The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  After his meeting at the Oval Office, Grummell returned to Langley. He gave instruction to his DDO and retired to his study with all the reports. He read them again while seated in his favorite chair near the settee in the corner of the room. He then sent for Elizabeth Johnstone. It was after working hours, but she was still in her cubicle, expecting his call. She knocked softly and stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Thank you for staying late, Elizabeth. I appreciate it. Sit down, please.” After she had taken a leather armchair opposite him, he recovered his seat. “That was some very fine work you did on the movements of our Lebanese friend, tracking his travel in and out of Pakistan.”

  Elizabeth Johnstone was in her late fifties, and by any measure a handsome woman. She was intelligent, intuitive, possessing a tenacious work ethic, and like many capable analysts at the CIA, Mormon. Her husband of thirty-five years had been found slumped over his desk at the Bethesda–Chevy Chase Savings and Loan, the victim of a massive stroke. That was two years ago. Elizabeth had taken two weeks away from work to bury her husband and settle his affairs. Then she was back at headquarters, accepting condolences from coworkers and processing yet more raw intelligence data. Sometimes late on a Saturday night, while he listened to a Sinatra recording, Grummell found himself thinking about Elizabeth Johnstone. He would catch himself smiling and feeling more than a little foolish. Marvelous woman, he would admit, simply marvelous. Then he would turn the music lower and force himself back to the biography he would invariably be reading. Grummell himself was a widower and spent what little nonwork time he afforded himself alone.

  Grummell touched the intercom and asked one of the attendants to bring Johnstone some tea. Only then did he hand her the flash message on the missing nuclear weapons. After a few moments she said, “This is not good…not good at all.” She read on, tugging demurely on one earlobe. Finally she looked up. Her pleasant features registered concern but not surprise. “It would seem that Imad Mugniyah may have a hand in this. I can think of no other reason for him to be in that region for that long. And if he has the bombs, the question is, what is he going to do with them?”

  Elizabeth Johnstone had put together a series of agent contacts, cell-phone intercepts, and NRO data that suggested Mugniyah had been keeping himself in central Iran and most probably had gone into Pakistan. Like most terrorists, Mugniyah would be on the move, probably not far from the city of Kerman, but in one or more of the smaller villages nearby. Kerman was a city of just under 400,000 on the western edge of the Dasht Lut, a vast high-plains desert. Kerman was the largest city on the vast central plateau of Iran. Khalib Beniid, a known bin Laden associate, had also been in Pakistan and was seen in Lahore. Beniid was simply known as Khalib. Like Mugniyah, he was featured on the FBI top-terrorist hit list, and he enjoyed a charismatic reputation in Afghanistan and Pakistan. All the Western intelligence services were on the lookout for him. Then there was rumor of a meeting of sorts between East and West—Middle East and Central Asia. Hezbollah and al Qaeda had little in common; the former was typically educated, urbane, and sophisticated, the latter tribal and uncivilized. Johnstone’s reports suggested that these two senior leaders had met and that any meeting of these two organizations was highly unusual. Her deductions followed that such a meeting would most probably be for a specific reason, and that reason would most certainly not be in the best interest of the United States or its allies.

  They sat in companionable silence for some time before Grummell intruded. “What do you think Mugniyah is going to do with his bombs, Elizabeth?”

  She took her time before replying. “Given that Hezbollah’s chief interests are in the Middle East, not Central Asia, one would think he would take them back to Lebanon, not to Kashmir. He could try to use them against Haifa or Tel Aviv, but that seems unlikely. The Israeli response would be overwhelming and devastating. Or he could simply declare Hezbollah a nuclear power, but that too is unlikely. As Saddam is learning, nuclear weapons are as much a liability as a source of power.” She paused a moment before continuing. “For the first time in quite a while, Hezbollah is short of funds. They need capital. I think there may be a chance that Imad did this for the money.”

  “But why would he go to Khalib and al Qaeda? As you said, they are not a fit.”

  Elizabeth picked up the document on the missing weapons and reread it. Then she set it on the low table between her and the DCI, and was very still. Armand Grummell scarcely breathed. She was all instinct and intuition. For Elizabeth Johnstone, it was like seeing at night. To see a dimly lit object, you had to look just away from it. The rods and cones of her mind’s eye also worked like that. She looked slightly away from the facts in an effort to see past them. Suddenly, she knew she had it, but she said nothing. For the next several minutes, she turned it over in her mind, approaching it from different directions to see if her conclusions were sound. All those years of experience, all that reading and that highly disciplined intellect—it all converged on the problem. She rummaged through the filing cabinets of her mind, pulling a fact here, an agent report there. There could be no certainties, but there was no other logical explanation.

  “The other two engineers from the A.Q. Khan facility have yet to be found—is that correct, sir?”

  “That is correct,” Grummell answered.

