by Ward Larsen
“We should begin with our preferred outcome,” said Bloch. “Our primary objective is to discover what’s being brought ashore in these containers. Secondarily, we would very much like to avoid any knowledge of our presence.”
“That might not be easy,” said Tal, who was tipped back perilously in a molded plastic chair. Everyone was seated around the big table, and for the first time Slaton noticed a large brown stain in the center. He hoped it was coffee.
Bloch put everyone on notice. “The last thing we want is to get into a firefight. Headquarters has gone over last night’s footage intensively. We think Argos is crewed by civilians, but we’ve distinguished a small security contingent that look professional—between four and six men.”
“That’s only Argos,” Slaton said. “What about the receiving boats?”
“That requires a bit more speculation. To begin, there is no guarantee the same transfer boats will be used. Even if not, it’s probably safe to assume that if another offload takes place tonight, we will at least see the same types of vessels and crew. The boats last night were clearly working boats, locals most likely, who’d been hired out for the evening. We suspect they were operated by their usual crews, but each boat carried one or two armed men, most likely from one of the regional militias.”
“Which militia?” Aaron asked.
“There’s no way to tell from a few satellite shots. You can make that your third objective—take a few pictures if possible to help us identify the boats and crew. Along this stretch of the Red Sea coast, there are any number of characters who might be involved.”
“But this isn’t happening only in the Red Sea,” Slaton argued.
The three commandos lasered in on Bloch, clearly not having been briefed on Cirrus and Tasman Sea. The former director filled them in on two other ships anchored off distant shores of the peninsula. “Argos is the nearest to Israel, so she is our greatest concern. For the same reason, she is also the most accessible. Find out what this ship is delivering, and we can reasonably extrapolate the results to the other two.”
“Okay,” said Matai, “so how do we go about this?”
“Boarding Argos would be my last choice,” said Aaron. “We could manage it, and we’d learn what’s in the crates—but to do that without being seen would be difficult. It also raises the chance of fireworks exponentially.”
“Agreed,” said Tal.
“Based on what you’ve seen,” Slaton said, addressing Bloch, “does the cargo being transferred look uniform?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m wondering, if we get a look at what’s on one of the smaller boats—would that be representative of what the others are carrying?”
“From the imagery I’ve seen so far, yes. But it’s a good point.” Bloch scribbled a note on a small pad. “I’ll put the question to our analysts.” He went to the white board and used tape to post a half dozen high-resolution images from Ofeq-11. Four showed Argos during last night’s offload, and the other two depicted later shoreside operations with the smaller boats docked in port. That done, he looked expectantly at his hastily assembled team. “You, gentlemen, are the experts. How do we go about this?”
Aaron said, “To begin, we follow the cargo through its entire journey—we can’t discount any opportunity. It begins in Argos’ main hold. As discussed, getting on board for a look without being seen—that would be high risk. Once the cargo has been loaded onto the smaller boats, the same problem is magnified. It would be even harder to get aboard and have a look undetected.”
“We could sink one of the smaller boats,” Tal suggested.
“How deep is the water?” Slaton asked.
Aaron referenced a nautical chart on the main table. “Right now Argos is anchored on the thirty-meter line. As you get closer to shore things gradually shallow out.”
“That’s doable,” said Tal. “Sink one, and with our dive gear and scooters we do a quick salvage operation at less than a hundred feet.”
Silence ensued as the four commandos weighed it.
Slaton was the first to call out the plan’s weaknesses. “That still leaves a lot to go wrong. Attaching explosives to do the job—that wouldn’t be easy. If the blast takes place alongside Argos, everyone knows something is up. We might get a look at what hits bottom, but it raises too much suspicion.”
Aaron came up with a modification. “If a charge sinks one of the transfer boats on the way back to shore, you limit suspicion to the few guys on that boat. There would be a hell of a lot of scrambling while it went down—maybe they would only think they’d hit a reef.”
“Or maybe they would all drown,” Slaton argued.
