“Flying in from Washington State. They’re trained in dealing with nuclear weapons. No Canadians are. If we’re right and there are nukes in Whistler, the Mounties will very gladly yield the job over to us. JSOC will hit the house and grab the bombs and it will all be over, inshallah,” he said.
“When did you become an Arab?” she asked.
“It’s a long story” he replied. “For when this is over and we are drinking beers somewhere.”
Mbali checked the time and then turned on CNN to hear the press conference that Dugout had texted them about. Winston Burrell lifted his corpulent frame up to the podium in the White House press briefing room. Standing next to him was the well-coifed, stylish Secretary of Homeland Security. She was not looking pleased. Mbali turned up the volume.
“The Secretary has just briefed the President on Operation Rock Wall, a no-notice border control surge, which concluded this morning,” Burrell began.
“Concluded?” Mbali asked Bowman.
“The President had asked the Secretary earlier this year to conduct surprise exercises involving emergency management, disaster recovery, and other functions falling within the purview of her Department. We believe it is essential that all first responders and enforcement officers be able to mount major operations on a moment’s notice. Rock Wall was such an exercise. No one but the Secretary knew when it was coming. It demonstrated our ability to ramp up security and inspection of cargo bound for the U.S. whenever necessary. It was a success. And now it’s over,” Burrell read from a script in front of him.
“Does that mean they already found the bombs somewhere else?” Mbali asked Bowman.
“It means the heat was too much on the President,” Bowman replied. “They were hurting the economy badly with the customs inspections and the backups at the borders and ports. And the media were beginning to speculate that there was something they were looking for, something that they weren’t telling the public about.”
“Dr. Burrell, The Washington Post quoted senior White House national security sources as saying that Rock Wall was really looking for an al Qaeda operation to poison water supplies. Is that true?” the CNN reporter blurted out before Burrell was finished.
Burrell scowled at him, but answered. “I just said it was an exercise. If you had let me finish I was going to tell you more about it, but let me just spike any rumors right here and now. We have no intelligence about any al Qaeda plot to poison the water supply or do anything else in the homeland. Isn’t that right, Madam Secretary?”
“Don’t think about a blue elephant,” Bowman chuckled.
The Secretary of Homeland Security looked surprised to be called on, but moved to the microphone on the podium as Burrell shifted somewhat to the side. “We have no such information, nothing to indicate that al Qaeda was planning to poison the water supply,” she said and then added, “I’d like to know how these rumors start. It does no good to have these false stories going about.” She did not look at Burrell as she said it.
“Madam Secretary, why did you choose to have this first surprise exercise so close to the election?” the ABC reporter asked her.
“At the Department of Homeland Security, we operate twenty-four seven, every day and night of the year. We have to be ready at any time,” she vamped.
“But were you aware of the damage it would do to the economy of the United States and its partners?” the NBC reporter called out.
The Secretary looked at Burrell, who took a half step away from the podium. “Any economic effect is entirely temporary and I am sure will be recouped shortly,” she replied. “The economic cost of not being ready would be higher than anything we could cause by an exercise.”
“Can you confirm that teams from the nuclear labs, NEST units, were involved in the operation?” The Washington Post reporter yelled out.
“While most of the exercise was carried out by my Department, led by CBP, Coast Guard, and ICE, this was a whole of government exercise, involving the National Guard in several states, the Navy, other DOD assets, and elements from other departments including Justice, Energy, Transportation, and the Intelligence Community,” she replied.
“So, just to be clear,” the New York Times correspondent asked. “You, Madam Secretary, by yourself, chose the timing for this exercise?”
“That’s what the statement said,” the Secretary replied.
“Thank you all,” Winston Burrell added. “Thank you very much. That’s all we have time for now. Thank you.” He escorted the Secretary off the platform and they moved together quickly to the door into the secure sanctuary of the West Wing, where reporters could not follow. They ignored the questions yelled at them as they left.
“Totally threw her under the bus,” Bowman observed to Mbali. “He does that.”
Mbali shook her head in confusion. “So they have given up looking just because of long lines at the borders?”
“No, they have canceled the overt part of the operation because the true story was about to leak out and they didn’t want to panic everybody,” Ray explained. “Now Burrell will leak a story saying that the Secretary overreacted to intelligence about al Qaeda and the water supply, which turned out to be inaccurate upon further analysis.”
“And I thought South African bureaucracy and politics were bad,” she said.
“They were never going to find the warheads with the overt searches. No terrorist group was ever going to put its nuclear warhead in a truck or boat or plane bound for the U.S. in a way that it was going to get inspected,” Ray said aloud, looking out the window at the forest that surrounded the gleaming new headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in British Columbia. “But now that they think we have stopped looking, they might move the bombs. I wonder how much the Mounties spent on this palace?”
“Less than a billion dollars Canadian,” Deputy Commissioner Lyle Deveaux answered as he walked through the door. “Nine hundred ninety-six million and not a penny more. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it. Welcome.”
Deveaux was in uniform and was followed by a small gaggle of others. He introduced another Mountie in charge of the Border Integrity Unit, a man in a different uniform from something called the Canadian Border Services Agency, and men in suits from the Canadian Security Intelligence Service and the Canadian Communications Security Establishment. They sat in a circle on the couch and stuffed chairs while tea was served on RCMP china.
“I got a call from Privy Council in Ottawa, very high up, this morning, asking me to convene this group and meet with you, to give you all the help you need. Frankly, Mr. Bowman, that’s all I know, other than you work somehow for the White House and you, miss, run a security service for the South African President. Can you tell us more, so we can try to help you?”
“We need to find this man,” Ray Bowman began by passing around a set of pictures. “His true name is Johann Potgeiter, he was South African and is now an Austrian citizen. We believe he came here recently, to the Vancouver area, possibly from China, or elsewhere in Asia, probably under a different name. He is likely meeting with several people here who could be involved in smuggling nuclear material into the United States, or elsewhere.”
Bowman was sure that the Canadians would find Potgeiter quickly, but if they did not, he would reveal more to them. For now, he did not want them to know the United States had hacked into Canadian networks. Their cooperation would slow or dry up if they knew that. There was a brief silence while the men examined the photos. “If that’s all you wanted, you should have said that, instead of tying up the border in knots for a week,” the man from Canadian Border Service said.
“Eric, let’s be civil now,” Commissioner Deveaux scolded.
“No, he’s right,” Ray admitted. “I had nothing to do with the border screwup, but I am sorry it happened.”
“If you will excuse me for a few moments, I will see if this man entered through a legal point of entry,” the Border Service man said. “May I borrow this picture?” The C
ommunications Security Establishment civilian left with him.
“Well, while they are doing that, why don’t we show you around the new palace,” Deveaux offered. “Eric will meet up with us in the Command Ops Room.”
After a brief walk around what a billion Canadian dollars can buy in the way of a police station, they entered on to the Command Balcony of the Operations Room, which stretched below them the length of a hockey rink. Maps and live images appeared on giant screens on the far wall of the Center and officers and civilians sat in banks at consoles below.
“He’s been here for less than twenty-four hours,” the Border Services commander announced as he rejoined the group. “Landed in Vancouver on a legitimate German passport from Seoul on a KAL flight. Here, we can call up the video,” he said picking up a control.
“That was fast,” Mbali whispered to Bowman.
The windows into the Operation Center suddenly turned a milky white, an opaque barrier created electronically. The largest screen on the Command Balcony came on and showed a video clip of Johann Potgeiter responding to questions from the CBSA officer in a booth at the airport.
“Wolfe Baidermann, is the name on the passport,” the Border Services commander explained.
The video then switched to a scene of Herr Baidermann walking down a narrow corridor toward the exit from the Customs and Immigration Control zone. The video then froze the frame and a number popped up: 49 171 891 3636.
“That turns out to be a German mobile number, registered in Munich to a Wolfe Baidermann,” the Communications Security Establishment man explained. “We pick up active mobiles on people when they enter the country.”
“How hard would it be to track where that mobile is now,” Mbali asked.
“We could do that for you,” Ray answered, thinking of calling Dugout.
“No need,” the Communications Security man replied. “Already done. Exigent circumstances. Warrant to follow. He’s in Whistler, the ski area, looks like he’s in one of the big private lodges just outside of town.”
“Do you have a SWAT unit available quickly?” Ray asked the Commissioner. “If not, I can get one here fast.”
“SWAT is a very un-Canadian sounding name,” Deveaux replied. “I have an Emergency Response Team, but its French language designation is more informative. We call it the Groupe Tactique d’Intervention.” He pulled up an image on the screen. It showed ninjas in black body armor with automatic weapons, the title RCMP ERT, and the slogan, “You don’t need a red uniform, cool hat, and horse to kick ass.”
“Do they have training in handling nuclear materials?” Ray said.
“Limited, but, yes, they do. We will need a warrant for this, however,” the Commissioner explained. “So, if you two could prepare a statement in writing, we will find a judge.”
“You could have just asked us to find this guy in the first place,” the Border Service officer said.
“Eric,” Deveaux snapped.
“Would have saved a lot of time and money. We don’t all wear red suits and ride horses, you know.”
“I am sorry,” Ray Bowman nodded. “I am sure you can handle it all very well by yourselves, but I do need to be in on the interrogations.”
“I am sure we can work something out. But you are right that we are quite capable ourselves. In fact, I think we will get the helicopter assault unit on this one, too,” Deveaux offered. “May give us some greater element of surprise. Besides, we need to justify ERTs having the helos in the first place”
31
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5
GILLIOT JUNCTION
NORTH OF TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
It was supposed to be his day off, but he never had one.
He did, however, insist on going in late on Saturday, first having a late breakfast with his wife at the country club across from the office. It was a little tradition, just the two of them, a time to discuss things without the children, or now the grandchildren, around. Sometimes they just sat quietly, smiling at each other, eating, sipping the cheap Champagne, glad that they had made it this far.
After brunch, he dropped her off next door at the Cineplex, where she would meet her friends for an afternoon movie. Then, he would drive through the double gates into the compound. It was a nice neighborhood, he thought, country club, cineplex, intelligence headquarters.
He dreaded this Saturday. While his wife was watching some comedy about young Americans in love, he would be interrogating the prisoner. He hated interrogations. In fact, he actually didn’t really do them, never had. His approach was straightforward, reasoning. If that failed, what happened after that was the prisoner’s fault, not his. He didn’t do what happened after that. Someone else did. Sometimes it worked and he got what he wanted. If he didn’t, what followed was never very productive, or useful.
“Leonid Klishas, you are an Israeli citizen, emigrated from Leningrad, excuse me, Petersburg, when you were fifteen,” Danny Avidar began the questioning. “Klishas, is that a Jewish name?”
“No, my mother was Jewish,” the handcuffed man at the table said, looking at his wrists. “Why am I here? What is this place?”
“You know the answer to both those questions, Lenny, don’t you?”
“Is this Mossad?” Klishas asked. “Why am I talking to you? You are not the police, or even Shin Beth.”
“No, but we can introduce you to them. Shin Beth’s facilities are not so nice. Nor is their technique, not so nice.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Actually, it’s more like what do you want with me, Lenny. Why did you try to kill me and my luncheon companions in Jaffa? What did I ever do to you? Nothing yet,” Danny said, walking behind the prisoner. “He was no fool, the boy. He followed you, after you gave him the down payment. Got the number off your car, maybe just in case you didn’t pay the rest. Nice picture on his mobile. The mobile survived the bombing. He, of course, did not.”
