Assassin's Run

by Ward Larsen

  “You don’t ask much. Whatever we find I’ll have sent to the consulate in Casablanca.”

  “No, I can’t go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would be awkward for everyone when I walk out of a diplomatic post with the other things you’re going to provide.”

  A long pause from Langley. “And what might that be?”

  Slaton told the man, and for another long beat he didn’t get a reply.

  “If you have any questions,” he added, “address them to the director. He’ll approve it.”

  “Actually, I think he will … in light of what he wants you to do for him.”

  It was Slaton’s turn to go silent. He could almost feel the smugness from thousands of miles away as the duty officer said, “This is going to be a two-way street. Something has come up, and you’re in a unique position to help us.”

  “Okay … what do you have in mind?”

  “A minor diversion, something you can do while we research your request. We need a bit of surveillance performed tonight…”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The hangar was hot, the big fans stirring the air to little effect on an unseasonably warm afternoon. Tikhonov used a shirtsleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his brow.

  “What should the fuel load be?” asked Hamza, the young local who ran the fuel truck.

  “Full tanks,” Tikhonov responded, his elbows deep in the electronics bay of the MiG that would fly tomorrow.

  He had been issuing orders nonstop since arriving back at the hangar, RosAvia’s little band of employees rushing about the place to ready their only airworthy MiG for an unscheduled “live-fire test” tomorrow. At least they don’t have the burden of the truth, he thought.

  In the two hours since Colonel Zhukov had dropped his bolt of lightning, Tikhonov battled the obvious question. How did I not see this coming? The answer, of course, was obvious. He had become so distracted by the engineering, the technical hurdles, that he’d lost sight of the greater picture. The remote location and minimal staffing. All controlled by a lone military officer with no scientific background. Tikhonov’s follow-up question—How will this affect my career?—was answered even more easily. He would have no career. The funds transferred to the new account would have to carry him for the rest of his life. He would disperse the money elsewhere, of course, and disappear as quietly as possible. Yet professionally he would never be heard from again.

  He watched the carefree Hamza turning valves on the fuel truck, and for the first time wondered how it would affect the others—thirteen men who had no such golden parachutes. Men as much in the dark about RosAvia’s true goals as he’d been only hours ago.

  Tikhonov pushed the thoughts away, Zhukov’s parting words ringing above all else: Your future is guaranteed to be restful, Boris. How long it might last … that depends very much on success.

  He stepped back from the MiG and tried to imagine what could go wrong tomorrow—the final flight of his crowning project. Today’s mission had been perfection, but how often had he seen hard-won success followed by inexplicable failure? Advanced telemetry, cobbled-together flight-control software, an airplane that was older than he was. What could go wrong? he thought bleakly.

  Tikhonov went to his laptop and began inputting the profile for the next day. The first change: plotting a course to a new operating area.

  * * *

  Sorensen got what she wanted after fifteen hours in Saudi Arabia—a meeting with the head of its National Guard.

  She waited for the minister of the Guard, General Qasim bin Abdullah, in a grand conference room at the Riyadh regional headquarters. The room was a basketball-court-sized testament to gold and translucent fixtures, no expense spared in the glorification of the kingdom. The central hardwood table alone must have involved three great trees felled in some equatorial forest. The walls were lined with portraits of contemporary kings and princes. A few she recognized. None were smiling.

  Sorensen knew a good bit about the Saudi Arabian National Guard, or as it was referred to in Langley, the SANG. She knew it was the country’s lead organization when it came to dealing with internal threats, and that its regiments were dispersed across the country. Its leaders were drawn exclusively from tribes loyal to the ruling House of Saud, and its command and control structure was completely separate from that of the military. The reasons for these precautions were obvious enough. On paper the National Guard was tasked to protect Mecca and Medina, as well as select strategic targets—notably the country’s oilfields. Yet the SANG’s primary mission was far more elemental—it was sworn to keep the Saudi royal family safe and in power.

