by David Bruns
CHAPTER 23
Pyongyang, North Korea
Pak paused outside the doors of Kim Jong-un’s office. He drew a deep, calming breath. Face-to-face meetings with the Supreme Leader were always touch-and-go affairs, completely at the whim of the great man. What sort of mood would he be in today?
The heavy gold-inlaid double doors swung open and Pak was announced. Smiling, he strode into the room, trying to exude more confidence than he felt.
Kim Jong-un’s office was styled in lots of gold, mirrors, the obligatory enormous self-portrait, and a desk piled with stacks of important-looking—and never read—papers.
The Supreme Leader rose and waited for Pak to approach. Pak halted a few feet away and bowed formally.
“You are back from Russia, yes?” the great man said, striding around the massive desk. He seated himself in a gaudy golden chair with golden pillows, waving Pak to a similar seat opposite. This was the Supreme Leader’s informal “talking circle”—a welcome sign that his mood was positive today.
“I’ve just returned, Excellency, my third trip,” Pak said. “The Russians wish you well in the new year.”
The other man’s substantial jowls shook as he laughed. “I doubt that, Pak. Tell me: Did you get paid?”
Pak answered in a cautious tone. It was unlike the Supreme Leader to ask about money so soon in the conversation. For one moment of blinding terror, he wondered if his boss knew how much Pak was skimming off the transaction. It was more than usual, since he had to account for Rafiq’s cut as well, but he had taken extra precautions.
“Yes, Excellency, the Russians paid promptly. Thirty million US dollars.” He coughed into his fist. “I’ve already routed it through the normal process. The treasury will have access to the funds in another twenty-four hours.”
Kim pouted.
“Is there a problem, Excellency?”
“We should have charged them more. We’re taking all the risk so they can make billions in profits.”
Pak smiled, back on firm ground. “This is just the beginning. Once we’ve established ourselves with the Bratva, we can charge more.”
Kim plucked a grape from the lavish golden bowl on the coffee table between them and popped it into his mouth. “Try a red one. They’re from California.”
Pak detached a grape. The flesh of the fruit was firm between his fingers and glistened with moisture. He knew that each individual grape had been inspected for flaws and hand-washed before it ended up on the Supreme Leader’s plate. He placed it on his tongue and bit down. Sweetness exploded in his mouth.
“It’s magnificent,” he said.
Kim chuckled. “Yes, they are. Tell me about Jung Chul, my secret weapon.”
That was how the Supreme Leader referred to Rafiq—his secret weapon. Indeed, he was not far off the mark. In the years since Pak had brought Rafiq to the DPRK, the man had performed some valuable services for the regime. The assassination of an unfriendly European bureaucrat, blackmailing of a nuclear inspector, no fewer than four arms deals with various Middle East factions, hacking the US power grid, and Pak’s personal favorite: the elimination of his half brother, Kim Jong-nam.
It turned out hacking the US power grid had been a step too far. It had taken all of Pak’s influence to convince the Supreme Leader not to take credit for the attack. While Kim was delighted with his cyber prowess and wanted to show off his abilities to the world, Pak assured him the Americans would consider the hack an act of war—a prophecy that was borne out by their response when Rafiq convinced ISIS to claim responsibility.
“Roshed continues to carry on his good work for your regime, Excellency. His methods are unorthodox and bold, but he gets results. He is almost ready to begin this endeavor supporting the Russians. Do we have your permission to begin?”
Kim clapped his hands together. “Well done. I want to move forward immediately. I want you to give the order today.”
Pak cleared his throat.
Kim narrowed his eyes. “What is it, Pak?”
“Rafiq has taken some time off.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He was in Australia two days ago and now he’s disappeared.”
Kim’s brow wrinkled, and a shadow of fear flickered across his features. “Is he compromised? Have the Americans found out about our plan?”
He leaped to his feet, pacing the room. For all the regime’s media bluster about attacking America, the Supreme Leader feared the Americans more than any other country, including the Chinese. The omnipresent threat of US forces only a few miles beyond the DMZ was a constant reminder of his tenuous grasp on power.
