by Harold Coyle
Pinsard’s hazel eyes focused on his former Legion comrade. “You do look tired. But now that Caporal Pinsard is here, your problems are over!”
Hurtubise tried not to appear too skeptical. “My personnel problems or my equipment problems?”
“Both, of course!” Pinsard reached a tanned hand into his shirt pocket and produced a list. “There’s the inventory of what you wanted and what we can provide. As you will see, eight men instead of twelve, but they’re reliable. I have worked with them all. Two or three even have some nautical experience.”
“And the hardware?”
As if on cue, a van drove down the pier and stopped a few meters away. The sign on the side proclaimed that it belonged to a maritime provisioning firm. “Everything you wanted, Marcel. And I mean everything.”
“RPGs?”
“RPG-7s. Four launchers with ten rounds apiece. I could have got some 18s, but they cost more. Speaking of which…”
Hurtubise knew where his friend was leading. “That is not a problem, mon ami. Everything in cash, as agreed. My, ah, financiers are quite generous in that regard.”
He returned to the list that Pinsard had provided. “Hmmm … gas masks, good. Small arms and ammunition, heavy machine guns, very good. Oh, maybe not enough body armor for everybody.”
“Enough for you and me.” Pinsard smiled.
Hurtubise appreciated the man’s humor—and priorities. “What about motion detectors?”
“I have some but we should talk to your captain. I am not sure that they will work on a ship. I mean, they should work, but too well. All that rolling, and water coming over the deck.” He shrugged. “I would not count on them being very useful. Too many false alarms.”
Hurtubise pocketed the list and looked at the van. “All right, let’s get everything loaded. I want to leave tomorrow or the next day.”
65
SSI OFFICES
Derringer and Carmichael huddled with Leopole for an update on the deployed teams.
The former Marine officer began, “Jeff Malten is taking the SEAL cadre to Israel. He’ll arrive today and meet Bosco and Breezy, who’ve been there a few days. Jeff’s coordinating with Alex Cohen on intel and he’ll be our go-to guy when we learn about the ship. If the yellow cake heads east, we know it’s Suez and Jeff’s team will follow. If we learn the ship’s headed west, that means Gibraltar and the long way around.”
“There could be false leads,” Carmichael said. “You know, disinformation.”
“Affirm. We expect that. But between Dave Dare’s shop and what we get from State and elsewhere, we should be able to shake things out.”
“Okay, then,” Sandy replied. “Let’s hope it’s Gibraltar. That’ll give us a big breather.”
At length, Derringer spoke up. “You know, one thing really bothers me. About the intelligence, that is. Yes, we’re getting reports from Dave and State and DoD, but we don’t know how independent the sources are.”
“How’s that, Admiral?” Leopole asked.
“Dave and his spooks are good at what they do—really good. But without access to the raw data, we could be relying on just one or two actual sources. You know the routine: A tells B; B tells C; C tells A. It looks like three reports, but actually it’s one.”
Leopole’s forehead wrinkled. “Admiral, we already talked about sources. Dare’s working group is supposed to get raw data when we request it. That’s how the operation was set up.”
“Yes, but I talked to Dave this morning. That’s one reason I wanted to meet with both of you. So far, he’s got nothing more than what we see from government sources. He said that worries him, because usually he can get inside the loop in a matter of days and at least conclude whether data is original or filtered. So far, he thinks most reports come via Israel.”
Carmichael set down her coffee cup. “Well, things happened so fast that we didn’t have much time to establish a more thorough network. But you’re right: we don’t know if the intel so far is raw or not. It could be doctored.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Derringer said.
Leopole rubbed his crew cut. “Well, we need to let our operators know that.”
“Yes, but it’ll need some delicate handling. Alex is in the loop and…”
“My God,” Leopole exclaimed. “You’re saying he might be the reason…”
“We have to consider it.”
Carmichael resisted the impulse to bite one of her manicured nails. “Sir, maybe we’re overlooking an obvious source.”
“Yes?” Derringer replied.