“I don’t even know who you are or what you are talking about.”
“Of course you do, Lenny. You hired that poor Palestinian boy to drive the car bomb. You told him it would go off after he cleared the area. You lied, Lenny. You lied to him, just like you are lying to me now.” Avidar came around and sat opposite the prisoner at the small wooden table. “I have no time for liars. When you decide to tell me the truth, why you hired him, why the car bomb, why you tried to kill me and my friends, you can just say my name and they will hear you. My name, by the way, is Daniel.”
Avidar’s tone was matter of fact, unemotional. He could have been a doctor talking to a patient, flat, to the point. “You have thirty minutes to do that. Then they will come for you. The Shin Beth, not the police. See, if the police had taken you, there would be an arrest record. There is no record at all that you have been taken. And when your dead body is found, in poor condition, maybe, then the police will be called. They will conclude that you were the victim of a brutal killing by other Russian mobsters like yourself and dumped in the sand dunes where the whores ply their trade. Thirty minutes from when I walk out the door. You can see the clock?”
Klishas stared at him. Avidar moved to the door. “That’s it? That’s all you are going to say?” Leonid asked as Danny opened the door.
“You won’t have to raise your voice to yell for them to get me,” Avidar said softly. “They will hear you. If you call out. Not, if you don’t.” Avidar walked out and shut the door quietly behind him.
OUTSIDE WHISTLER, BRITISH COLUMBIA
“They’ve got two guys out front in a van and two who walk around the sides and the back of the lodge. The guys out back are carrying long arms. They also have several cameras on the building, maybe some in the woods. Four cars and two vans in the parking lot. There are eight bedrooms, it was built for the Olympics. A TV network rented it out. So there could be a dozen or more guys inside,” the ERT commander explained to Lyle Deveaux. Ray Bowman and Mbali Hlanganani stood next to the Deputy Commissioner on the road half a mile from the lodge. I
t was 0315 in the morning.
“How will you achieve surprise?” Deveaux asked.
“We have been authorized to designate the target hostile, so we will sneak up as close as we can and then launch stun and smoke grenades. At the same time, we will cut the electricity. While we are charging in from the woods, the helos will come over the hill. One will drop a team by rope onto the parking lot. Number two will hover over the roof while four men rope down and enter through the balcony on the third floor. That will give us two dozen men on site in the first minute.”
“Everyone in full body armor?” Deveaux checked.
“Yes, Commissioner, and then the three Tactical Armored Vehicles will race up from the road below and unload another dozen men.”
The ERT commander was making a point of ignoring the American and South African standing next to the Deputy Commissioner. Bowman interrupted. “If there is anything that looks like a bomb or an electronic device, do not touch it. And we will need to interrogate the guests at the lodge as soon as possible after the raid.”
The commander kept looking at his boss. “Is there anything else, Commissioner?”
“No. Very good. Whenever you are ready,” Deveaux replied. He turned to Ray and Mbali. “Let’s go inside the truck so we can watch it on the video link.”
“All units, status check, prepare to move, sound off in order,” the ERT commander said into his radio. As the Deputy Commissioner and his two foreign guests climbed up into the mobile command post, the commander hit the PUSH TO TALK button again and said, softly, “On my order now: Go, go, go.”
The Mounties in black tactical gear, who had crawled on their stomachs the last hundred yards through the woods toward the lodge, leaped up, some ran straight for the building, while others provided covering fire from the tree line. Smoke canisters fell on the meadow on all sides of the lodge, sending up walls of colored clouds: green, yellow, black. Two small helicopters, with their lights out, were suddenly hovering over the lodge, with men rappelling down ropes, and crashing through windows. Simultaneously, the lodge’s guards down the road were jumped. Then three black, tanklike trucks roared past the guard post and up to the lodge, with blue lights strobing. More men in black tactical gear jumped from the trucks.
Pinnacle Event Page 17
