by Dick Couch
Steven pretended to be lost in thought, but it was for appearance’s sake. He had long ago felt that their venture stood its best chance of continued secrecy if “a few at the top” were made witting to the project. There were no guarantees, but this was exactly the outcome he had hoped for.
“It’s the best we can do, I suppose.” He offered Watson his hand. “Have a safe flight, sir.”
Watson was about to ask him to dispense with the “sir,” but he stopped short. Chances were that they would never meet again in person—certainly not like this. Meetings like this were bad for security.
“You too, Steven. Take care of yourself.”
They both reboarded their corporate jets, two nondescript men who, for their personal appearance, could as well have been returning to the parking lot for their economy rental cars. The Gulfstreams were cleared to taxi, and the GSI aircraft led its government counterpart to the active runway. One lifted off and continued west; the other turned back to the east. Inside the eastbound jet, Jim Watson relaxed in the air-conditioned coolness. He accepted a martini from the uniformed flight attendent and placed a call to Armand Grummell. Fagan’s chariot was a little nicer than his own, he reflected as he looked around the Air Force VIP aircraft, but not by much.
“Sir, could I get you something to eat?” the young airman asked. Watson was still waiting for his call to go through. Suddenly he realized he was very hungry.
“I think so,” he replied. “What do you have?”
As they approached the California coast, the three passengers on the westbound Gulfstream looked around at each other. There were pleased and somewhat puzzled expressions on their faces. There were a lot of unanswered questions, but their project and their vision for an intervention force had just received a major validation. Janet Brisco could not wait to get back to LeMaster, Bill Owens, and her planning software. Garrett Walker needed to be with Bijay Gurung. The small phone in Steven’s shirt pocket chirped softly. He unfolded it and put it to his ear.
“Yes, sir…. Yes, sir…. I don’t think so…. For now, Ambassador, I believe things are going as well as can be expected.”
Saturday morning, December 14,
Tehran
The Airbus A320-300 touched down at Mehrabad Airport a few minutes late, which passed for a miraculous on-time arrival for an Air France flight to the Middle East. Neither the connecting cultures nor the carrier seemed to put much stock in their posted flight times. The gaping mouth of the boarding appendage found the side of the fuselage, and the passenger compartment began to disgorge into the terminal complex. Pavel Zelinkow had boarded the flight in Paris and took his seat in the first-class compartment. This fit his cover, which was that of a naturalized French citizen who had done well for himself in the import/export business. This cover was bolstered by the exorbitant amount of taxes he paid into the French treasury. He had accepted French citizenship—paid for it, actually—for two reasons. The French culture was to his liking, and no one outside of France took a Frenchman too seriously. They were—well, they were simply French. Zelinkow took his time gathering himself together to delay leaving his seat so as to enter the terminal among the mass of the exiting passengers.
“How long will you be staying, Monsieur Junot?” a uniformed official asked.
“Only a few days,” he replied in halting Farsi as he handed over his passport to the official at the counter. He spoke it much better than he let on, but it was not one of his best languages.
“And your business in Tehran?”
“I will be sampling some of your olive oils for export to France. Some of them are exquisite, you know.” He kissed his fingertips and rolled his eyes as he thought a Frenchman might do in expressing a sensual pleasure of the palate. The official looked at him and shrugged, stamped his passport, and handed it back to him.
“You may proceed, monsieur,” and he turned to the next in line.
Zelinkow had only carry-on luggage. After careful inspection by a second official, he was passed through. He caught a taxi in front of the terminal. It was a fifteen-year-old Citroën that, in its prime, may have served the same purpose on the streets of Paris. As they pulled away from the airport, he casually glanced around for surveillance but could detect none. For a man in his business, Tehran was as safe as any major city in the world, but he was still on his guard. Over the years, in keeping with his training and profession, his business practices involved cutouts, third-party relationships, coded identities, and unwitting surrogates. This was one of the few times when he would conduct a personal meeting in which the other party knew his real identity. It would be, he reminded himself, the last one. It was a risk, and personal risk, while it involved danger, was a sign of poor tradecraft. On the other hand, he actually looked forward to this meeting. The man with whom he had an appointment was the most compelling individual he had encountered in his professional career. Zelinkow had met him only once before, in Damascus about four years ago. This would surely be the last time they saw one another.
The drive to the city center was a ten-mile, one-hour trek. He had checked into one of the better hotels and surrendered his passport at the desk. Later that evening, after taking a meal in his room, there was a light tapping at his door. He opened it just a crack. A swarthy Arab face looked at him a moment, nodded, and stepped back from the door. He turned and, without a word, walked back down the hall. Zelinkow made a point of darkening the room, leaving on only a single lamp. He knew his visitor was much more comfortable in dim light.
Ten minutes later there came a second tapping. Zelinkow opened the door, and there stood Imad Mugniyah. They embraced, and Zelinkow waved him into the room.
“Pavel, my friend, you look well.”
“Thank you. And you are just as I remembered you.”