“Well, Iran.”
The two males exchanged wide-eyed looks.
“Sure,” Carmichael continued. “If I understand it, all our information so far comes from our own sources but maybe it’s all from the Israelis. Well, you know them. They’ll share what’s in their interest to share and not much more. But if we could tap into one or two Iranian sources, that’d tend to confirm or deny what we’ve heard so far.”
Leopole raised his hands, palms up. “Sandy, that’s a primo consideration. But presumably anything originating in Iran would come to us via NSA or the CIA or State or whatever.”
“Yes, Frank. But we don’t know. That’s why it’s so important to see raw data, and Dave Dare is saying he can’t break it out. I’m just wondering who else we can call on.”
Leopole slapped his knee. “Under our noses.”
“What?”
“Omar.”
Derringer grinned. “Get him.”
66
HAIFA, ISRAEL
“Hey, there’s Jeff!”
Breezy turned at Bosco’s exclamation and glimpsed Jeff Malten walking through the hotel lobby.
Bosco could not help himself. “Hey, we’re a circus act!” The ex-Army men extended their arms like Joan Rivers, clapping their hands and balancing imaginary balls on their noses. “Arf arf! We’re trained SEALs!”
Malten looked at his Navy friend. “Some things you can always count on in a changing world.” He shook hands with his colleagues and introduced his partner. “Bosco, Breezy, this is Scott Pfizer. He’s another trained SEAL.”
Breezy allowed himself to grin. “Trained? Does that mean you balance balls on your nose or do you do water tricks?”
Pfizer was short, muscular, and businesslike. “Well, I’d say that I do tricks. By the way, how far can you swim under water?”
“Depends on what I see,” Breezy quipped. “But I met this Greek gal the other night and she could hold her breath longer than—”
Bosco interrupted his friend’s reverie with an elbow to the ribs. “Jeff, what’s the rest of the team look like?”
Malten swiveled his head. “I think we’d better talk in one of the rooms. This Cohen guy was supposed to make reservations for us.”
“Yeah, we met him. He seems to have things organized. C’mon, we can talk in our room until he gets back.”
Following Brezyinski down the corridor, Malten asked, “Where’d he go?”
“Damn if I know. He comes and goes all the time, like he’s the only one involved but there has to be other people. Maybe the Israelis just like to keep their contacts to a minimum.”
In their room, Bosco helped himself to the refrigerator and offered drinks to the others. Malten passed while Pfizer accepted a ginger ale. Dropping Breezy’s wet trunks on the floor, Malten occupied the chair and organized his thoughts. “Are you guys in contact with Arlington?”
Bosco sipped his beer and nodded. “We check e-mail at least twice a day. We have a phone card but we’re not supposed to use it if we don’t have to.”
“Well, then you’re probably pretty much up-to-date. Vic Pope is running the other team, and he’ll take the ship if it goes the long way around. I’m getting another SEAL and four other guys to start, with maybe a couple more besides. It’s real loosy-goosy, but I guess it has to be until we know more. If the ship goes via Suez, we’ll get the nod.”
“So we’ll have, what? Eight
or maybe ten guys?”
“Yeah, I think so. Frank wanted to load what he’s calling our East Team with most of our SEALs because we won’t have as much time to prepare as Pope’s team. Our job is to get you guys aboard the ship. After that, it’s pretty much interior tactics.”
“Fine,” said Breezy. “But what then? I mean, like, what do we do once we own the boat?”
Malten shrugged. “That’s still up in the air. I guess part of it depends on what Cohen turns up.”
Bosco asked, “So what do you know about Cohen?”
“Just what Frank and Sandy told me. Dual citizenship, apparently a lot of experience with the Israelis, though I don’t know details. He’s worked with SSI before. What’d he tell you?”
“Well, he’s lined up a ship for us to use. He wants a twenty-knot speed and big enough to carry a couple of Zodiacs. He said it needs to be foreign registry, which I guess means anything but Israeli.”