Pak rose immediately, following his leader. “No, Excellency, I don’t believe so. I spoke to Rafiq before he disappeared. He said he had to take care of a family matter.”
Kim stopped pacing. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, sir. His wife is dead, that’s all I know.”
“And you’re sure he’ll be back?” The Supreme Leader’s dark eyes pinned Pak in place.
Pak swallowed. “Absolutely, Excellency. I’d stake my life on it.”
CHAPTER 24
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Brendan studied the giant wall screen on the Trident watch floor. “Well, Supe, are we there yet?”
“Ninety-one percent and holding steady, sir.”
“How’s the coverage in the Java Sea?” he said.
“Ever since we added the break-bulk freighters to the mix, we’re consistently meeting our coverage targets.”
Brendan nodded. Adding the phone booth–sized black boxes to foreign-flagged vessels was not his idea, but it had worked well. In that part of Indonesia, much of the freighter traffic was done by so-called break-bulk ships, operated by independent carriers who made their living hauling anything not in a standard shipping container from port to small port.
Besides, the large container ships had refused the CIA’s efforts to permanently install the comms nodes on their vessels, forcing the spy agency to resort to a complicated plan of placing the black boxes in shipping containers without the company’s knowledge. Brendan had added a full-time staffer just to coordinate the shipping schedules needed to ensure continuous coverage.
But it was done. And it worked. They now had full viral network coverage of all the hot spots on the globe.
“That’s a long way from a couple of guys in a sailboat, hey, McHugh?” Baxter’s voice was a welcome relief to Brendan’s overworked brain. He shook his former boss’s hand warmly.
“You here to see the show?” Brendan asked.
“Show?” Baxter turned in a slow circle, surveying the rows of computer workstations. “I don’t follow. You planning on showing a movie on the big screen?”
The watch supervisor made a face, and Brendan led Baxter away from the supe’s desk. “We’ve been holding at ninety percent coverage now for the better part of a week, so I’ve been authorized to turn on Piggyback.”
Baxter gave a low whistle. “Whoa, that’s big. You’re running months ahead of schedule, right?”
“Yeah, I’m getting pushed and I’m not liking it.” Brendan looked around. “Let’s go into my office.”
With fresh cups of coffee, the two men settled into chairs in Brendan’s office.
Baxter spoke first. “Okay, McHugh, spill it. You’re running one of the most successful intel programs in CIA history, you’re months ahead of schedule, and you’re about to release an entirely new comms capability. Yet you’re still down in the mouth. Talk to me.”
Brendan stared at his coffee cup. “I feel like we’re going too far, too fast. We are building the largest-ever network of communications and supercomputing assets, but I don’t feel like we’re giving enough attention to the downside.”
“The downside?”
“Trident goes beyond anything anyone’s even conceived of before. We’re setting up a viral network that includes the CIA, NSA, CYBERCOM, and the fleet—all interconnected.” H
e pointed at his office door. “The average age on the watch floor is twenty-seven. These are kids who believe if we can build it, we should build it.”
“So you’re worried about security?”
“Damn right! If someone did manage to get inside, there’s no limit to what they could access. It could make the hack on the power grid look like a tea party.”
“And you’ve expressed these concerns?”
Brendan snorted. “The average age of the people at the next level is thirty-two. I’m a fossil, Rick! Hell, Riley has midshipmen on the CYBERCOM watch floor. I’m too old for this, man.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m sorry, I’m talking your ear off. What did you come down here for anyway?”
“Update on Parable Cleaver.”
Brendan brightened. “Roshed. Have they found him yet?”
Baxter shook his head. “Our friend hasn’t poked his nose out of North Korea yet.”
“That we know about, you mean.”
“That we know about. I’m hoping Trident will give us a few more assets to use in the hunt. In fact, I’m headed over to see Riley at CYBERCOM to see if he’s got any ideas on how to find Roshed.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of which, I’m late.”