“Are we worried about casualties?” Aaron asked.
“We’re talking about smugglers,” said Bloch, which was a clear enough answer. “But if an entire boat and crew disappear—once again, it raises a warning.”
Tal added, “It would be tricky to set a timed charge anyway. Without knowing the speed or the course the boat will take, there’s no way to tell exactly where it will go off. Any minor miscalculation, and we could end up searching for a shipwreck in open ocean.”
“In the middle of the night,” Slaton added.
“What if we do it close to shore?” Matai suggested.
“We don’t know where that is,” Slaton argued. “We can’t assume these boats will necessarily return to the ports they launch from.”
Everyone sat staring at the white board.
Slaton stood slowly. He walked over and studied one of the satellite images.
“What is it?” Aaron asked.
Slaton tapped the photo that had gotten his attention. “We said we should follow the cargo all the way to shore. I think we missed one part.” He looked at Bloch. “I need a little information.”
“About what?”
Slaton told him specifically what he wanted. It wasn’t particularly technical in nature—more logistical.
Bloch picked up his phone. As he did, Slaton glanced up at an old analog clock on the wall. It was running ten minutes slow, which could have been due to old batteries. More likely—someone’s attempt to ease the time crunch.
“It’s evening,” Bloch said as his call ran to the right department. “Most of our researchers have gone home.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’ll have to curse more loudly than usual.”
* * *
Captain Zakaryan found Ivan in Argos’ officer’s mess. He was sitting with two of his men, three empty food trays on the table. Each man had a coffee cup, and a nearly empty bottle of vodka was between them. An hour ago there had been two full bottles.
“What time will your festivities begin tonight?” Zakaryan asked.
Ivan scowled.
As a sea captain, Zakaryan knew a good deal about men and drinking. In his experience there were two kinds of drunks: those who turned giddy and lighthearted, and those who tended toward belligerency. The underlings were both grinning stupidly, but there was no question into which category Ivan fell.
“Same as last night,” he said, his speech surprisingly unslurred.
“Will tonight be the end of it?” Zakaryan asked.
“Maybe so.”
“I’ll have the loading crew ready.”
“Good. I hope they are in better form than the cook. The beef tonight was crap.”
All three Russians seemed to wait for Zakaryan’s retort. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of losing his temper. “Where will we go next?”
“Out to sea. Back toward the Mediterranean, I think. I hear the south of France is lovely this time of year.”
“France? Perhaps we should send a message to the owners to see if they agree.”
“No message is necessary,” Ivan growled. “Your orders are to go where I tell you.”
“And in the meantime,” one of the other men said, more drunkenly than his superior, “take away these trays. They are attracting flies like a pile
of shit.”
The two junior men burst out laughing.
Zakaryan turned toward the companionway and left the Russians behind. He took solace in the idea that he would soon have the chance to revisit his decision to stay on as Argos’ captain.
Soon this will be over, he told himself. He tried to remember in what computer file he’d stored his old résumé. The other shipping lines might or might not be hiring—but it was time to move on.
* * *
Bloch had answers twenty minutes later. He walked to the photograph Slaton had zeroed in on, and referenced his notepad—he’d been scribbling constantly during the phone call.
“The crane on Argos is a standard jib configuration, with a weight rating of twenty-five tons. The main cable is most likely eighteen-millimeter braided steel, ending in a hook block. From there you have a double sling made of a high-tensile composite fabric. It cradles the load at four attach points.”
Slaton said, “And the load is essentially a square crate the size of a standard pallet. Weight unknown, but presumed heavy.”
“Correct,” said Bloch. The former Mossad director waited a few beats before asking, “Have I answered your questions, David?”
“You have.” He explained what he had in mind, and everyone took a few moments to wrap their heads around the idea.
“It solves pretty much every problem,” Aaron agreed.
“But do you think it’s feasible?” Tal asked. “Can we do that?”
“I can’t speak for you guys … but I’m pretty sure I could manage my part.”
