by Dick Couch
Guardian Services International had been Steven Fagan’s idea. He still retained the title of chief executive officer, but his primary duties were the ongoing operations of IFOR. Guardian Services was initially set up to act as a holding company for IFOR and to provide a broad range of security consulting activities. They did a lot of things in the field of executive and corporate security. So far, they had avoided security contracts in Iraq, as those activities were becoming too controversial. GSI wanted a low profile so as to better serve its true mission as a cloak for the activities of IFOR personnel and the Kona operation. The Gurkha contingent, the first ethnic force stood up by IFOR, was occasionally contracted out for security and executive protection services. This provided some measure of plausibility for paramilitary activity on Kona. In time, the Africans would be contracted out as well, subject to maintaining the cover to the Kona training base. But it was not an economic issue, not with the wealth of Joseph Simpson behind the venture. To date, the only people who came snooping around the Hawaii operations were DEA agents. But GSI had needed to grow quickly to give it legitimacy. Because of the funds at his disposal, Steven had been able to buy several small, highly regarded security consulting firms. Then he hired an executive director to manage the day-to-day operations of GSI and the home office in Washington, while he concentrated on IFOR. It had proved to be a satisfactory arrangement, and although it was not part of the business plan, GSI was profitable.
Once inside his home, Simpson took Steven’s coat and hung it beside his own on the hall tree. Simpson’s house was a fairly modest saltbox, a type seen all over Cape Cod, and as comfortable as an old pair of bedroom slippers. The main house was served by a barn and two smaller outbuildings, all situated on an impressive tract of land. The interior was frozen in time, left exactly as it was on the day of Prudence Simpson’s death.
“Let’s go into the kitchen. I have a plate of sandwiches made up.” Soon they were across a butcher-block table from each other, with tuna on rye and iced tea. “I’ve not been included on all the traffic or the details, nor do I wish to be, but I did speak with the Director early this morning. I think Armand’s got some real concerns about this one. It’s my impression they need us to find out exactly what is happening over there, and they need us to do it quickly.”
“Then we have approval from the National Command Authority to proceed, sir?” Simpson had been a businessman and an ambassador, and Fagan had been a spy. Both were men to whom discretion came easily and naturally. Neither would say outright, “Does the President know?”
Simpson smiled. “Inasmuch as we get approval for what we do, yes, we have it. Or at least, we have what they will deny they gave us if we get caught. Bring me up to speed. Where are we with this?” He rose to put on some water for coffee.
“My people are putting together the details as we speak. This is our preliminary mission concept.” Steven laid it on the table and continued, knowing Simpson would want a verbal report. “The target seems to be a small upscale hotel in northern Zimbabwe. It’s a remote area, one road in and out. It’s very rough country. The information is sketchy, but this hotel seems to be the locus for some strange and illegal activity. Two top European medical personnel with suspected links to bioterrorism have gone missing, and I just learned while I was airborne that we have identified a third. We’ve reason to believe, primarily from Langley’s product, that this hotel in Zimbabwe may be a base for biological weapons development and testing. We have nothing concrete, but a lot of indicators point to that. And the Harare government is being very uncooperative. We think they’re up to no good, but we’ll have to put a team in there to find out. It could get messy, militarily and, if it’s what we suspect, biologically.”
For the next half hour, Steven outlined how they proposed to move, from Hawaii to Lusaka, and across the Zambezi lowlands into Zimbabwe. There were no U.S. or friendly government assets in the region they could use, and more than a few they wanted to keep in the dark about their presence in the area, including U.S. embassy personnel. Since surprise was essential, it was going to have to be an entirely black operation. It would be a covert action.
“Is the foundation currently involved in Zambia?”
Simpson had to think about this for a moment. The Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation did a lot of work in Africa. So did any number of NGOs. “It seems to me that we make periodic deliveries of medical supplies for the Aambia National AIDS Network. And we are one of the primary supporters of Aqua Aid, a very worthy NGO that specializes in community participation in water projects. We provide help to others on a case-by-case basis, and when we have assets in the area. Let’s go into my office.”
Steven followed into a richly appointed study, anchored by an enormous wooden desk. The screen saver was a portrait of a young man Steven recognized as Simpson’s son. Simpson entered the foundation Web site and punched through several screens.
“Ah, here it is.” He read for a moment before looking up. “It looks like there is only one other organization to which we contribute on an ongoing basis: the Zambia Media Women’s Association.”
“What do they do?” Steven asked.
“If it’s similar to other groups we support, they work through media outlets to promote gender issues, literacy, and advocate for women’s rights in the country. As in most developing nations, women fall somewhere between chattel and farm animals. In many of these areas, even places like Zambia where there is a small Muslim minority, women are the nation’s greatest untapped resource. In most African tribal cultures, a woman’s role is to have children and work, period. I don’t even want to get into the female circumcision practices; they are beyond barbaric. We have a department within the foundation that works women’s issues in developing nations. I’ll get you a point of contact.”