“Tell Don to stay on his toes. Anytime I question network security they tell me not to worry, that’s CYBERCOM’s responsibility. I long for the old days when we had signs everywhere: If you see something, say something.”
“You’re showing your age, Brendan.” Baxter’s face took on a serious cast. “Don’t stop voicing your concerns just because they’re not listening. They need to hear from us fossils.”
There was a knock at the door and Brendan’s aide poked his head in. “They’re ready for you, sir.”
Brendan stood. “Well, this dinosaur is about to make spy history, Rick. Sure you can’t stay?”
Baxter stuck out his hand. “Nope, I’m already running late.”
Brendan made his way back onto the dim watch floor where his team was assembled. The wall screen was covered with hundreds of active Trident sites. And he was about to link them all together.
“We’re at ninety-two percent and holding, Captain McHugh,” said the watch supervisor. His eyes were dancing with anticipation. Brendan looked around. The entire watch section was tense and happy. He cleared his throat.
“You all have worked really hard on Piggyback,” he said. “This system upgrade was completed months ahead of schedule and that was entirely due to your hard work and dedication. For that I am both proud and grateful. You all deserve a big round of applause.” He clapped and they all responded in kind.
“All right,” he said, “are we ready to do this?”
He got a few “yeahs” from the crowd.
“Okay.” Brendan stepped behind the operator at the watch desk. “Make it so, Number One.”
The operator swiveled in his chair to look at Brendan. “Come again, sir?”
Brendan looked around. “No Star Trek fans in here?”
Blank looks.
Brendan sighed. “You can turn on Piggyback.” Everyone watched the wall screen as the dots—each representing one node in the network—blinked, then turned green. It took a few minutes for all the contacts to convert. The group whooped and high-fived each other.
Brendan leaned down to the watch stander. “What if I had said ‘Engage’? Would that have worked?”
The man leaned back in his chair and cocked an eyebrow at Brendan.
“Nope.”
CHAPTER 25
Estancia Refugio Seguro, Argentina
Dickie Davis held on to his Heckler & Koch G36 as the four-wheel-drive vehicle careered through another pothole. Its headlights carved a cone of white in the inky darkness of the winding jungle road.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” he said.
“Not unless you want me to leave an axle on the road, Dickie,” the driver replied through clenched teeth. “Keep your pants on. The team’s in place and we have the target under surveillance.”
Davis gripped the armrest even tighter. “Just drive faster.”
Hiring a few freelancers to pick up a North Korean diplomat in Hong Kong was about to pay off handsomely. It was the perfect crime. Baxter hadn’t thought to put any coverage in Hong Kong, and that place was crawling with North Koreans. One phone call to a few ex–air force buddies was all it took to rattle Rafiq Roshed’s cage.
He chuckled to himself. And Mr. Stick-up-his-ass Baxter would be none the wiser.
The fact that he’d only had to pay his Hong Kong team twenty thousand dollars and he was about to get a ten-million-dollar payday made it all the sweeter.
All they had to do was kill Roshed and get the DNA evidence. Then Dickie Davis was on permanent vacation.
Davis had been on his way to a weekend in Buenos Aires when the tip arrived from one of their informants. Someone claiming to be Rafiq had contacted the local Hezbollah cell. When he’d first arrived, Davis had been surprised to find how active the Iranian-backed terrorist group was in the tri-border area of Brazil, Argentina, and Uruguay. There were dozens of cells and thousands of Hezbollah fighters and supporters in the region.
Davis wasn’t above using terrorists as informants. Everyone—even the terrorists—spoke the language of dollars, and he let it be known he’d pay well for any information about Rafiq Roshed. At the same time, his men set up a listening post near Estancia Refugio Seguro, where Rafiq’s children still lived.
Consuela and Javier. Children of the most wanted man in the world, living free on their old man’s money. And now their old man was coming home.
