The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  He sat on the big, rumpled bed and suddenly remembered why he felt so terrible: an empty vodka bottle sat on the nearby credenza, and he could only assume he had finished it by himself. Unsteadily, Komulakov walked over to pick up the envelope, and as he bent, the blood rushed to his already throbbing head. He groaned aloud. Then he read the message:

  General Komulakov, there is someone in the lobby who has a package to deliver to you personally. He says that it is a matter of great urgency, and he will wait. Kindly call the front desk and advise us how you wish to respond.

  The Russian reached for the telephone and called the front desk, asking to speak with the visitor who wanted to see him. The visitor was given the phone and he introduced himself. “General, my name is Saratov. I was sent by Colonel Mikel Borodinsky from the SVR Centre in Moscow with an important package of information for you. He wants you to see it and for me to wait for your response.”

  “All right,” Komulakov said. “Get yourself something in the coffee shop, and come up to my room in thirty minutes.” And then he hung up the phone.

  The retired Russian KGB officer and former UN First Deputy Secretary General had kept pretty much out of sight since resigning from his duties at the UN in June 1995. After a hasty departure from New York, he had gone immediately to Switzerland, transferred 90 million Swiss francs to another account—nearly all of his share of the 150 million received from Iraq for the delivery of three nuclear artillery rounds—and promptly set off for Stockholm with Greta Sjogren, his mistress and former Swedish military aide at the UN.

  The pair had secluded themselves in Sweden until it was clear there were to be no repercussions from the UN's disastrous counter-terrorism mission in Iraq. In November of'95, Komulakov and his lover arrived in Moscow, ostensibly to pursue “new business ventures.” In fact, Komulakov planned to use his ill-gotten wealth as a means of entering Russian politics. His plan was to become the president of the Russian Federation in the elections to be held in the year 2000.

  Komulakov maintained a luxurious apartment in the new privatized sector of Moscow for his mistress and stayed there when he was in the Russian capital. But his greed and ambition also mandated that he be seen as a successful entrepreneur in the new “wild west” of the Russian private sector. To that end, he also maintained a residence in Kiev, for the Ukrainian capital was alive with westerners and capitalists hoping to make a fast buck. It was also the best place to meet clients anxious to purchase weapons and other stolen military and government equipment. In Kiev, such commodities could be had at less than wholesale prices by anyone with cash—no questions asked.

  His choice for living quarters in Kiev was the Dneprovskiy Hotel, which looked more like a luxury liner than a hotel. The Dneprovskiy was new, built only a few years earlier, its site Kiev's beautiful Dneiper River. The “Captain's Club,” as the floating hotel was nicknamed, was moored on the water, anchored on the western shore of the scenic river. To the south and a bit east, the city's sprawling Central Recreation Park stretched for several kilometers, following the river's bend.

  The Captain's Club became popular almost from its opening. Its guests and residents included international show-business executives, pop music and entertainment stars, and business luminaries. Attractive not only for its high quality comfort and services, the facility gave priority to quiet and privacy, with unquestioned respect and attentiveness from the staff and service employees. Employees could be counted on to look discreetly the other way and allow guests privacy when they wanted it.

  Each suite was furnished more opulently than most of the other hotels in the city. Every modern convenience was available, including satellite television, music entertainment center, comfortable designer furniture, a luxurious bath—Komulakov's suite boasted a Jacuzzi—and two separate sleeping quarters, each with a comfortable king-sized bed. Famous Parisian and London designers and architects had created the posh interior and atmosphere throughout the hotel, from its swank exterior to the restaurants, exercise room, sauna, and luxury suites themselves.

  Komulakov had never bothered to ask the rate when he checked in as a long-term guest. It was expensive, but Komulakov simply paid the monthly invoice from his business account at the offices he leased in the Peremohy Ploshcha on Tarasa Boulevard.

