The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

Hwang vividly recalled boarding the Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion with his colleagues and the civilians who suddenly jumped aboard as the rotors were spooling up. Annie Stewart had caught his eye immediately. Hwang had never seen a more beautiful woman. Her big green eyes and short shag haircut nearly made his heart stop. He loved her enthusiasm, her sense of fascination about everything she was learning in country. He was charmed by her infectious smile and South Carolina accent. He loved that she was wearing almost no makeup at all and that her nails were short and unpainted. He’d never been attracted to girls who got themselves all painted and dolled up, preferring a simpler, more modest look.

  After they came under fire by the Taliban, Hwang became even more impressed by Stewart. She saw friends die that day. Shot to death. Burned alive. Yet rather than panic, she proved surprisingly cool under fire. She’d immediately volunteered to help and had gotten right to work. She cleaned wounds and set up IVs and gave her wounded colleagues shots of morphine and even performed mouth-to-mouth on one woman who sadly didn’t make it. When it was all over, her face and hands and clothes had been covered with mud and blood, and Hwang had been attracted to her all the more.

  Unfortunately, she’d shipped out with the senator, back to Washington, twenty-four hours later. But not before coming to the field hospital to meet with each member of the One-Six. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she’d expressed her appreciation for what they’d all done to save her life and that of her boss and her friends. Hwang was about to ask for her number, but then he’d watched her become especially emotional at the foot of Marcus’s bed. It was true that Marcus had probably done the most to fend off the Taliban attack. He’d killed nearly two dozen jihadists that day, and he’d paid a heavy price. Shot multiple times, he’d very nearly bled to death. Now he was lying there unconscious with this beautiful woman crying over him. Hwang had put his arm around Stewart, handed her some tissues, and gently eased her away and walked her to a waiting Humvee. But the moment had been lost. Hwang never asked her out but simply said good-bye.

  Perhaps it was just as well. He couldn’t quite imagine coming home to Houston with a blonde on his arm and expecting to get his parents’ blessing. Then again, marrying a Korean hadn’t exactly worked out for him, had it? Jane, the girl next door—the brown-eyed, black-haired beauty his parents had picked out for him because her family originally hailed from the Korean city of Busan—had not only divorced him, she’d soaked him for everything he had, taken his kids, and walked away with everything including the kitchen sink.

  In the financial and emotional wreckage that had become Hwang’s life, a blonde now seemed pretty good—especially one he’d had a crush on so many years before. And then, completely out of the blue, Annie Stewart had called him a few months earlier. Could he come down to D.C. for lunch? Would he be willing to talk to the senator? Did he have any interest in coming to work on a presidential campaign? He had jumped at the chance. Nothing had transpired between them, but at least they were working together. They were talking often, emailing even more.

  Hwang felt ashamed of himself for his flash of jealousy. Could he really fault the woman for showing as much interest in Marcus’s situation as he was? At least she was turning to Hwang for answers. If he kept his head about him, the whole thing could actually draw them closer.

  Hwang glanced at his watch. He still had four and a half hours until he got to London. He’d better get some rest, he told himself. He turned off his phone and closed the window blind. Then he leaned back his seat, put on an eye mask, and tried to drift off to an image of Annie Stewart in his mind’s eye.

  It wasn’t working. The unshakable image that haunted him now was Ryker’s Gulfstream jet being blown out of the sky, over and over again.

  52

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Lieutenant General Barry Evans stepped into the Oval Office.

  Clarke had just come from the luncheon in the East Room and was surprised to see his national security advisor.

  “Good afternoon, General—I wasn’t aware you and I had a meeting,” he said as he shook the man’s hand and accepted a cup of coffee from a steward.

  “Sir, I just received official word that President Petrovsky wants to speak with you immediately. The Kremlin says he wants to establish a friendly dialogue and accept your congratulations on being named Russia’s new leader. And given the dramatic developments of the past few days, he would also like to brief you on the retreat of Russian forces from NATO borders.”

