by Jeff Rovin
“You said ‘the’ team,” Williams said. “Not ‘my’ team? Should I read anything into that?”
“All you should read is the file,” Berry said. “But I’ll tell you this. You will be working with people who presented the military with a problem: what do you do with individuals who are so good that conformity in a traditional special ops team would set them back?”
“The Department of Defense came up with the answer?”
“You know as well as I do that they do a lot of out-of-the-box thinking there.”
“Yes,” Williams agreed. “And rarely act on any of it.”
“This time they did,” Berry told him. “Any other questions, comments?”
Williams shook his head. Berry knew the other man too well to seem surprised or wounded. Part of Williams was grateful for this opportunity, since being locked out of the pursuit would have been torment. But a large part of him also resented how these scraps, the little fish bones that remained of Op-Center, were a minimal, meager, invisible thing … the result of a political show of force by January Dow. After Salehi, he wanted the hide of that professional power player. In its own way, using a tragedy for personal gain was nearly as heinous as creating it.
As Williams drove back to his new office, he listened to radio reports from New York and also tried to contextualize the responsibility that had been given to him. It was too early for that. For the first time in his professional life he knew nothing yet about the size, makeup, or nature of the complement he had been given. He did not know if the others had worked together, trained together, or even knew each other. He did not know where they were based or where he would be meeting them.
Even if it feels like a demotion, look at it as a clean slate, he counseled himself. As regrets began to really sink in, he accepted that for taking his eye off Salehi in the first place, he probably didn’t deserve even that much.
Williams eased himself into his new office with the coffee and Danish he had not had earlier in the day. Even this felt like penance—a waxy paper cup and vending-machine food wrapped in cellophane. At least no one was looking at him. No one knew who he was or why he was here … just another bull at the trough.
Sitting at the desk, Williams almost walked away twice in as many minutes. The feeling he had wasn’t about a demotion, he realized; it was about dehumanization. Machines to give him information; transportation up, down, and sideways; and even to serve him food. Once he met his team, they would interact with one another but not with him.
Christ. He was wrong. Years in the military and in government had not prepared him for this. And with the January Dows and Trevor Harwards running things, he would never have the kind of daily personal interaction he had known, for good or bad, for just over forty years.
There were different kinds of purgatory for public servants who failed and dishonored their sacred trust. Being shut out was one. Being shut in was another.
Before opening his files, Williams glanced at his smartphone, saw the messages from his former coworkers. Just the subject heads, all good wishes and thanks. Even from the Geek Tank. He didn’t have time to read them now, but they were the right connections at the right time.
He got to work.
CHAPTER NINE
Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport, San Juan,
Puerto Rico
July 22, 6:09 p.m.
Ahmed Salehi was not expecting to be greeted upon his arrival in steamy Puerto Rico. The plan had been for him to wait for the 6:15 p.m. flight to Antigua. The idea was to get away from American territory as soon as possible, stay the night, and leave the next day for home through South Africa, then Egypt, and finally Iran. Salehi had spent part of the flight wondering what it would be like to shed Balvan Prabhu after so many hours. He was beginning to enjoy projecting the serene, silent air he had conceived for his alter ego.
The captain arrived at the gate and was surprised to see the name Prabhu printed on a card. The man holding it looked like he might be a native. He might also be an opportunist, someone who had bribed an official for a look at the manifest in search of a foreigner who was traveling alone and might need assistance.
The man seemed to spark with recognition when he saw Salehi. It could be the disguise—no one else came off the aircraft looking like a Balvan Prabhu—but it could also mean he was a law enforcement agent who had been sent to draw Salehi over for a takedown.
The captain had no weapons and he would not get past the shorter man without being accosted. He did not speak the language but saw no option but to go over to him.
Salehi nodded at the man as if he had been expecting to be met. The man lowered the sign as the captain approached and smiled broadly. The man did not speak to Salehi in Persian or in Urdu, the rudiments of which the captain had learned for his work with Pakistanis. What he spoke, surprising the captain, was Russian. Salehi had learned that, too, for his work in Anadyr.
“Walk with me,” the man said.
Salehi complied, though he moved slowly. “Who am I walking with?” he asked.
“Juan Urrutia,” he said. “From Havana. The Russians spotted you in the airport in Connecticut. I have been sent to conceal you.”
The information was as surprising as it was unwelcome. “Go on.”
“Moscow was informed of your operation by Tehran,” he said. “It was part of a deal to conceal the involvement of the Ministry of Intelligence in the attempt to acquire nuclear missiles.”
“What interest has Moscow with me?” he said, struggling through the Russian.
“A pawn,” the man said. “To give to the United States or Tehran, whoever is willing to bargain.”
Salehi experienced the kind of rage he had not even felt for the Americans when they attacked the Nardis. To be betrayed by his own people was something he had never considered.
“What do you want?” Salehi asked. “Your interest?”
“You have a friend, Captain Yuri Bolshakov of the Main Intelligence Directorate.”
Salehi nodded. That was the GRU operative who had arranged the missile sale.