  Since the secret 1995 sale of “scarce” weapons to the son-in-law of Saddam Hussein through the efforts of Komulakov's agent, Leonid Dotensk, the Russian's bank accounts were always full. He had money for anything he wanted or needed. And what he wanted more than anything else was to be the leader of Russia.

  Now fully awake, Komulakov went to take a shower. As he showered, his mind replayed the events of the previous evening.

  The visitors who had dined with Komulakov had flown to Kiev from Moscow to meet with him about the present turmoil in his native land and to discuss his political future in Russia. They were insiders, and they could tell him what he wanted to know to enhance his opportunities for political achievement. Komulakov entertained them in a private dining room at the Captain's Club.

  “What's happening with Yeltsin?” Komulakov asked his friend Yuri Rykov. “It's as if he's having a purge, getting rid of almost all of his government appointees.”

  Rykov nodded. “It is worse than before, when he was supposedly sick most of the time. Last March, when he came back, he seemed to stay sober. That gave him the energy to start to make good on his reform promises. Yeltsin started a big housecleaning a year ago when he brought in all those young reformers.”

  “Yes...but then things got out of control,” said Alexander Ilyich, the other friend. “Those reformers were just idealists. They had no pragmatism. Their ideas to save Mother Russia included more taxes and trying to shake up the bureaucrats of housing and welfare. Then these reformers attempted to restore central control, taking over the utilities and doing away with local rule. Well, as you can imagine, in light of the changes since the end of the Soviet Union, no one wants to accept such things as more taxes or a return to central control. The people began talking strikes and unions and tax boycotts. Now there is great concern about a total breakdown, chaos, perhaps even anarchy...”

  Rykov swore and added quickly, “Hardly anyone pays taxes now, so what would happen if they increased taxes? No one would pay! And the government would become even more bankrupt than it already is.”

  Komulakov smiled. “Yes, I've heard opposition to these reforms was already happening. And we all know Yeltsin's reformers took a beating in the polls this past year. It sounds to me as if the country will welcome a new, strong leader.” Komulakov leaned back and took a deep drag on his Cuban cigar.

  “Perhaps,” Rykov said. “But do not start crowing just yet. The word in the corridors of the Duma is that Yeltsin is once again taking charge. He has started to get rid of the reformers, and he will get his way—as you know. Yeltsin is gaining popularity now because he was able to settle the Chechnya war last May. And...rumors are flying that Yeltsin is about to replace Prime Minister Chernomyrdin with Sergei Kiriyenko.”

  “Kiriyenko? That nobody energy minister? Why would he do that?”

  “Think about it, Dimitri. Don't you see? Yeltsin has already made up his mind that he won't run again in 2000. He is putting in Kiriyenko to front for him, simply to maintain the status quo while Yeltsin decides who will be his personal choice as successor,” Ilyich said.

  “Interesting. Then what are my chances of winning the election in 2000? Can you help me get Yeltsin's blessing?”

  “I am afraid not.” Rykov looked down a minute, as if trying to decide how to frame words Komulakov wouldn't want to hear.

  Ilyich took the initiative. “What Yuri is trying to say is that your chances are not very good.”

  “Why? If I read the Russian people correctly, they are looking for some reforms, but they also miss the order and respect of the old USSR. That's why I think a reformed communist and former KGB officer like myself can convince them that I represent old order and stability,
while the present government represents chaos and economic ruin. The people will respect my KGB strengths and abilities.”

  “You are partially right,” Ilyich said. “Your KGB background will help. In fact, it could be a deciding factor. But the problem is, Dimitri, you have competition for that part of your résumé.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that there is another former KGB officer who is being considered—by Yeltsin himself. His name is Vladimir Putin. The rumors say he will be Yeltsin's handpicked choice to succeed him as president of Russia. Yeltsin has already decided.”

  Already decided. The news was a blow to Komulakov. For more than two years, he had been working hard on his plan to become the next president of Russia. But if his friends were right, it was not to be. Unless …

  Komulakov smiled to himself. Never mind—he still had several cards to play. The first thing that came to him—and something that he could not bring up with his friends—was his ability to raise enormous amounts of money for his political war chest.