  “You buy any of that?” Clarke asked as he sat down behind the Resolute desk and checked his schedule for the rest of the afternoon.

  “No, sir,” said the NSA. “He’s fuming about the erroneous information the CIA fed him, and he’s going to give you an earful.”

  “Can’t wait,” Clarke said. “Make the call.”

  Jenny was still running a fever.

  Marcus figured there must be an infection somewhere after all. He gave her the last shot of antibiotics they had. He also gave her another shot of morphine, but that was running low.

  “You need a doctor.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re tough—I get it,” Marcus said. “You’re lucky you’re not dead or in a coma. But let’s not kid ourselves. We need to get you professional medical care, and soon.”

  “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus admitted. “And that’s what bothers me.”

  Jenny excused herself to use the washroom, and Marcus began to pace. It was clear he had to get Jenny back to the States for her own protection. He also knew he and Oleg couldn’t go with her. The problem was, he no longer had a direct connection to the American government, yet he needed someone to turn to, a back channel who could get a message to Stephens that Ryker was ready to hand over the Agency’s Moscow station chief immediately and without preconditions.

  But who?

  Nick Vinetti was the obvious choice, but he’d already tried that approach, and it had gone badly. There was McDermott, but he was too close to the center. And then there was the touchy matter that McDermott—one of his oldest friends in the world—must have known and approved of the president’s decision to order drone strikes against him. So that was out. There was Pete Hwang. Marcus was certainly closer to the good doctor than to McDermott. Yet how could he be sure Hwang hadn’t sided with Vinetti and McDermott in working against him?

  Marcus immediately ruled out involving his mom or sisters. The less they knew, the better. Nor did he feel comfortable reaching out to Carter or Maya Emerson to intervene on his behalf. Emerson would do it, of course. He wasn’t just a pastor. He had become a trusted friend, someone Marcus felt he could talk to about anything. Well, almost anything. He certainly wouldn’t want to involve him in any of what he was dealing with now.

  Senator Dayton came to mind, but Marcus doubted the man would even take his call, radioactive as he had become. What about Annie Stewart? he wondered. He and Annie didn’t actually know each other that well. He wouldn’t exactly characterize her as a friend. They’d never done anything social together, yet they were more than acquaintances. He’d known her for over a decade, and he sensed that she held him in some esteem. He certainly admired her. She was incredibly sharp. A clear thinker. Articulate. And discreet. Working on the professional staff of the Senate Intelligence Committee as a senior advisor to the ranking minority member, she was as well-placed as anyone else he knew. What’s more, she was the one who had reached out to him to get him involved in Dayton’s delegation to Moscow in the first place.

  And yet . . .

  The more he mulled the idea, the less comfortable Marcus felt reaching out to her, though he couldn’t place his finger on exactly why. Might being mixed up with him compromise her security clearance? Might it jeopardize her work for the senator? A wave of other doubts flooded his thoughts.
It just didn’t feel right.

  Marcus was quickly running out of people to ask. After several minutes, he doubled back to Pete Hwang. Had he ruled him out too quickly? Of course Hwang was friends with McDermott and Vinetti, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was in league with them. He didn’t work for them, and he was nothing if not an independent thinker. Technically Hwang didn’t work for the government at all. He was paid by Senator Dayton’s political action committee. That gave him proximity to the center and thus the ability to pass on a message to those at the highest levels in Washington, yet he also had just enough distance that no one could use his involvement to accuse the U.S. government of engaging in any further direct communication with men accused of treason.

  Marcus glanced at his watch, then powered up the laptop and connected to the Internet via the remaining satphone. He didn’t want to use his own Gmail account, certain it was being monitored by Langley and perhaps by the Russians as well. So he created a new AOL account and dashed off the following note.

  Pete, this is Marcus. You there? Got a question for you. And it’s time sensitive.

  53

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The call started well but rapidly disintegrated.

