the spike lay a sledgehammer coated in gold leaf.
A vault with a thick glass cover had been built into the floor in front of the display. Don had read that the spike would be entombed in the vault at the end of the ceremony as a tribute to this great day.
That’s if the ceremony ever ends, he lamented. For the past forty-five minutes, he’d been listening to political speeches in foreign languages. He could have used the in-ear translation device he’d been issued, but he didn’t really want to know what the President of who-cares-istan had to say about the New Silk Road.
The only thing worse than listening to a political speech was listening to a political speech in a language he did not understand. Besides, he had other worries.
For the umpteenth time, he checked his mobile phone for an update from either Anne back in Langley or from Harrison.
Nothing.
Back on the stage, it sounded like the President of Kyrgyzstan was wrapping up his remarks. On the large monitors that flanked the stage, the man’s trimmed beard reflected the light as he spoke. His tone became more strident. He leaned forward and cocked his head to address his last few words at the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party seated to the right of the podium.
When the speaker finished, the Chinese leader nodded sagely, his fleshy face immobile. There was polite clapping from the crowd.
Don watched U.S. Secretary of State Henry Hahn through the glasses. Hahn sat ramrod straight in his seat behind a small American flag in the first row just to the right of the podium. The Secretary’s face might have been carved of stone and his lips were pressed together. Hahn had not wanted to make this trip. He’d advised President Serrano that the U.S. would be giving tacit approval to the Chinese Belt and Road Initiative by attending what was essentially a Chinese Communist Party ceremony in Uzbekistan. Don had been in the room when Hahn called the Chinese event “economic colonialism.”
But Serrano had another agenda. Don was not a politician, but after working with the President for eight years, he wasn’t a fool, either. Serrano was using Hahn as political cover, an alibi for the U.S. presence in Uzbekistan in case the assassination of Orazov was exposed. Hahn was also there to send a message to the Central Asian republics that the United States was still available as an economic alternative to the Chinese.
The President of Kyrgyzstan moved back to his seat, crossing in front of the most important guests that lined the edge of the stage. The presidents of all four Central Asian republics were on one side of the stage. On the other side, the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party was seated next to Timur Ganiev, representing the future of a unified Eurasia. Next to Ganiev was Lieutenant General Gao.
It seemed odd to Don that Gao was on the dais at all. He sat rigidly on the edge of his seat, his face impassive, his perfunctory clapping mechanical. His PLA dress uniform stood out among the business suits of the rest of the speakers, and he was the only one who was not a politician. Over the general’s shoulder, Don could make out the face of Secretary Hahn.
Don lowered the field glasses and checked his phone again for updates.
Nothing.
The announcer started speaking again in Mandarin and Don made out the words Timur Ganiev.
As Ganiev stood, a ripple swept through the crowd like a breeze through tall grass. He stalked toward the podium and mounted the gleaming lectern.
Less than a year ago, Timur Ganiev had been a grieving doctor running a tiny non-governmental organization in backwater Central Asian communities. Now, he was a celebrity. His face was everywhere and the Central Asian Union was a reality in the minds of millions of his countrymen.
Don studied the handsome face on the large monitors that flanked the stage.
I made this happen, Don thought. Operation Catbird plucked a nobody from obscurity and turned him into a force for good. Ganiev’s positive message had overpowered the hate-filled rhetoric of the SIF.
Don’s influence operation was even responsible for putting Ganiev on the stage. The leader of the CAU hadn’t been invited to the ceremony until Don’s people put their influence machine behind a petition to make him the keynote speaker at the Jade Spike ceremony. Grudgingly, the Chinese relented. Another win for the CIA.
But even that success had not been enough for President Serrano, Don mused bitterly. He wanted Orazov dead and buried.
It was ironic. The SIF and Ganiev both wanted the same thing—to be independent—but they took opposite paths. The SIF took the path of violence. Ganiev chose to raise people up, to appeal to their better angels.
Don raised his glasses again and swept across the crowd. He was able to pick out Stellner with ease. Everyone in the audience was facing the stage except for the tall white guy prowling the edge of the gathering. He watched the audience.
Don shifted his field of view and found Myers on the opposite side of the stage doing the same thing. Both were in excellent position to protect Secretary of State Hahn, if needed.
Ganiev stood behind the ice sculpture podium, looking every inch a man of the future.
He gracefully acknowledged the previous speakers and thanked the General Secretary for the opportunity to “address my people.”
The choice of words was not lost on the room. Another whisper of excitement swept through the audience.
He paused, his hands finding the edges of the lectern.
“But most of all I wish to thank the people of the Central Asian Union for awakening to their power.”
Spontaneous applause crackled. Like everyone else, Don found himself leaning forward to catch each nuance of the man’s words.
“We are at a time of great change in our region,” he continued. “A once-in-a-millennia reordering of power. I have traveled these republics from one end to the other. I have met the people whose ancestors were born on this land, who farmed this land, who tended herds on this land . . . who gave their lives for this land. What I found may surprise some of you: We are more alike than we are different.”
His face creased into a stern frown. “Today, you heard from four separate governments. These leaders represent political structures that have kept us apart for the last hundred years. These political structures were designed for one purpose: to keep us apart. Stop us from recognizing our shared humanity, our shared strength.”
A buzz from Don’s mobile phone interrupted his concentration.
He stared at the screen. He’d expected a coded update from Anne Hart, but instead the text was from Harrison. All it contained was a video attachment. The text read:
