“I realize that, Ruvi,” Gilad replied. “I’m just being honest with you.”
“Honest?” Eitan said, mulling the notion as he got up from his chair to pour himself a brandy. “Well, you’ve certainly been honest with me today, Asher. You readily admit that you don’t know where Alireza al-Zanjani is. You can’t find the team that killed your men in Athens. You can’t say for certain if the Iranians are still looking to buy nuclear warheads, though your working assumption is that they are. You don’t know why Tehran took such a big gamble to try to buy warheads on the black market. Nor can you say for certain why Ayatollah Ansari hasn’t been seen in public in recent weeks and hasn’t delivered his Friday sermon in over a month. Have I missed anything that Israel’s notorious chief spy does not know and thus cannot tell his prime minister?”
Gilad held his tongue. Three and a half weeks earlier, he and his team had delivered damning information about the extent of Iran’s complicity in North Korea’s nuclear and missile programs. Eitan had been so electrified by this that he’d ordered Gilad to share it immediately with the intelligence chiefs from Saudi Arabia and the UAE, both as a way to reinforce to two key Arab regimes the prowess of Israeli capabilities and to set into motion new and more urgent conversations about how the three governments—together with the Egyptians and Jordanians—should work to counter the Persian threat. Now Eitan was acting like Gilad was a bumbling moron who added no value to his national defense architecture.
It wasn’t the first time. It would not be the last. Gilad was under no illusions. He’d known the prime minister since they were young boys growing up together in Rishon Leziyyon, a suburb on the south side of Tel Aviv. They’d graduated from high school together. They’d been drafted into the IDF together and had both been recruited into Shayetet Shalosh-esray, the Israeli version of the Navy SEALs and one of the country’s most elite commando units. But that’s where their paths, and their friendship, had diverged.
Eitan had become a Shayetet commander, and a decorated one at that. Then he’d left the IDF to go into business, where he’d helped launch a high-tech startup that he and his partner had sold a decade later for a cool $400 million. It was then that Eitan had been recruited into the center-right Likud Party and risen through the ranks, finally becoming prime minister.
Gilad, by contrast, had been recruited from Shayetet into the Mossad. The firstborn son of two linguistics professors, he was fluent in six languages—Arabic, Farsi, Russian, French, and English, in addition to Hebrew—and had operated as a field agent, often deep behind enemy lines, first in Syria and later in Lebanon and then Iran. After being severely wounded in his right leg during a mission in Sudan, Gilad had been restricted to desk duty. At first, he’d become deeply discouraged and had contemplated an early retirement. In the end, he chose to view the injury as an opportunity and rose to become one of the intelligence agency’s most decorated analysts and later one of its most respected managers.
Somewhere along the way, the bonds of their once-tight brotherhood had frayed. Their wives didn’t like each other. Their kids barely knew each other. They never socialized anymore. Gilad had not even voted for the man. Not once. And yet when it came time to appoint a new Mossad director, Eitan had surprised his old friend by calling him first.
“Ruvi, look, we have more than two hundred men and women working exclusively on the Iran matter,” Gilad said quietly, gripping the brass crown of his cane with his right hand. “We are doing everything we possibly can. Trust me. When I have more, I assure you that you will be the first to know.”
They’d ditched the Mercedes in a river and stolen an Audi SUV.
Now Marcus and Oleg were fueling up at a petrol station along the E95 highway, near Gatchina, a small city about thirty minutes south of the Tsar Palace. Marcus was routing the satphone call through the hotel’s switchboard, something Jenny had taught him before they’d left her. He was not, therefore, worried that Vinetti—or any of the folks at the NSA and NSC who were undoubtedly listening to the call—were going to track him down through the phone’s signal. He was far more worried about what his old friend was about to say.
“Marcus, are you there?” Vinetti asked.
“I’m here. We’re gonna make this fast, Nick. I hear the drones approaching.”
“We had nothing to do with that.”