“Bolshakov seeks to strengthen the relationship between his own unit, the Division of Military Technologies, with the Special Clerical Court in Tehran. He cannot be involved directly, but he informed colleagues at the Russian base at Lourdes of your situation.”
“What is my situation?”
“The Russians planned to pick you up at V. C. Bird International Airport in Antigua.”
The rage grew as Salehi chastised himself for being a trusting fool. Yet in this, there was also the loyalty of Captain Bolshakov. While it was true the Russian had his own self-interest at heart, the GRU officer had earned the respect—a valuable commodity—of the Iranian officer.
But there was also this man, who Salehi did not know and who came with a story he could not verify. The man had information that seemed to have come directly from the GRU. Bolshakov was a man who would certainly have seen the security footage from the Intrepid and acted.
“What is your role in this?” Salehi asked.
“I am a liaison at the Lourdes listening facility which the Russians operate,” Urrutia replied. “I am simply a messenger.”
“Can you verify this?” Salehi asked.
As they walked, the Cuban looked around then showed him a smartphone image of Bolshakov in front of a computer monitor. The image on the screen was from the burning Intrepid. It was a dramatic image … but it could have been composed by the Americans. A quick, elaborate scheme—perhaps too complex for the few hours since the attack, but a possibility nonetheless.
“What is your plan?” the cautious Salehi asked as they emerged in the late-afternoon sunlight. There had been no reason to go to the luggage area, since his one bag full of trivia was going through to Antigua.
“I have a private plane to fly us to Havana,” Urrutia said. “From there, you will fly to Delhi and then to Yemen.”
Salehi stopped. “Why Yemen?”
“Because
you have an admirer in Sana’a who will give you sanctuary … and a boat.”
CHAPTER TEN
Fort Belvoir North, Virginia
July 22, 6:17 p.m.
“And that is that.”
Chase Williams had not left the office except to visit the lavatory and get a vended lunch. He could not think of it as “his” office because there was nothing of him in it, physically or emotionally. He felt like a squatter—one who, now, was talking aloud to himself.
He had read everything that was provided on his new team and on the search for Ahmed Salehi and any accomplices. The latter was bare to the point of being no help. They obviously had big state cover: travel plans and false passports, IDs, provided by highly professional forgers. Their new identities would have been known to their sponsors, or else transportation could not have been arranged. At the moment, they appeared to have vanished thoroughly. The only group that had any leads was the NYPD Counterterrorism Bureau. A total of thirty-seven cabs and Ubers had been hailed or summoned to get people away from a multiple-block radius after the attack. Of those, none had an embassy destination and only nine went directly to public transportation: two to Penn Station, two to Grand Central Station, and one each to the local airports, JFK, LaGuardia, and Newark.
“Two went to Bradley in Hartford,” wrote Chief of Detectives Stuart Fox. “Driver Mike Alexander of 330 West 45th Street, an actor, age twenty-two, describes a family of possibly Indian origin who seemed extremely agitated. Despite the presence of a young child, they were not traveling with a stroller. The remains of a stroller was discovered on the flight deck of the target. The adult male, age approximately fifty, paid for the ride with cash. He was accompanied by a woman approximately thirty and a child approximately two. They spoke English.
“The second Uber was driven by Eva Scroggins, age forty-one, a wedding photographer residing at 1530 East 14th Street, Brooklyn. She reports ‘an Indian gentleman in a turban’ who ‘smelled of smoke.’ He did not speak, though she attempted to engage him about the incident on the Intrepid. He, too, paid in cash. When shown the security photograph, Ms. Scroggins said ‘I think that could have been the man.’
“The family is suspected to be Dr. Hafiz Akif, daughter Iram Ausaf, and granddaughter Amna Ausaf of Islamabad. Iram Ausaf’s husband is Sayed Ausaf, deputy attorney general of Pakistan. He was not present for the trip. The family flew to Montreal, deplaned, passed through customs, and their whereabouts are presently unknown.
“Ms. January Dow of the State Department Bureau of Intelligence and Research has canceled a climbing trip to Everest and assumed co-command-point of the international investigation of the Akif-Ausaf matter along with National Security Advisor Trevor Harward.
“The whereabouts of Ahmed Salehi are not known. A passenger traveling as Balvan Prabhu who generally matches Salehi’s description was not captured on security cameras with evidentiary clarity but is known to have traveled to Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport, San Juan, Puerto Rico. He did not collect his single bag and departed the terminal. Local authorities are in possession of the luggage and are returning it to our laboratory. The FBI, through Senior Counselor Carol Smith, has asserted right-of-first-discovery and forensics will await the outcome of that ongoing discussion.
“There is one possibly significant additional person of interest,” Fox’s report concluded. “Security cameras in Hartford recorded the presence of Nikolai Lagutin, a known operative attached to the Permanent Mission of the Russian Federation to the United Nations. He is identified as a spotter for the assassin Georgi Glazkov, who has operated internationally for many years. Glazkov’s whereabouts are not known. Security camera time stamps indicate that Lagutin arrived at the Bradley terminal forty-seven minutes before the arrival of the Uber carrying Balvan Prabhu. Mission Security Director Lev Blinnikov categorically denies having heard of either individual, let alone knowing their whereabouts. His denial is not to be relied upon.”