  Following the recommendation of his national security advisor, who was listening in on speaker, Clarke began by offering his personal condolences—and that of his nation—for the tragic events in Moscow. He wished Petrovsky well in his new role as Russia’s president and said it was important they set U.S.–Russian relations back on a positive trajectory.

  The president then listened politely, even took some notes, as Petrovsky described how he was pulling back Russian forces in Europe. And when Petrovsky asked his American counterpart to reciprocate by removing U.S. forces from the Baltics—something Clarke had no intention of doing—he followed Evans’s counsel and told the Russian he would “take his recommendation seriously and discuss it with his advisors.”

  But that was five minutes ago. Now Petrovsky was screaming so loudly and speaking so rapidly that both the Russian and American translators were struggling to keep up. As anticipated, Petrovsky was accusing the Americans of putting innocent civilians at risk by providing coordinates that had proved inaccurate. He demanded to know what role the Central Intelligence Agency had played in the murders of Russian leaders and the destabilization of Russian society. It was a serious charge, and it was all Clarke could do not to respond in kind.

  “Mr. President—Mikhail—please; you’re angry and I understand why, but listen to me when I tell you categorically that the United States government had absolutely no role whatsoever in any of these events,” Clarke said in as restrained a manner as he could manage. “We were blindsided by these assassinations. I have denounced them. My secretary of state has denounced them. We have done so in the strongest possible language. And we are trying to help you hunt down the killers.”

  “You deny having any role in these three murders?” Petrovsky bellowed.

  “Absolutely—100 percent—we were not involved in any way,” Clarke replied. “Mikhail, please, take a breath. For the sake of world peace and security, you and I must endeavor to get along better—”

  He almost said, “better than your predecessor” but stopped himself when he saw Evans’s hand shoot up. Instead he changed course awkwardly.

  “—better, that is to say, for all of us, for the peoples in both of our nations who depend on us for peace and prosperity, that we should begin our new relationship on friendly, or at least civil, terms.” Clarke looked at Evans and got an approving nod. “We will not agree on every issue. But we do not need to be disagreeable. Can we agree, at least, on this?”

  “Do not test me, Mr. President,” Petrovsky growled. “I am demonstrating my goodwill by pulling our forces back from NATO’s borders. But I expect a tangible measure of good faith on your part.”

  “I already told you, Mikhail—your request that we remove our forces, or at least decrease our presence, in the Baltics will be given the utmost consideration.”

  “This is not all I am seeking,” said Petrovsky, quieter now but clearly still furious.

  “What, then?”

  “Tell me: Where is Marcus Ryker?”

  Clarke blanched, as did Evans.

  “Who?” Clarke replied while scribbling on a White House notepad, Where’s he going with this?

  Evans shrugged.

  “You know exactly whom I speak of,” said Petrovsky. “Marcus Ryker. Former Marine. Former Secret Service agent. Saved your life. Now working for Senator Dayton.”

  “Okay, fine, I know Mr. Ryker, but what does he have to do with any of this?”

  Clarke could see the anxiety in Evans’s eyes.

  “My security services have a growing pile of evidence that he collaborated with Oleg Kraskin, the man responsible for murdering all three of our leaders.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible, you say? Then where is he? He took part in Senator Dayton’s meeting with President Luganov. Then, in the middle of the night, he had a meeting with Mr. Kraskin in his room in the Hotel National—don’t deny it, Mr. President; we have it all on tape. He helped Mr. Kraskin pass classified information to your government. And now, in the aftermath of Mr. Kraskin’s wicked work, Marcus Ryker is missing. He flew out of Moscow on the senator’s plane. But no one has seen him since. He’s not in his apartment. He hasn’t shown up for his volunteer work at Lincoln Park Baptist Church. Nor has he met with Senator Dayton or the senator’s staff since supposedly returning to Washington.”

  Clarke was speechless.