  The great door at the head of the room surged open, and leading a small contingent was General Abdullah. He was a tall, long-faced man with a meticulously groomed beard. On seeing Sorensen, he spoke a few hushed words to the three men behind him—two wore robes, the other was in uniform—and all made a decorous exit.

  The general came toward her, moving in a way that made her think of a great water bird, his long limbs graceful under the robe. His bearded face held a smile, the same one Sorensen imagined was in place for any American with official status. She’d been given a briefing on Abdullah: he was a fast-riser in the Saudi hierarchy, spoke flawless English thanks to a degree from Georgetown, and had a reputation as something of a womanizer despite having three wives.

  “Miss Sorensen,” he said, “it is good to meet you.”

  “And you, General.”

  The two shook hands and, penetrating gaze aside, Sorensen sensed Abdullah would rather be somewhere else at that moment. Coltrane had undoubtedly pulled strings to make the meeting happen.

  He said, “Should I assume this is about the arms smuggling operation you’ve recently brought to our attention?”

  “It is.”

  “I assure you we’ve taken your warnings most seriously. Units have been dispatched across the kingdom to track down these Shiite miscreants.”

  “Shiite?”

  “Of course. It has been an ongoing problem for the last two months. The odd arms shipment here and there—small arms and explosives, barges across the Gulf and trucks from the Empty Quarter. These munitions are meant for the hands of those who would do the kingdom harm, but I can tell you we have intercepted every one.”

  “I hadn’t heard about any earlier shipments,” responded Sorensen.

  “We have been keeping it rather to ourselves.” The general shooed his hand in the air as one would for a bothersome insect. “As always, it is the work of Iran and their underlings. The mullahs across the Gulf live in an increasing state of fear.”

  “Actually,” Sorensen said, “we saw convincing Russian fingerprints on this operation.”

  “Russian?” repeated the general. “Why on earth would Russia risk such a provocation?”

  “That’s a very good question. One we’ve been asking ourselves.”

  Abdullah looked at Sorensen with suddenly softened eyes. “You are very pretty,” he said.

  Sorensen was wearing conservative clothing, and her blond hair was pulled back beneath a tasteful scarf. Not sure how to respond—at least not without causing an international incident—she let the comment go.

  “Tell your director not to worry,” said Abdullah. “We will have these stray arms swept up in a few days, just as with the others.” He leveled a finger at her. “And also tell him that next time he should share his intelligence with us before bringing in the likes of Mossad. I am sorry I cannot give you more time, but I am exceptionally busy this week with the family gathering.” He turned toward the door in a flurry of white cotton.

  “Family gathering?” Sorensen queried.

  The general seemed to hesitate, then turned back to face her. Once more Abdullah looked at her appraisingly. Had he not been vaguely smitten, she was sure he would have kept going.

  “Our king sets a careful course,” he said. “Once each year he arranges a gathering of the royal family. It is an event
like no other, a week in which the scattered hands of the kingdom become one. Policies are agreed upon for the coming year, alliances forged. This gathering is not comprehensive, mind you—the extended relations in the House of Saud number in the tens of thousands. Praise be to Allah, the most important in our kingdom number little more than a hundred.”

  “Where will this take place?” she asked.

  “Most years the gathering convenes in one of the main palaces, either Jeddah or Riyadh. As the head of the National Guard, it is my duty to secure things accordingly. This year, however, will be rather different.”

  “In what way?”

  “Even to you, I cannot divulge specifics. Not for a few more hours. But rest assured that a few guns running around our countryside … they are inconsequential. Now, I really must go. If you are still in Riyadh next week perhaps we can schedule a more in-depth meeting.” Flashing what had to be his most engaging smile, he spun away in a flourish of white cotton.

  Sorensen stared incredulously as Abdullah disappeared through ten-foot gilded doors. The moment he was gone she reached for her phone. Her first two attempts to dial Langley failed, and she realized the building must be hardened against electronic eavesdropping—something akin to what would be called a SCIF at home.