An update from January Dow’s chief of staff said the investigation of the INR was ongoing. Williams was not surprised by her absence from that file; she would never put her name to a document that added nothing—the kind of report that Roger McCord had once called “a career-stalling declaration of ignorance.”
Having finished the status reports and sat back, Williams was now left to consider how the team he had been given could maneuver around, through, or under the brick walls in this case. There was a big, meaty gap between what was known and the creation of a road map forward. In the past, in the military and at Op-Center, Williams would have bounced ideas off a team, delegated specific areas of research, quickly formed a consensus plan of action.
“Now,” he said aloud, “you’ve got you and…”
His voice trailed off. He had a team that was “skilled clay.” That was how Mike Volner had once described promising new recruits. Volner was the leader of the Joint Special Operations Command team attached to Op-Center for military field operations. They had served him well on mission after mission and he felt their absence now most acutely. He wanted to pick up the phone and get Volner’s thoughts. McCord’s, too. Input from Brian Dawson, International Crisis Manager Paul Bankole, former Op-Center director Paul Hood.
Someone. That was how he had always worked. And Berry knew that. Williams was coming more and more to believe that this was not salvation but punishment. He wouldn’t put it past the president, whose ear would be poisoned by Harward. But Berry was a better man than that.
“No, he’s more than ‘better,’” Williams murmured. “He knows how to push and who to push.”
So stop navel gazing, Williams thought and went back to the personnel dossier. He had time for one last, quick read before he had to go meet these three elite volunteers who had regularly trained together for a year—just a year—like army reservists and had never been deployed off base.
The three members of the newly formed Black-ops Wartime Accelerated Strike Placement.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fort Belvoir North, Virginia
July 22, 6:45 p.m.
The Officer’s Club was located at 5500 Schulz Circle, Building 20, and it was closed on Mondays. Except for orderlies who maintained the club services, the three-story, antebellum-style structure was usually unoccupied during off-hours.
That was not the case this evening.
Three people awaited the arrival of Chase Williams, about whom all they were told by DCS Matt Berry is that he was “a retired Navy four-star commander.” Since none of them was Navy, Major Hamilton Breen wondered if the commander was a nod to service diversity.
“You gotta think that they wouldn’t risk our lives on being militarily correct,” said the last team member to arrive, Lance Corporal Jaz Rivette. His voice still had the slightest lilt of his mother’s Louisiana heritage. “I mean, we’re the best and he should be, too.”
“He may well be,” Breen said. “My question is whether he was also a volunteer. And whether he’ll be going into the field.”
“I hope not,” Rivette said. “Didn’t train with us.”
Lieutenant Grace Lee shrugged. “They say the best parachute jump you make is the one you didn’t train for, because you don’t know the things that can go wrong.”
“I wonder,” said Breen, “if the statistics bear out that common wisdom.”
The three were sitting at a circular oak table in the dining area, their gear plopped on the floor behind them. They had piggybacked in on departing aircraft, were met on the field by a corporal who was accustomed to not knowing anything about who he was escorting to the base, and let in by an orderly who was equally in the dark—save for orders from the White House to do exactly what had been done: put the three anonymous arrivals together to await their supervisor. Except for their final destination, it was a situation identical to the training the three had undergone since the establishing of the experimental multiservice program.
Two of the three had eaten an early dinner of soup and sandwiches. Ri
vette had had B-rations on the C-130 that brought him here, a meal-sized prepackaged, microwavable hamburger, fries, and small slice of apple pie. Food was not on their minds; the mission was. They agreed it had to have something to do with the attack on the Intrepid, but were divided as to whether it would be a quid pro quo counterattack, which was Breen’s belief; a hunt-and-destroy mission against whatever group had sent “the son-of-a-bitch,” as Rivette put it; or a takedown against the perpetrator who had caused it. That was Grace’s wish.
“I want his throat,” she said—not with vengeance but as a blunt statement of fact. She formed an open claw with her hand.
“Death grip,” Rivette said knowingly. “I hear ya.”
Grace nodded. It was a Southern Dragon hold. You practiced as if you were holding a sponge and imagined water being poured into it. You squeezed the water out without closing your grip but by tightening the fingers. Before long the imaginary sponge was hard as rock. The area between the thumb and index finger was the opening that went around the opponent’s throat. The tightness of those and the remaining fingers was what immediately and thoroughly choked the windpipe and cut off blood flow. Unconsciousness resulted in just over five seconds.
Rivette turned to Major Breen. “What about you, counselor sir? You want to put him on trial?”
Breen nodded. “I want to know everyone and everything he knows. I want him judged by ordinary Americans instead of a military tribunal—so I can be reminded minute by minute who we are serving. And then,” Breen said, “I want to watch him die.”
“At least we’re on the same page there,” Rivette said. “Though I’d wanna interrogate the prick with a cold silencer pressed to his temple. It’s kinda like a lie detector there, y’know? You feel his pulse. Until you pull the trigger and don’t.”