Mugniyah was simply being kind. Zelinkow had a softer, more indulged appearance than he remembered, as did many in the West who enjoyed good fortune. But Zelinkow spoke the truth. The Lebanese had not changed, but the life of a terrorist, especially one of the caliber of Imad Mugniyah, keeps a man sharp and fit. Zelinkow led him to a table set with bottled water and a plate of dates, hummus, and fresh bread. The man who had first knocked followed Mugniyah inside and stood quietly by the door.
“Very well done, my friend,” Zelinkow said in his best Arabic. “You now have within your power the means to do great harm to the West. Very well done, indeed.”
“It was a good plan, and the people you found to bring the weapons out managed to accomplish their task. I do not mind saying that I doubted them, but they performed well. And the money was transferred exactly as you said it would be. Now we will begin the long journey back to Afghanistan.”
“Do you anticipate any difficulties?”
Mugniyah was silent for a moment. “This is Khalib’s job, and for that I do not believe we could have chosen better. He is a very determined and capable man, and I have every reason to believe he will succeed. Have the bombs been found missing yet? I have heard nothing.”
“Nor have I,” Zelinkow replied. “But we must assume they have and that the Americans will also soon be aware that they are missing. Hopefully, the van and the scientists you had taken to Kashmir will lead them in that direction, at least for a while.”
While Zelinkow refilled their water glasses, Mugniyah studied the man across the table. He had a great deal of respect for the capabilities of this Russian, and his planning to date had been impeccable. They now had in their possession two nuclear weapons. He himself was here because his cause needed money, and he knew Zelinkow was here solely for personal profit. They both needed money, but for very different reasons. Silently, he wondered, and not for the first time, why men could do what they did for personal gain. He wanted to believe that perhaps this former KGB man still bore allegiance to communism. Mugniyah had little regard for communist ideology, but he did understand commitment and loyalty. Why would men set such terrible forces upon one another simply for money? Surely this must do damage t
o a man’s spirit. He knew he lacked understanding on this issue, yet he was curious. He also knew Zelinkow did not ask for this meeting simply to discuss their motives for this terrible business.
“If I may, Pavel, I have two questions for you.”
“By all means,” Zelinkow said, making an open gesture with his hands.
“First of all, what did Osama hope to gain by his attacks on the United States? You advised him. What did he really want to accomplish?” This was as close as Mugniyah would come to asking more directly why he had helped bin Laden.
Zelinkow eyed him carefully. This was an important question, perhaps even a dangerous one. If Mugniyah, or Mugniyah and the Iranians, had a different agenda then the one he had contracted for, then he had made a grave tactical error coming here. And that error would surely cost him his life. He knew his answer must have the ring of truth, but also be in keeping with what the man wanted to hear. It was difficult to fathom the thinking of men like Imad Mugniyah and Osama bin Laden—Hezbollah and al Qaeda. The two factions were like the Americans and the Soviet Union confronting Hitler, in league with each other so long as they had a common enemy.
“The plan succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. It was as much the inattention of the Americans as the skill of Mohammed Atta and the vision of Osama. Nonetheless, it was never about the Americans, not directly. Osama wanted to prove that he and his fundamentalists were worthy to lead Islam in the struggle against the Western powers. The attack had everything to do with uniting the Muslim nations under his leadership.” Zelinkow hesitated before continuing, choosing his words very carefully. “I helped him with this, as you and very few others know. I am a soldier of fortune. But I was not unhappy to advance Osama’s cause. We in the Soviet Union failed. They beat us; better said, we beat ourselves. Our system and our leaders became corrupt, and the West crushed us. Perhaps they will not beat you. Perhaps if we are successful in this venture, they will abandon their efforts here and end their support for Israel. A victory here could have them believe that their presence in this part of the world simply comes at too high a price. The Americans beat us because they outspent us. The currency of your struggle must be in lives, not dollars. The Americans have many dollars, but they do not suffer well the loss of life.”
Mugniyah smiled, which gave no indication of what he was thinking. Perhaps he sensed Zelinkow’s anxiety, and the smile was in grudging admiration for his little speech. Finally, he nodded slowly.
“And the second question; you had us steal two atomic bombs. What do you want me to do with the second bomb?”
Zelinkow tried not to show his relief. “As you said, Khalib has a very difficult task ahead of him. I came here to talk with you about an alternate plan. In the West they have a saying, ‘belt and suspenders.’ Are you familiar with it?” Mugniyah nodded. “And on the subject of Osama,” Zelinkow continued, “since the audiotapes recently aired to the world indicate that Osama was not killed at Tora Bora and buried in an unmarked grave, might the success of this next blow against the Great Satan also be one of his doing?”
Again, Mugniyah nodded, and almost smiled.
Late Friday evening, December 13,
The Big Island, Hawaii
A Guardian Systems van was waiting for them when they deplaned at the Kona airport. Their Gulfstream touched down within minutes of the arrival of the Airbus that brought Pavel Zelinkow to Tehran. The three weary travelers quickly filed their declaration forms with the agricultural representative and piled into the van. Bill Owens was driving, and Dodds LeMaster was with him. It was a warm evening, so they took the Mamalahoa Highway back toward Waimea. Fagan and Janet Brisco had given some specific instructions to both while they were airborne, and Owens and LeMaster had much to report. Garrett had sent word for the Gurkhas to begin to assemble their gear. The planners, he knew, had a great deal of work ahead of them, but his men must be ready to move on a moment’s notice. Time permitting, there would be a detailed plan, extensive briefings, and time to rehearse. But as Garrett knew all too well, special operations did not always go according to form. More than once he had had only the time to quickly sketch the plan in the dirt at some remote landing strip before he and his men climbed aboard the insertion helo. When the van pulled into the compound, Bijay was waiting for them.