THIRTY-NINE
By ten o’clock that night everything was loaded on the boat. Slaton increasingly saw the wisdom of Matai’s choice—the dive boat was thirty feet long and wide-beamed, with three big outboard motors and a decent radar and nav suite. The deck was open, built for divers lumbering in their equipment, and there was a custom-built platform with a ladder near the stern to bring everyone back aboard. The air tanks were slotted into PVC holders along each side, the valves retained by bungees, and long benches gave a stable base for gearing up in rough seas.
“The weather is holding,” said Aaron. “It should take about two and a half hours to get to the general area.”
“I like the dive boat theme,” Slaton said, “but isn’t this an odd hour?”
“Not as much as you’d think,” said Matai. “They actually do a fair amount of night diving down here. The bigger problem is the narrow waterway. We’re in Israeli waters for less than ten miles. After that, our choices are either Egyptian or Saudi territory. Both run patrols, but the Egyptians are far less active these days—they’ve been cutting back because they don’t have the money for it. Their boats are pretty slow too—we could outrun them if it came to that.”
“How encouraging. Don’t they have deck guns?”
Aaron answered, “I don’t expect any problems. It’s the lesser of evils to keep to the right on the way out, and once we hit the Red Sea proper we’ll be back in international waters.”
“Okay,” Slaton said, “but all the same … let’s not get stopped.” He surveyed the deck and saw it covered with equipment. The DPDs were lashed down in the open, but modifications aside, these too could be part of a normal dive excursion. Less easy to explain were the weapons and explosives, which were all below deck.
Matai fired up the motors one at a time, and the big outboards churned to life. Slaton looked across the pier. The only person in sight was a distant figure wearing a night watchman’s uniform. Slaton looked at Aaron and nodded toward the man.
Aaron said, “Don’t worry, Bloch has already made arrangements with him. We’ve thought of everything.”
The comment begged for a comeback, until Slaton looked at Aaron and saw the wry smile.
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m sure you have.”
* * *
Dinner was taken at the usual venue, La Kasbah des Sables. Because Tikhonov was a regular, he and Zhukov were given a prime table at the edge of the decorative indoor pool. Like most buildings in Ouarzazate, La Kasbah was nothing special on the outside, an old Glaoui mansion of earth-tone walls that looked little rehabilitated from the streetside. Inside, however, the restaurant was an appeal to the senses. The floor plan was open with high ceilings, the lighting thoughtfully set to highlight ornate rugs and wall-mounted spice jars. Rich fragrances from the kitchen filled the place, enhancing the naturally sweet desert air. The pool was the architectural highlight, a freeform blue pond backlit by a wall of brass oil lamps. Romantic as it all was, ambiance was not why Tikhonov frequented the establishment.
With some relish, the engineer had told Zhukov the story on their initial visit together. The first time Tikhonov had walked into the place, he’d been warned by the waiter that the nightly special was spicy lamb, and that it was served in large portions. The waiter suggested politely that since he was not a native, he might prefer one of the less zesty European selections. Tikhonov, a man unaccustomed to gastronomic moderation, had responded by ordering the plate and consuming it, then ordering it again, complaining that the first serving had been lacking in both size and heat. After the third iteration—a full pound of lamb nearly buried in pepper and cumin and cayenne—an uneasy truce was declared between the Russian and the chef. Now, each time Tikhonov returned, their relationship had fallen to something of a contest.
“The only problem with this place,” Tikhonov remarked, “is that they do not serve vodka.” For the third time he tipped a cask of Moroccan red to charge his wineglass. Tikhonov never needed an excuse to get drunk, but this afternoon’s successful test flight was as natural a cause as existed for celebration.
Zhukov was still nursing his first glass. “I will send you a case soon, the Swedish brand you like.”
“You promised that last time.”
Zhukov said, “Forgive me, but I’ve been busy,” while he thought: If I’d sent a case of vodka we’d be three days behind schedule. “So tell me what you learned from today’s flight. Were the test points realized?”