“That may be helpful. Needless to say, we will make judicial use of the foundation’s interaction with these local NGOs, but so far, it’s probably the best cover we have there.”
“I understand, Steven, and we trust your discretion. After all, that’s one of the foundation’s collateral duties. Whenever possible, we provide cover and support for your activities.” The Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation and IFOR were both the visions of Joseph Simpson. The foundation was his passion, but he wanted to do more than just good works; he wanted to oppose evil, the kind of evil that had killed his son. While he was ambassador to Russia, Jim Watson had been the CIA station chief there. The two had worked well together; Simpson allowed Watson to do his job, and along the way, he acquired a feel for clandestine operations. When he envisioned standing up a secret organization like IFOR, he prevailed on Watson for a recommendation. He needed a man with a background in paramilitary operations and covert action, and he needed a man with a great degree of character. Watson immediately recommended Steven Fagan. So Fagan and Simpson had been together from the beginning.
The relationship was based on personal and professional respect. The two men, with vastly different backgrounds and experience, got on quite well. Simpson had long given up on trying to get Steven to use his first name; it was always “sir” or “ambassador.” For Steven, it would be like calling your father by his first name. But this little convention only seemed to stimulate the affection the two men felt for each other.
“So we have your permission to proceed?” Steven asked. This was also part of the protocol that would commit the IFOR to a mission.
“You do indeed, Steven.” He held out his hand. “Good luck, and good hunting.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll have the executive summary of the operations plan and support requirements to you in forty-eight hours. As you know, we have a crack operational planning team, but the planning does take time.”
Simpson didn’t ask Steven to stay over, nor did he expect to. For some men, being in the same house, even a large one, was like sharing a double bed with another man. They needed their space. And both men knew that long trips were not all that tiring when you had on-call executive jet aircr
aft. The Gulfstream took Steven back to Hawaii. It was necessarily smaller than the 550, to allow them to get into Edgartown Airport, but it was no less luxurious or well equipped. After setting down in Las Vegas just after dark to refuel, they raced the dawn west and were on the tarmac at the Kona airport just before sunup.
On the trip back to Hawaii, Steven spoke at length with key members of his staff and again with Jim Watson. Like all GSI aircraft, this one was equipped with a secure electronics suite and communications package. He enjoyed a delicious meal, with lobster bisque and a superb lamb chop, and managed a few hours of sleep. With the sound-canceling headphones in place, it was as quiet as a still evening at his home in Wiamea.
5
The Scouts
Pavel Zelinkow had a nagging feeling that someone or something was not as it should be. He had been engaged in covert undertakings long enough to feel when things were wrong. During the many years he was with the KGB and for the few months he remained with its successor, the Federal Security Service, he had come to respect the CIA and other Western intelligence services. Out of that respect, Zelinkow had developed a sixth sense that warned him of trouble—when the other side might be plotting something or preparing to move against one of his own operations. The Federal Security Service, or FSS, had neither the teeth nor the professionalism of the old KGB. There would, he reflected, probably never be another organization like it. When most in the West thought of the KGB, they thought of Beria, SMERSH, Lubyanka, and the like. Or saw them only as thugs or the puppet masters of the Czech and East German services. Few today understood the reach and capability of what had been the KGB. There had been dignity and purpose and service to the motherland. Some of his mentors were among the most brilliant intelligence professionals ever to play the game. They had taught him his craft, but a great deal more; they taught him to be cautious and to try to anticipate the moves of the opposition.
“You have a nose for this business,” one of them had told Pavel early on. “We can teach you a great deal about the mechanics and tradecraft, but never abandon your instincts. Your instincts are what separate the army of spies from the true intelligence professionals.”
Zelinkow’s instincts were now telling him that something was indeed amiss. He had long ago learned to spot the fingerprints and subtle overtones of opposition services—the CIA, Mossad, MI-6, but primarily the CIA. If not always the most accomplished, they certainly had the most resources. He had the distinct feeling that some organization or force was now playing the game with a little more skill and a little more flair than a state service. He understood this. After all, he thought, have I not taken my game up a notch or two since leaving my post and office at 3 Dzerzhinsky Square? Those of us who engage in covert activity evolve, just like technologies and species.
Zelinkow had been with the KGB’s Ninth Directorate, the directorate responsible for terror and diversion, where he had made quite a name for himself. When Gorbachev began to dismantle the KGB, he began first with the Ninth Directorate. This had proved to be a blessing in disguise, for it launched Zelinkow into the world of private intelligence work ahead of the horde of out-of-work KGB officers coming behind him. He was on his own now, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use some assistance from time to time or an occasional helping hand from his former organization. Zelinkow was browsing through the French-language edition of the Times of London when an attendant approached him.