  “This has my security services very puzzled,” Petrovsky continued. “They are suggesting to me that Mr. Ryker was on the Gulfstream jet that Mr. Kraskin used to escape Moscow. They are suggesting to me that Ryker and Kraskin and another conspirator may have actually jumped out of the plane just before my air force shot it down. And if they are proven correct, then there is no way Mr. Ryker was working alone. Twenty-something years serving in the U.S. military and government? He has to still be working for you. I keep telling my generals, ‘Don’t jump to any rash conclusions, gentlemen. Do you understand what you’re suggesting? You’re suggesting the American government has just committed not just one but three acts of war against our nation. We had better have solid proof before we consider our retaliatory options.’ But I must tell you, Mr. President, they are very convincing.”

  Retaliatory options? The Russian president was saying he was de-escalating the conflict his predecessor had set into motion while simultaneously threatening war anyway. Clarke wiped his brow and reached for a glass of water.

  “So I ask again, Mr. President,” Petrovsky continued, “in as patient a manner as I can muster under the circumstances: Where is Marcus Ryker?”

  “I have no idea, Mikhail,” Clarke replied. “He doesn’t work for me. He’s a private citizen and—”

  “That is not the answer I’m looking for, Mr. President. If you cannot produce Ryker for my ambassador in Washington, I may be persuaded by my security advisors that he is, in fact, on Russian soil. That he is, in fact, responsible for the murders of our leaders. And that he just may, in fact, still be working for you.”

  Clarke was no longer sitting behind the Resolute desk. He was on his feet now, pacing, improvising. “That’s a very serious charge, Mikhail. Don’t go there. Look, Marcus Ryker is a good man—a patriot—completely incapable of doing what you’re saying. And just because I don’t know where he is at the moment doesn’t mean I can’t find him. I have no doubt he came home with Senator Dayton. I’m sure he’s in Washington or nearby—wait, one of my staffers is handing me a note—”

  Evans froze, clearly unhappy with this turn of events and clueless about what the president of the United States was going to say next.

  “Hold on; let me see here. Okay, yes,” Clarke continued. “My staff says Mr. Ryker became very ill on the flight back home. Upon landing in Washington, he was rushed t
o Walter Reed medical center. That’s a military hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. He’s in the ICU there, undergoing aggressive treatment. I don’t know what the ailment is, but apparently the doctors expect him to make a full recovery.”

  54

  BUSHEHR AIRPORT, BUSHEHR, IRAN

  IranAir flight 319 from Tehran landed just before 9:30 p.m. local time.

  When every other passenger had disembarked, the deputy director of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps finally did as well. He had not flown in uniform, nor in first class. He’d been told to keep a low profile, and he was. No one was waiting for him at baggage claim or in the arrival hall. There was no government car waiting or even a friend there to welcome him, and there was a reason for that. No one knew he was coming.

  It was unusually humid for the end of September. There was no breeze coming off the water, and the air was like an oven. As Alireza al-Zanjani emerged from the air-conditioned terminal, he saw a digital time and temperature display at a bank across the street. It was 46 degrees Celsius, nearly 115 Fahrenheit, and he was instantly drenched in perspiration. He found it hard to breathe, and he remembered why it had been years since he’d come down to the Gulf.

  Wiping his brow and adjusting his sunglasses, al-Zanjani hailed a taxi and gave the wizened old driver the name of a café on the south side of this city of some two hundred thousand souls. The cab had no air-conditioning, and the dust swirling into the vehicle’s interior from the four open windows nearly made al-Zanjani choke. But the traffic at this hour was mercifully light, and by a quarter to ten he had arrived at his destination. He tossed a wad of rials into the front seat—a good deal more than the fare—grabbed his leather satchel, and walked into the café.

  The place was packed with teenagers, mostly girls in headscarves and abayas, but al-Zanjani passed them by without a glance. The young barista asked what he wanted to drink, but he ignored the kid and headed for a back room.