Malten glanced at Pfizer. The younger SEAL said, “That’s not a big deal. Ships change registry now and then, and they can fly a flag of convenience.”
Bosco gave him a blank stare. “Flag of convenience?”
“It’s a tax dodge. Panama is a real small country, but I think it registers more ships than anyplace else. There are even countries without coastlines that register ships because the fees are so low.”
“You mean, like, Nebraska could register ships?”
Pfizer chuckled aloud. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I’ve seen merchant vessels with Mongolian registry.”
“You gotta be shitting me,” Bosco exclaimed.
“No lie, GI.”
The operators heard four sharp raps on the door. Breezy looked through the peephole and said, “It’s Cohen.” He admitted the Israeli-American and introduced the new arrivals.
Alexander Cohen quickly surveyed the team but showed no interest in the individuals’ opinions. Instead, he took charge of the assembly and exercised his home-court advantage. “I know that none of you have been to Israel before, but that doesn’t matter too much. We won’t be here very long because I just have confirmed that our target is docked in Misratah. It will probably sail in the next two days or so.”
“Where the hell’s Misratah?” Bosco asked. He resented Cohen’s attitude and could tell that most of the others shared his impression.
“Oh, that’s in Libya.” His tone seemed to imply Of course.
Jeff Malten was not prepared to accept much on faith. “What’s the source of that information?”
Cohen raised his hands, palms up. “I cannot discuss sources, Mr. Malten. I’m sure that you understand the need for security.”
“No, actually, Mr. Cohen, I don’t. Especially when it’s our necks. I think we’re entitled to know something about the information we’re acting on.” He made a point of looking around. “I think we all do.”
“Damn straight,” Breezy said.
Bosco added a Ranger “Hoo-ah.”
Pfizer, sensitive to his status as the new guy, merely returned Cohen’s gaze.
“Another thing as long as we’re discussing priorities,” Malten added. “As far as I know, I’m leading this team. That’s what Colonel Leopole told me when Scott and I left Washington yesterday, and I don’t think anything’s changed since then. If I’m wrong, now’s the time to hear it. From him.”
Cohen’s brown eyes took a gunslinger squint at the former SEAL; a gaze of respectful resentment. At length Cohen said, “That is my information as well, Mr. Malten. But since this is my country and since I am arranging our equipment and shipping, I believe that SSI grants me control over the preparations. Once the operation begins, of course you are in charge.”
Malten’s brain registered the phrase My country. He could not resist making his point. “Well, maybe that’s the difference between us. These guys and me, we’re Americans. That’s our country. I understand that you have dual citizenship…” He allowed the sentiment to dangle in the thickening air.
Alexander Cohen was unaccustomed to having his loyalty questioned by Americans or Israelis. He bit off the response he felt building in his throat and, controlling his voice, replied, “I was born in America of Israeli parents. Considering what that ship is carrying to Iran, I think we both have cause for concern, don’t you?”
Jeffrey Malten nodded, then pressed his point. “So how do you know what ship we’re after?”
Cohen decided on a middle course. “The ship is called Tarabulus Pride. It’s Libyan registry, about three thousand tons. Apparently it’s loaded and ready to sail. We don’t know why it hasn’t left yet, but maybe the French security firm wants to get more men. They must know we’ll be tracking the shipment.”
Malten was unwilling to concede the intelligence argument. “Okay, that helps. But how do you know all this?”
Cohen folded his arms. “Mr. Malten, for now I can just say that we are confident of the information. I can ask for permission to share that with you, but it will take some time. And I do not think we have much time.”
“All right, I’ll trust you to do that. Now, what about our own ship and equipment?”
Cohen sat at the writing desk and laid down a notepad. “Our ship is leased for one month, which should be plenty of time if the yellow cake goes via Suez. It’s fully fueled and manned. We have three Zodiacs, weapons, radios, and boarding equipment. Here’s the list. Let me know if you need more.”
Malten looked at Pfizer with raised eyebrows. “Well, that’s a lot of gear in a short time. Mr. Cohen, I don’t…”
The Israeli smiled. “As long as we’re arguing so well, make it Alex.”
“Okay, I’m Jeff.” Malten looked at the list again. “Ah, right now I don’t know if we’ll have enough men for three boats. But it’s good to have a spare.”
Cohen leaned back, hands behind his head. “Nothing’s too good for our American friends.”
67
SSI OFFICES
Mike Derringer was a well-known workaholic: he arrived early each weekday and often spent part of a weekend at the office. Today was no different. He checked the coffeepot, noticed that Peggy Springer already had turned it on, and not for the tenth time admired her efficiency.
He turned on his office computer to check overnight e-mail and found the usual clutter of messages: reminders, jokes, reunion notices, occasional obituaries. SSI’s computer support division had installed a powerful firewall in all the company’s machines, and Derringer—certainly no prude—gladly did without the Internet’s marketing pollution: penis enlargement, enhanced sexual performance, and teenage Asian sluts. Occasionally Karen assured him that, at age sixty-seven, he needed neither of the first two, but she would personally see to organ reduction if he ever dabbled in the third.
He believed her.
Quickly working his way through the list, making frequent use of the Delete button, Derringer saw a message from a sender called “Double Dare.” Derringer opened the message.
Admiral: Our boat left late yesterday PM, probable heading 270. More to follow. DD.
Derringer swiveled in his chair, punched the intercom, and buzzed Wilmont’s office. There was no response, nor did the admiral expect one at 0745. Marsh is more an 0900 kinda guy, the admiral thought. In descending order down the ladder, he buzzed Sandra Carmichael and Frank Leopole.
“Leopole here.”
“Frank. I’m glad you’re in. Our bird has flown the coop.”
“Be right there, sir.”
“Ah, have you seen Sandy?”
“Negative. I think she’s still inbound.”
“Very well. Hustle up here and I’ll try her cell phone.”
Derringer checked his Rolodex—he still trusted electrons just so far—and punched in the number.
“This is Sandra Carmichael.”
“Sandy, Mike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Ah, I’m still on Sixty-six, approaching the Twenty-nine exit. Call it
one-five mikes. Less if this idiot ahead of me moves over.”
Derringer visualized the geography. Carmichael’s Nissan would exit onto the Lee Highway, take Danville Street south across Wilson Boulevard to Clarendon, and proceed east toward Courthouse Road. “Very well. Come straight to my office. Frank and I are working the latest intel.”
“You heard from Dave?”
“That is affirm.”
“Gotcha, sir.” The line went dead.
Leopole walked directly into the office without bothering to knock. “What’ve we got, Admiral?”
“Just a preliminary report from Dave Dare. He says the ship left yesterday afternoon or evening, probably westbound. That’s all we have for now.”
“Then Jeff Malten’s team is…”
“Way out of position in Israel. Yes, I know. I understand that Pope’s people are set to fly out today.”
“Yessir.” The foreign ops director stood for a moment, rubbing his chin and wishing he could dispense with his tie. “Admiral, we could try repositioning Malten but I think maybe we…”
“Concur.” Derringer allowed himself to laugh. “Frank, if we keep this up much longer, we’re going to be telepathic. It took me about eight years before I could do that with Karen.”
Leopole laughed politely, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “Looks like a long day, sir. But if I read you, we still don’t know for certain that Dare’s report is complete enough to act on. I mean, yes, the ship could’ve left, but until we know that it’s definitely headed west, we could end up chasing our own tail.”
“Concur again. But get on the horn and see if you can talk to Malten. Or Cohen might be a better prospect. Just call it a warning order: prepare to fly to Morocco, but also be ready to execute the Suez option.”
“Well, Terry Keegan’s back in Cairo with a leased cargo plane and crew. That’s one of the better contingencies we arranged. He should be able to get to Haifa on pretty short notice.”
“Yes, we should let him know as well.” Derringer looked at the ship’s clock on his wall. “Call it 0800 here—about 1500 there. I’ll try that call myself. Report back here when you’re done and we’ll huddle with Sandy.”