  “Then I believe they are going to attack the pipeline. Mugniyah is involved because it is a sophisticated operation, one that needs the cooperation of the mullahs in Tehran, or at least for them to look the other way. And Iran does not want this pipeline to be built, unless it’s from the Caspian across Iran to the Persian Gulf. If Mugniyah is involved, it’s the pipeline. My guess is the weapons are in Iran, or soon will be, and they will be taken to Afghanistan or back into Pakistan and detonated on or near the pipeline.”

  “And not taken to the Middle East to serve the interests of Hezbollah in Lebanon?” The DCI asked. He did not disbelieve Elizabeth, but he wanted to hear her reasoning. He would be asked that question by the President.

  “I don’t think so. Lebanon and Hezbollah’s base is twenty-five hundred miles west. Let’s say Mugniyah is in this for himself—for Hezbollah. He hasn’t a prayer of getting those weapons out of Pakistan without al Qaeda help, and al Qaeda would not take this kind of risk just for Hezbollah. Then Mugniyah would have to take them across Iran and Iraq, or across Saudi Arabia, to get them even close to Israel. It would be a long shot, and what does it get him? The Mossad would run him to ground before he got close. And if he did succeed in getting one of those bombs into Israel, would he have the skill to detonate it? Nuclear weapons are not hand grenades. None of it adds up.”

  “How about the van found in Kashmir? Is it possible that the two weapons went that direction?”

  “I doubt it. I’ve read the files on the four engineers who were involved. Only the two they have yet to account for have the knowledge to assemble a weapon. My guess is that he and his friend—and they were friends—are still with the bombs. The van was a false trail. And again, if Mugniyah and Khalib Beniid are together on this, then it must have something to do with our presence in Afghanistan. Mugniyah is smart, and Iran is something of a safe haven for him. It makes sense that he would have enlisted someone like Khalib to help him get the bombs out of Pakistan.”

  “If it’s the pipeline, why not take them over the border right into Afghanistan?” Grummell knew the answer, but he wanted to hear Elizabeth confirm it.

  “Too much U.S. presence there. We’ve been chasing al Qaeda across the Afghan-Pakistani border for several years now. Khalib has good contacts in Pakistan, and he can move easily in the western provinces, but it is not a safe haven for him. It’s not an area from which he could stage an operation back into Afghanistan. I believe he will take the weapons west and south, and across the Pakistani-Iranian border. He probably already has. I believe they will stage an operation from Iran into Afghanistan against the pipeline.”

  “And who is payi
ng for this?” Grummell asked. Again, he knew the answer.

  “Saudi Arabia,” she replied without hesitation. “They have the most to lose if the pipeline is completed. They could not go directly to al Qaeda for this kind of an operation; al Qaeda simply does not have the expertise to pull it off.” She was not cold, but she began to get goose bumps on her arms, which meant she sensed something was amiss. “To be honest, this even seems a little beyond the capabilities of Imad Mugniyah. It’s not the kind of plan he would hatch. I wonder, could someone else be involved? The Saudis would spare no expense to see construction on the pipeline halted and the blame passed along to al Qaeda or some other state sponsor.” She gave Grummell a concerned look. “I wish there was another avenue from which I could approach this matter and come to a different conclusion, but right now, the facts suggest we have a nuclear threat directed at American interests in Afghanistan.”

  She waited while Grummell was lost in thought. He had missed it totally; all of them had. They had been too quick to jump on the India-Pakistan issue. In his heart, Grummell felt she was right, but he was looking for a plausible alternative. There simply was none. He knew this would mean another trip to the White House; there was also no way around that. But first, he had another meeting.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth. As usual, your insight and your counsel have proved most valuable. I’d like you to stay with this, if you don’t mind. Let me know if your section chief has a problem with that. Ask him to shift your normal workload to someone else. I want you on this full-time. Let me know immediately if you learn anything that supports or invalidates your theory. I think you’re right, but I’d like nothing better than for you to prove yourself wrong.”

  “So would I, sir.”

  Grummell accompanied her to the door, through his office, and into the reception area. There was a secretary at the desk, even at this late hour. Whenever Armand Grummell was working, which was about eighteen hours a day, there was a secretary on duty and available to him.

  On the way out they met Jim Watson, waiting in the outer office. He rose to his feet.

  “Jim, this is Elizabeth Johnstone from the Near East desk. Elizabeth, Jim Watson. Have you two met?”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” Watson said, “but I’ve read your product. It’s always first-rate. A pleasure to meet you, Elizabeth.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Watson.” Then, turning to Grummell, “Thank you for your time, sir. Good night.”

  They watched her leave, then Grummell looked at his watch. He motioned for Watson to follow him into the office. When he reached the study, Grummell asked for coffee to be sent up. After it arrived, the DCI took a bottle of bourbon from the side bar.

  “Join me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grummell poured the coffee, then splashed a measure of the amber liquid into each of their cups. He handed one to Watson, and they sat down.

  “Jim, there’s trouble brewing. Big trouble.”

  “I sensed that, sir, but nothing official has come across my desk.”

  “Some months back you came to me after a rather interesting meeting with Ambassador Joe Simpson. You came to me directly, not going through channels and not informing the DDO.”