“Every one! We exceeded six Gs, which meets the baseline requirement. We also managed to attain one point four Mach, but had to go into the forties to do it.”
“Forties?”
“Above forty thousand feet.”
“I am an army officer—what does that mean for the project?”
“It means the supersonic requirement was met, but we validated at a higher altitude than would normally be used operationally.”
“You mean the jet won’t go supersonic at low altitude?”
“Certainly not. Few in the world can, at least not sustainably. It matters little—the program parameters have all been met.”
“Then a toast is in order.”
The two raised their glasses and tapped them companionably. Right then the waiter approached with a covered tray—he appeared to be struggling. Not without ceremony, he lifted a great silver lid to present Tikhonov with a mountainous portion of Beef Tagine over couscous. The meal would have defeated any normal table of four, and was served not on a plate but a massive platter.
Tikhonov roared with laughter. “Tell Didier he has outdone himself! Bravo!” He wiped his mouth with a wrist as a kind of warm-up, then tucked a napkin into his collar to prepare for the assault.
A second waiter arrived with a red snapper fillet for Zhukov. As they began the meal, Zhukov said, “I look forward to the live-fire test the day after tomorrow. It must be satisfying for you, the culmination of three years of work.”
Tikhonov made a sweeping gesture with an empty fork. “There will be no problems. It is among the most simple of scenarios. I have been meaning to ask why you chose such benign conditions. Low altitude, low speed, a non-maneuvering target. It is hardly a challenge.”
“Perhaps, but we cannot afford failure. Those above me must be assured we are spending wisely.”
Tikhonov stopped chewing for the first time since the food had arrived. He swallowed heavily and said, “You bring something
else to mind. I have been meaning to ask about the account you had me set up.”
It had begun six months ago. At the end of their first dinner here, Zhukov had instructed the engineer to establish an unusual bank account, ostensibly for the deposit of operational funds.
“What about it?” Zhukov asked.
“This Russian bank is one I’ve never heard of. And the amounts deposited—they seem to change significantly, higher every month.”
“Is that a problem? Consider any overages a bonus.”
The engineer’s eyes narrowed. “I am not accustomed to such generosity from our government.”
Zhukov reached for the wine as he pondered how to say what came next. He needed a facial expression to fit the situation—a degree of manipulation he’d rarely had to conjure in regimental staff meetings. He went with stoicism. “Actually, I’d like you to become comfortable with it. I have initiated changes to the project’s accounting methods. Later today you will see an even larger deposit arrive.”
Tikhonov put down his fork softly. “How large?”
Zhukov told him.
The engineer’s eyes widened.
Zhukov remained impassive. “I am in the process of setting up my own account, Boris. I think if one-third of this deposit were to be forwarded there, perhaps in a week or two, we might find ourselves in a mutually beneficial arrangement. One, I dare say, that could continue for some time. You should set up another account, in a quiet place. I could tell you a few things about tax havens, but I expect a man of your abilities would prefer to manage things on your own. Keep enough in the main account for operations, then do what you think is best with the remainder.”
Zhukov waited. This was the moment of truth, the point where any indications of shady dealings, which he’d been alluding to for months, crossed the line into collusion.
The engineer reacted predictably. He dug into his beef with gusto. “Why not?” asked a beaming Tikhonov.
The colonel watched his tablemate relax into a predictable rhythm, extended periods of gorging punctuated by gusts of good humor. Zhukov relaxed as well, and tried to suppress a smile. How easy it had been, he thought. After so much careful planning and cautious manipulation, in the end Tikhonov had barely blinked at the suggestion of a tainted windfall. The colonel wasn’t really surprised. Corruption in Russia was endemic these days, having metastasized into every thread of society. Legions of individuals in important positions would, for a regular and substantial consideration in either cash or property, make virtually any accommodation. Corporate managers, small town mayors, policemen. And, apparently, engineers working on secret military projects.