“Sure you didn’t. You’ve got sixty seconds—ticktock.”
It worked. Vinetti abandoned any thought of small talk and got right to the point. The presidential pardon was signed, he said. All was forgiven. Oleg would be put into the Witness Protection Program and allowed to keep the money that had been wired to his numbered account in Zurich. Jenny would not only be exonerated of all suspicion but get a promotion. For now, she needed to be secretly transported back to Moscow. She would be given first-class medical treatment by embassy doctors, but it was essential that she maintain her cover as an economic attaché and continue her life there for several months. It was critical to projecting an image of “business as usual.” After the New Year, she would be transferred back to Washington.
So far, so good, thought Marcus. Then came three conditions.
First, Director Stephens was insisting that Marcus and Oleg be completely forthcoming about everything they knew regarding the nuclear weapons in North Korea and those heading for Iran. If they were caught in a single lie, the deal would be off. They would both be sent to maximum-security federal prisons for the rest of their lives. The pardons would only cover past crimes—or alleged crimes—they had committed. Any laws they broke after accepting the pardons they would be fully liable for.
Second, Vinetti explained that Petrovsky had insisted the Russian ambassador in D.C. be allowed to see Marcus immediately. He said they were under a time crunch. He didn’t explain why.
“And third?” Marcus asked.
“You’re not going to like this one, Marcus.”
“Ticktock, my friend, ticktock.”
“Fine,” Vinetti said. “The president insists that you formally join the Central Intelligence Agency and that I leave the State Department and join the Agency too. You’ll be Oleg Kraskin’s handler. I’ll be yours. I’ll report directly to Stephens and the president. No one else can know you work for Langley. No one can know Kraskin is still alive, much less working for us. You can still volunteer at your church. That’ll be pretty good cover, actually. But the president demands you be accountable to the Agency and to him. He says he can’t afford to have you going rogue for another minute.”
Marcus said nothing. Oleg now caught his eye. The Audi was fueled. It was time to move.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Vinetti added. “The president was told repeatedly that you have no interest in coming back to work for the government, but—”
Marcus cut him off. “Done.”
“How’s that?”
“You heard me,” Marcus said. “I accept.”
58
THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, TEHRAN, IRAN—1 OCTOBER
Everyone stood at attention as President Yadollah Afshar strode into the war room.
The defense minister had gotten there only minutes before, just back from meetings in Caracas. The chiefs of the Iranian army, air force, and navy were there as well, along with Mahmoud Entezam, the commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. Now, following the direction of the president, they all got down on their hands and knees and bowed their foreheads toward Mecca for Qiyam—nighttime prayer.
When they were finished, Afshar asked for a situation report.
“My men are on their way to Pyongyang as we speak, Your Excellency,” General Entezam began. “Per our standard tradecraft, their route is circuitous, this time more than usual, as we have indications that both the Zionists and the Americans are watching the airports extra closely.”
“Which airports?”
“Any one that has direct flights to Pyongyang, Your Excellency.”
“They suspect something?”
&nb
sp; “We can’t say for certain,” Entezam replied. “But a close look at open-source media analyses following President Luganov’s high-profile state visit there—prior to his tragic demise, of course—shows a significant degree of cynicism regarding whether Hyong Ja Park is truly ready to give up his entire nuclear program.”
“Then why have I been informed that Western media coverage about the announcement has been glowing, that many columnists, not a few academics, and even some prominent left-wing lawmakers are saying Luganov and the Dear Leader should be awarded the Nobel Prize, even though it would be posthumous in the Russian’s case?”
“That is all true, Your Excellency,” Entezam said. “I refer instead to the intelligence and policy communities.”
“They are more cynical?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Excellency. Polls show that the Europeans—at least those in Western Europe—are far more willing to believe the deal is legitimate. But a majority of Americans say they are skeptical. Our friends in Moscow are telling us the number of American spy satellite passes over the peninsula have doubled. Our sources in Beijing add that the number of known Western intelligence officers monitoring flights in and out of Pyongyang has quadrupled. I’m confident we can get our men in there. They’re well trained. Their disguises are impeccable, and their documents weren’t forged. They were stolen. So they’re legitimate. They’ll hold up.”