  She walked outside to get a signal, but before she could dial again Sorensen encountered a sight that left her standing in awe with her phone at her side. Across an expansive parking lot, shimmering under the lingering late afternoon sun, were more armored limousines than she’d ever seen in her life. All of them were empty, parked in wait of some great movement of VIPs. Sorensen realized there could be only one explanation. Without knowing where the royal gathering was taking place, she understood that the road to attend it began here.

  She shook away her surprise, and seconds later her third call to Langley went through.

  * * *

  Slaton rounded a curve at speed, the big bike beneath him handling smoothly over the ribbon of high desert road. The motorcycle was a BMW, rented from a company that specialized in touring adventures of northern Africa. Slaton had considered a number of transportation options, but after receiving his surveillance assignment, he chose the bike for its blend of speed and maneuverability.

  He was still traveling light: in the BMW’s hard-case saddlebags were one change of clothes, a cheap backpack, a compact set of binoculars, and a high-end digital camera with a telescopic lens. All had been purchased in Casablanca, and all were perfectly in character for a lone Scandinavian on an adventurous Moroccan holiday.

  His assigned objective was an airfield near a place called Ouarzazate, an hour’s ride ahead. The CIA was convinced a small business jet would soon land at the airfield, and, for reasons he could not discern, the agency wanted him to photograph the lone passenger expected to disembark. It was a simple enough job, and as quid pro quos went, a small price to pay for the support he so desperately needed.

  The latest word from Langley was that the target of his surveillance would arrive in the early evening—the timing was tight, but feasible. Slaton had also been asked to take pictures of the airfield and anything that looked “interesting.” He recalled how many times Mossad had launched him into such missions. Speculative intelligence forays where operatives were put at risk to prove or disprove some analyst’s hypothesis. Or, in other cases, the conjecture of a senior operations chief. Whatever the source, he would approach the whole affair with a due sense of caution.

  He accelerated out of a series of curves, the BMW commanding over roads that were in surprisingly good condition. If that held to Ouarzazate, he would arrive with time to spare. With any luck, he could get the desired pictures, return to the coast, and find a place to rest for a few hours before the real work began: in the early hours of tomorrow morning, he intended to be scouting the area where Ovechkin had gone into hiding. Looking for a man who was killing in his name.

  The dry desert air swept past in a ninety-mile-an-hour rush, snapping at his clothing and keeping his head below the windscreen. As Slaton raced eastward, the sun touched the mountains behind him in faltering shocks of orange.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Slaton had no trouble locating the RosAvia complex—against the pitch black desert, twenty miles outside Ouarzazate, its cluster of floodlit buildings stood out like a neon-clad Vegas casino.

  He dismounted half a mile short of the facility, and walked the bike carefully into the brush beside the main road—ease of concealment being another reason he’d not opted for a car. The air was thin and crisp, the warmth of the day already giving way to a still mountain coolness.

  With the bike out of sight, he took his bearings carefully. He saw a traffic sign nearby, and a hundred yards to the east was a distinctive curve in the road sided by a high guardrail. Hiding transportation was a useful bit of tradecraft, but one that backfired readily if you couldn’t find your ride on the way out. Particularly when one was on a dead run with gunfire blazing behind—something Slaton had had the displeasure of experiencing more than once.

  He set out toward the floodlights under a dim moon. He moved with the land where he could, keeping to wadis and avoiding high ground. The terrain was scarred and dry, the earth’s skin suffering the harshness of the elements. Slaton slowed as he neared the tiny airfield, and three times he paused to study the complex under its array of high-mounted amber floods. From a distance he saw a few small buildings nested beside the lone hangar. There was one long runway, and the standard mesh of taxiways connecting it all. It struck him that everything looked relatively new. The corrugated buildings appeared freshly painted, and the concrete was neither potholed nor weed-encrusted. The tall floodlights had not a single failed bulb in their luminous arrays.