“Gurkhali ayo!” he said quietly when they were out of earshot of the others. His voice was charged with excitement, and there was a wild gleam in his eye that Garrett had not seen before. It was the prospect of action. That it was an unknown enemy for an ambiguous reason did not seem to be a factor. Garrett had once tried to draw Bijay out regarding the need to tell the men why they were training to fight or that their enemy would be evil men.
“It does not matter,” Bijay had told him. “They fight for you, they fight for me, they fight for each other. You are a good man; they are good men. If it is your enemy, then that is reason enough for us to fight. Why does there have to be more?”
Bijay collected himself and bowed slightly. “I have made tea, Subadar. Would you care to join me?”
“I would be honored, Sergeant Major,” Garrett replied, inclining his head.
He followed Bijay into the barracks while the others headed for the operational center.
The next day the camp was busy. Bijay and his Gurkhas were up early putting their operational gear in order and cleaning their weapons, not that they were in need of it. Bijay had told them that they were to be ready to mount out for combat operations within an hour’s notice. Once they had their personal equipment staged and ready, they set about preparing various loadings of ammunition and supporting arms. Then there were the radios, the rations, the rockets, parachutes, rappeling and fast-rope rigs, and a host of other essential items that might or might not be needed in a special operation or a long stay in the field. And to the consternation of the Gurkhas, they readied their turbans and hill-tribesmen garb. They might well have to pass for the clansmen of some warlord. Once the gear was readied and staged, they were permitted to return to their normal training duties in the local area. That’s the way it would be until they mounted out or stood down from the alert. They would wait, but they would not be idle.
Janet Brisco and Dodds LeMaster were also up early. They were busy downloading satellite imagery and available intelligence reports on central Iran. There was a great deal of arid and rugged territory in the central plateau. It was almost certain that they had traveled overland and that they would again travel by ground if and when they headed toward the TAP. It was Brisco’s job to find out how, where, and when they would move. She also had to make certain assumptions about where they might strike. It was doubtful that the terrorists would have the capability to deliver the weapon by any other means than by physically carrying it to the site. This would mean, reasoned Brisco, that they would attack a finished section of the pipeline or take the weapon and bury it ahead of the advancing construction crews. Given the security measures that were in place on the finished pipeline, it seemed likely that they would plant it like a mine. Should it be unearthed and exploded like a conventional land mine, so much the better. What Janet and her planners needed was to find the weapon well before it got near the TAP. If they managed to get through the wastes of Dasht Lut or into the border areas near Sistan, their task would be immeasurably more difficult.
By late that afternoon, Brisco and her crew knew what they had and what they needed. LeMaster e-mailed a coded request for specific imagery and high-resolution photography and sent it along to the server address given to Steven by Jim Watson. The equipment they brought back with them from Nellis set up a dedicated, high-speed link from their operations center on Hawaii, through a shell company in Rockville, Maryland, to a special communications cell in Langley. Requests for information would be routed through this link to Watson’s office to serve this nameless intelligence customer. It was not normal procedure, but it had been done before. Bill Owens was busy in his photo lab creating documents for an Iranian Republican Gua
rd reconnaissance platoon and Iranian national ID cards, should they be necessary. But he felt their best chance for deception on the ground would be as an oil survey crew. Garrett, whose French was only slightly better than his Farsi, would pose as a Dutch mining engineer in the employ of the Eramet Group, a French mining consortium. If they had to go into central Iran, some of the Gurkhas would pose as members of the survey crew; the others as an Iranian Army detachment sent along as security. This cover would not stand up along the coast in the oil fields between the Shatt al Arab and the Strait of Hormuz, but out in the eastern deserts, well, maybe—for a while. But first they would have to know where the bombs were. And then they would need to know when they were on the move.
Brisco desperately wanted to know the disposition of the Iranian military, especially around Kerman. Were they on any kind of alert? Mugniyah could not be there without the knowledge of the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, but what about the military? Surely the local military commander had to be told that there were foreigners in the area that must not be disturbed. The MIS and the army were not so paranoid as their counterparts in Iraq, yet they did not readily share information. In any closed society, information is power and closely guarded. But central Iran up to the border regions was something of a no-man’s land. Many of the “Arabs” that fought the Russians in Afghanistan and later joined al Qaeda came from poor villages in central Iran. And Iran had become a sanctuary for al Qaeda irregulars who fled Afghanistan. There was a four-hundred-mile border between Iran and Afghanistan, rugged, inhospitable, and largely controlled by clans who recognized no border but those established by their clan chieftains, and enforced by arms. If the IFOR could get on the ground in character and close to their target, then with some bravado, bribe money, and a little luck, they might just be able to get the job done. If. There were a lot of ifs.