“But it will take more time than you had planned.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your Excellency, may I interject?” the defense minister asked.
Afshar nodded.
“We may want to consider delaying the transfer of the warheads.”
“Until when?”
“A few weeks, perhaps a few months—just until things quiet down and the eyes of the world turn somewhere else.”
“No,” Afshar said. “There will be no delay.” The president turned back to the IRGC commander. “General, your man Alireza is heading up your team, correct?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“When will he and his colleagues arrive in Pyongyang?”
“Well, sir, it is now Wednesday. They are scheduled to arrive a week from today.”
“And how soon after that can the ship be loaded and ready to leave the harbor?”
“Within twenty-four hours of their arrival.”
“Fine,” said the president. “The Supreme Leader has been clear. Taking possession of these five warheads is our highest national priority. Every hour they remain in the possession of the North Koreans, the higher the risk our mercurial friend in Pyongyang will change his mind and cancel the deal. There must be no changes, no delays, and I want updates on my desk every six hours.”
Jenny was stepping out of the shower when she heard pounding on the door.
She ignored it at first. She hadn’t ordered room service. She knew no one in the city. She didn’t want the room to be cleaned just then. And there was, after all, a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle in the hall. Yet the pounding continued.
Putting her robe back on, she picked up her pistol, removed the safety, and moved slowly and quietly to the door. Had the FSB found her? If so, how? And what chance did she have with a 9mm against the firepower they were likely bringing to bear? Then again, if it really was the FSB, why hadn’t they just kicked the door in and burst through the windows?
She exhaled when she saw the faces of Marcus and Oleg through the peephole. She quickly let them in and shut and locked the door behind them. “What in the world are you guys doing here?” she asked.
Marcus explained the call with Vinetti and outlined the deal he had just accepted.
“You?” she said, taking a seat in the living room along with Oleg. “You’re joining the Agency?”
“I know it doesn’t pay well, but I hear the benefits are quite something,” Marcus quipped, opening a bottle of mineral water he’d just taken from the minibar.
“No comment,” Jenny said, her hair dripping on her shoulders. “So how long do we have?”
“Nick is personally bringing a team to get us. They should be here within the hour.”
Jenny excused herself and went to get dressed and pack up her things. Marcus asked Oleg to help him wipe down every surface to make sure they left no prints behind. When the three of them were finished, they regathered in the living room.
“Well, it’s been a real pleasure doing business with you,” Jenny said, looking first at Marcus, then at Oleg. “With you both.”
“I’m very grateful for all your help, though you must believe me when I say how sorry I am that I got you into all of this, Miss Jenny,” Oleg said. “I hope you will forgive me.”
“It’s fine. Don’t mention it.”
“No, it’s not fine. You didn’t sign up for this, and look how much it’s cost you.”
“I forgive you, Oleg Stefanovich—on one condition.”
“Name it. Anything.”
“Forget you’ve ever heard of me.”
“How could I ever forget you, Miss Jenny, when you have saved my life and my country?”
“Okay, don’t forget me—just never mention me to anyone—ever.”
“So long as you never mention me either.”
“My lips are sealed,” she said softly. “Oleg who?”
“Spasibo—truly—for everything,” Oleg said, thanking her in Russian and becoming unexpectedly emotional in so doing. He walked over and gave her a hug, careful not to touch her wound.
“Pazhalstah,” she demurred, touched by his genuine gratitude.
His eyes red and moist, Oleg abruptly excused himself, then headed through the master bedroom to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.
Jenny turned back to Marcus. “He’s really kinda sweet, isn’t he?”
“For an assassin, yes, I guess.”
“So I’m heading back to Moscow?”
“Only for a few months.”
“A few months more in the Russian capital—what could possibly go wrong?”