  When he was a hundred feet shy of the perimeter fence, Slaton turned right and moved parallel to the boundary. He’d so far seen no sign of security. No roving guards with dogs, no vehicles parked at the fenceline with headlights trained outward. He also saw no sign of intrusion-detection hardware—no wiring or hardware for motion sensors, no pole-mounted infrared cameras.

  As his angle of view changed, he noticed that the hangar’s big main door was partially open. Inside, under the hard fluorescent light, he saw the first signs of life—a pair of men wearing drab coveralls. Slaton lifted his binoculars and watched for a full minute as they disassembled what looked like an equipment stand. From the tight angle he couldn’t see what else the hangar contained, but as he imagined it Slaton was struck by the airfield’s one glaring deficiency—there was not a single airplane in sight. He kept moving, knowing there had to be something in the hangar, and was rewarded fifty feet later. First a nosecone, then a fuselage, and finally a tail. He did a double take before yielding to the unexpected—he was looking at a vintage MiG-21. Of all the aircraft he might have expected here, that hadn’t made the list.

  For Slaton, it was a throwback to his early days in Mossad. He’d seen MiG-21s in Syria, and knew that the Egyptian Air Force had once flown them. Today, however, even those countries, which weren’t known for fielding state-of-the-art fighters, had put their 21s to the dustbin. So what’s a relic like that doing here? he wondered. And at a brand-new airfield on the edge of the Sahara?

  He saw what looked like a second jet behind the first—same make and model, but missing an engine and some panels. Then, far inside, the tail of a third. All three jets shared one peculiar commonality—bright orange paint on the tail. This too Slaton recognized: He’d seen test aircraft at Israel’s Palmachim Air Base with similar markings. Those jets, however, had been cutting-edge experimental aircraft, not fifty-year-old Russian cast-offs.

  He looked out across the rest of the airfield. Aside from the lack of aircraft, he saw the same things one would see at any airport. A fuel truck and some support vehicles, two standard shipping containers. A pile of discarded sheet metal next to a stack of empty wooden crates. RosAvia seemed a compact setup, a tiny flight operation in the middle of nowhere. To Slaton, that remoteness
, combined with the lack of security, suggested one of two things. Either what was going on inside was harmless and didn’t need protecting, or someone was trying to make it appear that way. A variation of hiding in plain sight.

  Ready to document his finds, he moved toward a rock outcropping that would give some elevation. He climbed from the backside, and on reaching the top he had what he needed—a line of sight to the hangar that cleared the perimeter fence. He set up shop quickly, choosing a flat stone shelf for his platform. He was removing his recently purchased camera and binoculars from the backpack when his phone vibrated with a message:

  TARGET ARRIVING FOUR MINUTES

  Slaton swept his eyes toward the ebony sky to the north. Sure enough, along the extended centerline of the runway, he saw an aircraft beacon. It twinkled red in a halfhearted warning, like the heartbeat of a weary traveler looking for respite. He checked his watch. Eighteen minutes ahead of the estimated arrival time the CIA had given him hours ago. Not bad. Perhaps an unexpected tailwind. Or a pilot with a hot date.

  How Langley had tracked the jet across the wilderness of airspace that was northern Africa Slaton couldn’t imagine. Was it some new kind of satellite capability? Had they hacked into the air traffic control systems of a half dozen countries? Whatever the case, they’d gotten it right.

  The red beacon was soon lost to the glare of bright landing lights, all of it sinking with precision toward the end of the runway. The jet landed and taxied a short distance to the hangar. The engines spooled down, an entry door was lowered, and a lone figure descended to the ramp. A figure that, even as a shadowed silhouette, set Slaton immediately on edge.

  He picked up the camera, adjusted the focus on the long lens. The man was momentarily caught in the spill of the ramp lights, his face clear in the viewfinder. In that moment, Slaton realized why the CIA had sent him here.