‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’
‘Anyone follow you?’ asked Dragunov once Bartók climbed in the back seat.
Bartók shook his head. ‘Not that I could see.’
‘Have a safe flight, monsieur,’ said Dragunov’s chauffeur as he dropped his charges off at Le Bourget. The chauffeur tipped his peaked cap to Dragunov and discreetly pocketed his €300 tip.
‘Champagne, General?’ ‘No.’ The general looked as if he wanted to be left alone and the stewardess turned her attention to Bartók.
‘For you, sir?’
‘Thank you,’ Bartók said, still flustered and attempting to fit with a style of travel that was totally foreign to him.
‘Flying time to St Petersburg is three hours, sir.’ The stewardess checked Bartók’s seatbelt and then disappeared toward the cockpit of the Hawker 1000 business jet.
O’Connor arrived at the apartment the CIA had rented and listened to the brief from Dole and Quayle, the two inexperienced CIA operatives, with a growing sense of unease. His frustration was only exacerbated on the news that both Dragunov and Bartók had left the apartment.
‘We give you encrypted phones for a reason,’ O’Connor said finally, when he’d listened to what audio they’d captured. ‘In future, if you’re confronted with a target leaving a building, report that immediately.’
O’Connor disappeared into the back room and checked his watch. Paris was six hours ahead of Washington and he dialled McNamara’s private office number. ‘Murray’s tracking Bartók,’ said McNamara, after O’Connor had brought him up to speed. ‘He’s returned to his hotel near the Louvre, so get back to the embassy and for the time being, we’ll run things from there until we get a further development. The Mossad will have Bartók’s hotel under surveillance as well, so our best chance to nab him is probably at the conference.’
‘I agree,’ said O’Connor. ‘Our French colleagues would not be too amused if there’s a shootout between us and the Mossad around the Louvre. But Dragunov remains somewhat of a mystery.’
O’Connor’s observation on the head of the Russian nuclear programs did not remain a mystery for long.
The guards on the gate of the US embassy in Avenue Gabriel checked O’Connor’s papers, retracted the four big security bollards blocking the drive and opened the heavy steel gates. It was pretty much the same now with every US embassy around the world, O’Connor thought, although Paris wasn’t in the same league as some of the embassies in the Middle East.
‘Welcome, sir.’ Such was O’Connor’s reputation, the Air Force attaché almost saluted, but instead, Stanford extended his hand. ‘The encrypted video’s running and Mr McNamara is connected. There’s been a development, but I’ll let the DDO explain,’ said Stanford. ‘I’ll be in my office, and I’ll give you more background once you’ve finished with Langley. You probably know where it is, but Mimi can negotiate the codes to the dungeon.’
Mimi, the station chief’s long-serving secretary, led the way through code-locked doors to the CIA station, the most secure part of the entire embassy. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Black would be great, Mimi, thanks.’ O’Connor took one look at McNamara’s face on the video screen and decided against making any jokes. The CIA’s spy chief looked decidedly pissed off. Murray was with him, and she looked worried.
‘I’ve had a call from my contact in the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure,’ McNamara began. ‘Dragunov, along with Bartók, has left the country in his chartered jet. Unfortunately, short of a diplomatic incident, I couldn’t give the frogs any reason to detain the general.’
‘And Bartók’s with him?’ said O’Connor. ‘I thought Bartók was still at La Clef.’
‘So did we,’ said Murray, ‘but it would appear that the only thing at La Clef is Bartók’s Israeli iPhone.’
‘Oldest trick in the book,’ McNamara added ruefully, ‘but it may work in our favour and give us a start on Rabinovich and the Israelis. As far as Rabinovich is concerned, she’s still expecting Bartók to deliver her the thumb drive in two days’ time.’
‘Presumably Bartók left the iPhone in the hotel room to throw the Mossad off the scent,’ opined O’Connor. ‘He’s not as naïve as he looks.’
‘Perhaps,’ McNamara mused, ‘or Dragunov ordered him to do it which is more likely, and that brings me to the latest development. Before he left, General Dragunov dropped a letter off to Colonel Stanford with a request for asylum. Stanford can brief you on the details, but in return for asylum, Dragunov’s offering us Bartók and the thumb drive.’