“I’m not worried about you, Morris. You really are one tough cookie.”
“Very funny. Actually, I’m not sure I’m up for another Moscow winter.”
“I’m not sure it’s the snow and bone-chilling temperatures that’ll be the problem,” he said. “I’d be more concerned about Petrovsky’s manhunt for anyone and everyone involved in the events of the last few days.”
“My point exactly.”
“Don’t worry—there’s nothing that links you to any of this. Lay low for a bit, and you’ll be in the clear. I’m the one in the Kremlin’s crosshairs. They’ve already taken a shot at me—two, actually—and I doubt that’ll be the end of it. Most likely I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Then again . . .” He paused.
“What?” Jenny asked.
Marcus stared at his bottle of mineral water for a bit, then took a sip. “I got to meet you.”
The comment caught Jenny by surprise and embarrassed her as well.
“It’s been an honor to work with you, Jenny Morris,” he added. “Or whatever your name is.” Marcus smiled.
“And it’s been a real pain in the—well, whatever—to work with you, Marcus Ryker. Or is that an alias?”
“No, that’s my real name.”
“Okay, well, good luck with everything.”
“Thanks.”
With that, there was a sharp knock at the door. Their rides had come.
59
RUSSIAN AIRSPACE
Pete Hwang was on a plane again, this time bound for Tokyo.
Marcus had accepted the president’s conditions, but in so doing he had insisted Hwang be drafted onto the team. Vinetti had immediately agreed. They were going to need a doctor on this little espionage team, one they could implicitly trust. Vinetti could think of no one better than his old friend—and pulling Hwang out of the nascent Dayton presidential campaign would be an added benefit.
For his part, Hwang hadn’t
hesitated. He didn’t agree with Iowa’s senior senator on every issue, but he had been enjoying his work. And he would miss interacting with Annie Stewart. On the other hand, she was showing no real interest in him, and Hwang couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do more than team up with two old war buddies on a mission so critical to the security of two countries he loved so dearly, the United States and the Republic of South Korea.
Hwang was flying commercial and under his own name, but for the moment, that couldn’t be helped. Once he touched down, Vinetti had assured him, someone would meet him at the airport and get him to a safe house. There he’d be formally sworn into the Agency, thoroughly briefed on what he was expected to do, and then forward-deployed to Okinawa to await the others.
As he sat in business class on board British Airways flight 4600, Hwang tried to make himself comfortable for the eleven-hour-and-forty-five-minute journey. It wasn’t working. No amount of movies or free alcohol or melatonin or chatting with the flight attendants could calm his swirling emotions. In a single day, his entire life’s path had taken the most radical turn.
A little more than twenty-four hours earlier, his best friend was on Russian soil, cut loose by the Americans and being hunted by the FSB. Now Marcus Ryker was likely in Washington, about to meet with a senior Russian official face-to-face at the request of the American president. If that weren’t enough to make his head spin, when Hwang departed Washington Dulles yesterday, he was domestic policy advisor for a U.S. senator who had a reasonable shot at becoming the next president of the United States. By the time he’d lifted off from London Heathrow, he’d emailed his resignation to Senator Dayton, whom he had not told what he was doing; nor could he. He’d hardly processed the magnitude of it all for himself.
Peter Hwang had just agreed to become a clandestine officer for the CIA.
It was nearly midnight when Dr. Haydar Abbasi departed IRGC headquarters.
Even this late, the parking complex underneath the massive and heavily guarded compound was nearly full. The overnight shift of operatives and analysts had just arrived, and lights throughout the building were humming. The Supreme Leader had put the regime’s elite agency on a war footing. All leaves had been canceled. Reservists had been called up. They were fast approaching one of the most dramatic inflection points in the history of the Islamic Republic, and everyone was working sixteen- to eighteen-hour shifts. Some were even sleeping on their office floors to handle the massive preparations that had to be made on so many fronts.
The Persian Gamble Page 22