  Even if Putin did have the backing of the current Russian president, he'd still have to campaign, and these days that cost a lot of money. Like those who ran for office in the capitalist West, Russian politicos were now hiring American strategists and consultants to teach them about the power of advertising, radio and television exposure, and mass media. The retired KGB general had planned for this contingency during his post-UN sabbatical, knowing it would cost bushels of rubles.

  Komulakov already had lots of money. And if he needed more, all he had to do was sell more of the nuclear weapons he had stolen from the stockpile destined for destruction in the Ukraine in 1992. He'd have more than enough cash to outspend Putin and get the exposure and media coverage needed to buy the election. He decided to keep that information to himself, forget about politics for the rest of the evening, and get drunk.

  After finishing his shower and reflecting over his dismal dinner meeting the night before, Komulakov sat on the edge of the bed in his silk robe. The shower had not cleared his brain; his hangover was still making his stomach churn and his head ache. He made a pot of strong, black coffee and poured himself a cup. Just as he took the first sip, there was a knock at his door.

  Komulakov walked over to the door. The man standing outside in the hall wore an ill-fitting wool suit and a narrow, outdated tie. Komulakov was about to invite him inside but the man hesitated. “Sir, I am to leave this package with you and come back later...in case you have a reply or instructions.”

  “All right. Wait in the coffee shop. I'll either call you there or come down to get you.” The man handed him the package and walked away.

  Back in his suite, Komulakov noticed that the flap of the package had a wax SVR seal, indicating that Borodinsky had taken precautions that the contents would remain secret. As he broke the seal and opened the package, Komulakov saw there were several pages of photocopied material and a computer disk. He took the computer disk and put it into his laptop.

  While he waited for the computer to boot up, he glanced through the papers. They were from Julio Morales, the most productive spy he had ever handled. Morales had been Komulakov's responsibility years ago when he was the KGB Rezident in Washington.

  So...Morales is active again. What is important enough to bring him back? The written material in the package told Komulakov that the mole he had run for the KGB twenty years ago had recently discovered some files that might be of interest to his old handler.

  The computer was ready. According to the directory, the disk contained only a single file. As Komulakov read the hard copy and the contents of the digital file, he soon forgot his hangover.

  General Komulakov,

  Greetings from the Direktor. Please find enclosed some material that recently arrived at the Moscow Centre from your former agent, Julio Morales. You will note from the contents that he says the American FBI is making inquiries about a person linked with you when you were assigned to the UN in 1995. The names in the file are Lt. Col. Peter Newman, an Irish terrorist named Gilbert Duncan, and an Irish national, John Clancy. Morales suggests that these three may actually be the same person. Here at the Centre there is great concern that if Newman is still alive and ever reveals what he knows or suspects about your connection to the SVR while you were at the UN, the accusations would be a major embarrassment to our government. If your role in Newman's failed mission is uncovered, the Direktor is concerned that the UN may even ask for your extradition to the U.S. to face charges. And as you know, the Direktor is trying to convince Washington that we are their friends. He expects that you will deal with this matter expeditiously in order to avoid compromising our new relationship with the Americans.

  Sincerely,

  Mikel Borodinsky, Col., SVR

  The cover letter from Moscow left no room for misunderstanding. It meant that Komulakov was expected to take care of any and all “loose ends.” The information Morales had sent in the computer files simply confirmed to Colonel Borodinsky what Komulakov had already concluded about Newman. If the Marine really was alive, he had to be found and silenced.

  But Komulakov also knew that Newman wasn't the only loose end. The former KGB spymaster knew that another American could compromise Dimitri Komulakov anytime he felt the need. Newman was a definite threat, but so was Morales.

  I assumed that Newman was dead. But Morales says he might be alive. Morales is the only one in the U.S. government who knows who I am, who can tie me to the UN mission. He had no second thoughts about betraying his fellow agents to their deaths. Why wouldn't he give me up if he ever got caught?