“Monsieur Boulez, there is a gentleman at the front desk asking for you.”
“Merci,” Zelinkow replied in flawless French. “I’ll come at once.”
Zelinkow’s guest was a wizened, shrunken man with alert eyes and a perpetual, playful smile. He had to be well into his seventies, but his sturdy Tartar genes made him seem ageless. The man wore a greatcoat, fur hat, and sturdy shoes. He appeared very much out of place standing here in the United Premier Club at Orly Airport, though he would have easily fit in with other travelers passing through the Moscow Airport. Zelinkow embraced the old gentleman with real affection.
“Boris Zhirinonovich,” he said in Russian, just loud enough for the older man to hear, “welcome to Paris. It is good to see you again. Thank you for coming.”
The older man held him at arm’s length for a moment to take him in. “And you, Pavel. You are looking well.”
“Please, come up to the lounge,” Zelinkow said, reverting to French. “I have a table for us.”
He led the older man up the stairs to a private table off to one corner in the expansive lounge area. Once seated, he ordered coffee, vodka, and a plate of sausages. They conversed easily in French, and could have done so in a half a dozen other languages. When the waitress had left them, they reverted to their native Russian.
“So tell me about yourself, Boris. You have managed to stay out of retirement, from what I gather?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Zhirinon replied. “I am what the American attorneys would call ‘of counsel.’ I am called in to advise on matters of policy and occasionally for an operational matter. Vladimir still deludes himself that if a few of us old-timers are around, the old organization is still what it was. Nothing could be further from the truth, but it does allow me to keep my hand in the game. Although, as you well know, the game is nothing what it used to be.”
“But, old friend, there is very little that goes on in the FSS that you do not know about.”
“Or cannot find out,” the old man said with a smile.
“That too. And tell me, how is your family? You have what, five grandsons, or is it six?”
Zelinkow drew him out, but carefully. Boris Zhirinon was not a man to be flattered or manipulated. He had, at one time, been head of Ninth Directorate and the head of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service when it became a separate entity from the KGB. He had been “retired” for more than a decade, but old spymasters, East or West, never totally come in from the cold. Furthermore, Zhirinon had been not only Pavel Zelinkow’s superior and mentor; he had been Vladimir Putin’s, as well. Putin had been a colonel in the KGB and a fifteen-year veteran of the service. With the old Soviet Union facing collapse, he retired and began his meteoric political career. At only fifty years of age Putin became head of the Russian state, highly impressive in a country governed so long by an entrenched oligarchy. But Putin did not forget his roots, nor those who had helped him along the way.
“It is said, Pavel, that you had a hand in the stealing of two nuclear weapons from the Pakistanis. Of course, when that question has been put to me, I say that nothing could be further from the truth. I tell anyone who asks that Pavel Zelinkow, not unlike myself, is retired from the business—that his interests are in the theater and the opera, not international weapons theft.” The older man smiled and sipped cautiously at his coffee, looking fondly at his young protégé. Zhirinon also enjoyed letting Zelinkow know that his recent activities had not gone unnoticed.
Zelinkow’s features remained impassive, but he was taken aback that Zhirinon could have any way of knowing about his activities. “It is true that I have a passion for the theater and the opera, my friend. But like yourself, I do try to keep my hand in the game. Would this be wrong, so long as the small amount of work I do does not hurt Mother Russia? Or perhaps even helps her?”
“What is wrong and what is right these days?” Zhirinon said with some resignation. “The West grows stronger, as do the Chinese. And to the south, the Muslim states snap at us with impunity. There are enemies wherever we turn.”
“Then,” Zelinkow offered, “perhaps our only strategy is to make sure that our enemies remain the enemies of each other. America became a great power by allowing Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia to spend themselves on each other.” Zhirinon remained silent, so Zelinkow continued, aware he was on dangerous ground. “Had the nuclear weapons taken from the Pakistani arsenal been detonated in Afghanistan with loss of American life, then would not the West have responded by moving forces into the area, possibly even into Pakistan? Would that not lure
them into a move that would prove costly and divisive, much as it has in Iraq?”
“Possibly,” Zhirinon replied, “and possibly not. Playing games with the Americans is always dangerous business. The deepening of the rift between America and the Muslim world is not a bad thing. The trick is that the hand of Islam must be plainly shown in any move against the West. American politicians are led by American public opinion. The Americans can be terribly complacent, or they can be swift avengers.” Then the old man smiled slyly. “They can also be manipulated, but manipulating America is like guiding a bear into a small room—a bear is not as stupid as he looks and can move much faster than would seem from his lumbering appearance.”