  “That’s right, sir.” Jim Watson had thought long and hard about taking his concerns directly to Grummell. He had made a few discreet inquiries that were enough to convince him that the Ambassador was doing some very questionable things. He finally decided to seek a private interview with the DCI. Such a meeting was unusual but not entirely unprecedented. After all, he was Deputy DDO and former COS of Moscow Station. Watson half-expected Armand Grummell to know about it, as he and Simpson, while not close friends, knew each other quite well. Grummell was totally surprised.

  “And, in as much as the Agency has no charter to monitor American citizens, I asked you to quietly do what you could to stay abreast of what the good ambassador was up to.” Grummell again glanced at his watch. “Your reports to date have been most interesting. I wonder if you’d take just a moment and bring me current on the situation.”

  An hour later, Armand Grummell was again headed south on the George Washington Parkway for the White House.

  Wednesday night, December 11,

  the Big Island, Hawaii

  Five miles from the town of Naalehu, two white minivans with the GSI logo painted on the side waited on the side of a crushed-lava road. The windows were darkened, and except for an impressive array of small whip antennas, the vehicles looked commercial and benign. On closer inspection, the vans were four-wheel-drive vehicles and had robust suspension. Along the bodywork there were several electrical outlets, which attracted little or no attention unless they were in use. Tonight they were in use. The two vans were connected with a thick umbilical and there was a portable dish antenna erected near one of the vans. It was a curious mating of two vehicles out on a deserted road, but there was not a soul within miles to witness the event. They were actually just inside the boundaries of the old Pacific Range Missile Facility at Ka Lae. It was still a government reservation, but seldom used. They had permission to be there, sort of.

  Several weeks ago, Steven Fagan had hired Bill Owens. For the better part of the last two decades, Owens had been the go-to guy in the documents section of the DDS&T—the Deputy Director for Science and Technology at the CIA. The DDO did the spying, but the espionage was often made possible by the technicians at DDS&T. Like all bureaucracies, CIA had passed Bill Owens over for promotion one too many times. Their logic was impeccable; Owens was a technician, albeit a very good one—a master forger, but he hadn’t the people skills nor the temperament to be a manager. So he had maxed out his pay grade and had taken early retirement. Steven had found him at his small home in McLean, Virginia. Bill’s wife had left him years ago, run off with some lowlife in the Agency’s Domestic Collection Division. The last he had heard from her, she was living in Chicago with the snake. Steven had found him at home, drinking too much and feeling sorry for himself. He was spending a little time volunteering at the Smithsonian in the document archival department, but he was not doing well. Steven knew Owens was a man who cared little for money. For that matter, he could print it if he needed some, and it would pass for the real thing. In fact, he had done that very thing in several non-U.S. currencies. But he was clearly ready to go back to work. Steven had only partially described the documents laboratory he was having built at the site when Owens interrupted him to say he would go. Hence, the two vans had documents that gave them permission to be on government property and to be conducting seismic studies on this part of the Big Island.

  The vans were nearly identical and packed with electronic and communications equipment. They were designed to operate in tandem or independently. Inside one van, Janet Brisco and Bill Owens sat in captains’ chairs at their consoles. This was the smoking van, and both Brisco and Owens had cigarettes going. They were an odd couple, this tall, striking black woman seated next to this rumpled, anemic-looking little man. Owens looked like Don Knotts with a bad haircut and a muskratlike wisp of a mustache. He immediately attached himself to Brisco like an orphaned gosling, and she didn’t seem to mind. They worked well together. This was their second “exercise,” and Brisco was breaking him in on operational planning and the critical watch-standing duties that would take place when there was a team in the field. They sat in sociable silence and watched their screens.

  The second van held Steven Fagan and Dodds LeMaster, a technical genius who had helped build the communications suite at the U.S. Special Operations Command. He also consulted on the Mission Support Center designed by the Navy to provide real-time intelligence and communications support for their deployed SEALs. Garrett had met him in San Diego when he was working with the SEALs. With the more-than-generous budget from GSI, LeMaster had been able to create a mini mission-support center in the two vans in short order. With the very latest in satellite communications technology and miniaturization, they had
the capabilities in their little vans to do what the military did in their brick-and-mortar command centers. Along one side of each van were four flat plasma screens for visual displays. Both Fagan and LeMaster wore wireless headsets. On their displays they could see almost any place in the world from satellite feeds that GSI paid for or that LeMaster pirated. Optical, infrared, and thermal images could be viewed independently or superimposed for composite resolution. The communications were sophisticated and secure. Neither of the vans seemed overcrowded; that was the marvel of miniaturization and high-speed processors. The visual presentation could be shifted and adjusted with the touch of a finger to the screen. They could transmit or receive coded audio signals from “friendly” forces and eavesdrop on most civilian and military channels. What they were doing this night on the deserted lava flow near the southernmost point of the United States, they could do anywhere in the world. But tonight they were here physically because they were the target as well as the mission controllers.