The truck skidded to a halt at the end of the dirt road. Davis energized his headlamp, swung to the ground, and jogged into the dense foliage. Their listening post was a few hundred yards into the jungle.
Four men looked up as he burst into the tent. “What’ve we got?” he demanded.
They were hunched over a map on the table. His crew chief, Finn, stabbed his finger at a thin line about five miles away. “The suspect took a bus to here and is heading this way on foot.” He tossed a phone to Davis. “We got pictures. Doesn’t look like Roshed, boss.”
Davis studied the screen, blowing up the image to study it more closely. A dark-haired man, with vaguely Middle Eastern features, and a salt-and-pepper scruff. He was the right age range, and the right build for their target. It had to be him.
“Probably had cosmetic surgery,” Davis said, tossing the phone back.
“Maybe, but we can’t be sure,” Finn said. “Should we pick him up?”
Davis studied the map. “You said he got off the bus and he’s headed this way?”
Finn nodded.
“Show me the live feed from the Puma.”
Finn spun the ruggedized laptop around and hit a few buttons. The IR video feed from the unmanned aerial vehicle came in clearly, showing a man walking on the familiar dirt road. He zoomed in on the IR image, looking for a cool spot at the small of the man’s back indicating a handgun.
“Bingo,” Finn said.
“Welcome home, Rafiq,” Davis said. “Set the Puma on autonomous flight and have it orbit over … here.” He tapped on the detailed topographical map at a sharp bend in the road that led to the ranch house.
“Tell the boys to set up for a chat with our visitor.”
* * *
Rafiq listened to the sounds of the jungle around him. He breathed in the earthy scent of rotting vegetation and dampness. He missed this place, these smells, this life.
Estancia Refugio Seguro—“refugio seguro” literally meant “safe haven”—was the one place on earth where he’d been truly happy. It had been a sanctuary for him, a place far from the endless fighting and the petty factions of his native Middle East. In that part of the world, who you were was decided before you were even born.
In Argentina, he’d found a new world, a place where a man was defined by the sweat of his brow and the people around him. He’d married Nadine, had two beautiful children with
her, inherited a vast estancia … and he had believed—if only for a short time—that his life was changed.
It wasn’t.
His Iranian half brother Hashem had called him back into action. Rafiq and the small nuclear device he had shepherded across the ocean and secreted in the wine cellar of the estancia were called back to the fight. He was the fail-safe. When his brother’s attack failed, Rafiq was assigned to attack the United States.
Hashem died in the sands of Iran. Rafiq could have disobeyed the call to action … but he didn’t. He left his wife and young family to undertake one last mission for a cause that no longer seemed to be his.
Even now, the moment when he’d said goodbye—his last goodbye—to Nadine still made his eyes sting. What if he had refused the order from Hashem? His beautiful Dean would still be alive, his children would know their father, this dirt he was burrowed into would still be his.… What if?
A cracking branch shattered the stillness, snapping Rafiq back to reality. Twenty meters away, the shadows shifted, and he caught a glimpse of a man’s silhouette. He smiled to himself. The time for what if was over. He might be an absent father, but no one would threaten his family and get away with it.
Rafiq turned on his night-vision goggles, and the forest took on a ghostly green clarity. He studied the terrain. This bend in the road, affording a clear line of fire from both directions and ample cover, was the natural spot for an ambush.
The man to his left was one. A second figure crept forward from Rafiq’s right. Two. A movement in the brush where the road turned. Three.
Rafiq angled his wrist to see his watch. Any minute now the man he’d hired would come walking down the dirt road from the main highway toward the ranch house. The man’s only crime was that he was the same height and build as Rafiq. He never even asked the man his name.
Two men appeared on the road coming from the direction of the ranch house. They hugged the edge of the woods, their weapons at the ready. Four and five.
A figure, walking in the center of the dirt road, appeared from the direction of the highway. The bait was in place, but Rafiq needed to find one more player in the game. He squinted at the foliage behind the unsuspecting victim. The last man would be there to make sure their quarry didn’t slip away and wasn’t being followed.