  Komulakov had an idea. True, he would have to set aside his ambitions for Russian politics for now. But perhaps there was a way to take care of both of his problems.

  He quickly threw off the robe and dressed. He then sat down at his laptop and typed out a quick message to Colonel Borodinsky at Moscow Centre.

  My dear Mikel,

  Please ask our Rezident in Washington to make the following requests of Morales immediately:

  Please send anything more you can find on Newman, Duncan, and Clancy.

  Please inform immediately any indication that Newman is alive.

  If there is a chance he is alive, inform immediately of any known or suspected location.

  Is Newman's wife alive? If so, where is she?

  Have any other agencies, U.S. or other, expressed an interest in the Newman matter?

  Mikel, please ask Moscow Centre to transmit this request to our Rezident in Washington as expeditiously as possible. I need everything Morales can get on this matter. Pay whatever Morales wants. If Moscow Centre balks at his price, let me know, and I will pay it personally. I especially need to know if Newman is alive and if his wife survived the explosion in Larnaca. Then, I want to know where I can find them. And by the way, please also ask Centre to inquire of our Rezident in Washington whether they have ever figured out who Morales is and where he works.

  Sincerely,

  Dimitri Komulakov, Lt. General

  Committee on State Security (Rtd.)

  Komulakov read over what he had written, encrypted it with the system built into his laptop, and then copied it onto a disk. He went downstairs to the coffee shop and found the messenger from Moscow Centre. He handed him the computer disk.

  “When you've finished eating, I want you to leave right away for Moscow with this response for your superior,” Komulakov said. “Give the disk to Colonel Borodinsky only. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Komulakov turned and walked away. Instead of going back to his room, the retired KGB officer decided he would go for a brisk walk along the banks of the Dneiper. He felt suddenly electrified by the prospect of once again hunting the most dangerous prey of all. As he walked in the cold air, he turned his plan over in his mind. Soon, he began to smile. It was so simple—yet so elegant. It would work, and his two great problems would be eliminated...forever.

  SAILORS,SOLDIERS,AND S
PIES

  CHAPTER SIX

  Aboard Pescador II

  Jaffa Harbor, Tel Aviv, Israel

  Saturday, 14 March 1998

  1015 Hours, Local

  The white-haired skipper eased the seventy-seven-foot Pescador II into the calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea just off Tel Aviv. Jaffa Harbor was beautiful, one of his favorite ports of call. He had furled the mainsail of the Solas Kelsall sloop while still in the deeper water and now used the diesel engine to guide the huge vessel toward the breakwater protecting the shallow waters near the berths for pleasure craft.

  William Goode—former Marine, former CIA clandestine services officer, and now master of the sailing vessel Pescador II—watched carefully to starboard as he approached the kilometer-long breakwater, making sure the bottom of his keel, seven feet below the water line, avoided the rocks nearby. He occasionally stole a glance to port, viewing the imposing cityscape of high-rise office buildings, hotels, and apartments. It seemed to him that every time he stopped in Jaffa, the skyline had changed. He saw construction cranes in every part of the city. As the Pescador II passed the first of the six larger docking berths, Goode slowed the sailboat to a scant three knots to make the turn into the third row of berths. The first four of the six major rows were reserved for larger boats, and the Pescador II was among the largest.

  The skyline on the port side changed as he passed the first rows of ships anchored in the harbor. Coming around ninety degrees to the left, he could see the Old City of Jaffa dead ahead through the pilothouse windows. He appreciated most of the centuries-old buildings of native stone, the color of a hundred shades of sand. This time of day, the morning sun was already high enough to reflect off the sides of the buildings, giving the entire view a brilliance he rarely encountered anywhere else. The light in Israel was different from any other place on earth, Goode thought. The scenery was always an agreeable pleasure, but today it was especially exhilarating.