‘So why did Dragunov go back to Russia – why not simply seek asylum here?’ asked O’Connor.
‘Dragunov insisted that he had some very urgent business to attend to first. He’s chartered a fast superyacht, the Printsessa, which is moored in St Petersburg. He told Stanford that once he’s dealt with whatever this urgent business might be, he plans to escape on the Printsessa with Bartók and the thumb drive. When he’s in international waters, he will rendezvous with one of our warships. The Printsessa has a top speed of 60 knots, and at lesser speeds, a range of 5000 nautical miles, so with our current naval deployments, that gives us several options.’
‘That’s some yacht,’ observed O’Connor. ‘Do we know what this urgent business is?’ he asked, still puzzled.
‘No,’ said McNamara, ‘but ISIS clearly have some pretty significant leverage on our friend Dragunov, and I suspect that may have a lot to do with it. It’s too early to involve the White House, but when things become clearer, I’m going to suggest to POTUS that we offer Dragunov asylum on condition we get Bartók and his thumb drive.’ O’Connor listened as McNamara ordered him on yet another mission into the heart of Russia, potentially even more dangerous than the chase for the strontium-90 capsules in the Russian generators.
‘Bartók’s copy of his research breakthrough and our preventing it falling into foreign hands has absolute priority,’ McNamara emphasised, ‘and we need you a lot closer to Dragunov and Bartók than you are now, so I’ve arranged for you to be attached to our embassy in Moscow – ostensibly at least. Time is of the essence. Stanford had the presence of mind to give Dragunov an encrypted phone. He’s clearly desperate, and provided the Russians don’t crack it, we can at least track him and communicate with him. Mimi has the paperwork and your visa. I’ll let you know if Murray makes any progress on the Dark Web. Good luck.’
The screen went blank, leaving O’Connor to ponder the threat against Dragunov. Dirty bombs were bad enough, but if ISIS went nuclear . . .
The huge warehouse in West Pershing Road, in the south of Chicago, was derelict. The roof over the upper floors leaked, windows were smashed and wire meshing had been installed on the street side to prevent bricks from falling on passers-by, but for ISIS it was perfect. For a very low rent, the team had secured a large ground-floor garage at the rear of the complex with a door that opened onto the road between the buildings. It was secure and hidden from prying eyes.
ISIS’s chief bombmaker in the United States, and the leader of the Chicago cell, Hasan Atef, looked at his watch. Six p.m. The dark purple clouds above were streaked with orange and the sun had just disappeared beneath the west Chicago skyline. It was time for the fourth prayer of the day, the Salat al-Maghrib. Praying five times a day, or Salat, was one of the Five Pillars of Islam, along with Sawm, fasting in the month of Ramadan; the Hajj, or pilgrimage to Mecca; Zakat, a charity tax for the poor; and the Shahada, the basic statement of the Islamic faith: ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger.’ Atef summoned the other two members of his team from where they were organising the 55-gallon drums for mixing the deadly fertiliser explosive.
Aysha was young. Very young. She was just 15 years old when she left home to join ISIS. A ‘Missing’ poster with a photograph of the attractive teenager with long dark hair and coal-black eyes had been plastered all over billboards and telegraph poles in the wealthy Chicago suburb of Barrington; the polic
e and her parents and sister were still desperately looking for her. For her part, Aysha didn’t miss home or school. Quite the reverse. The white Christian boys and girls in her class had bullied her unmercifully and as she laid out her prayer mat, their words still stung. It had been a daily event and in just one incident on their way to basketball practice, two of the boys had sidled up either side of her. One wrapped a towel around his head to make a turban while the other sneered at him.
‘Hey! Towelhead! You gunna blow up the basketball court, you piece of Muslim shit! If you do, your old Muslim Prez Obama ain’t gonna save you!’ The two laughed and ran off, leaving Aysha in tears.
Hasan had found her crying at the bus stop. He’d bought her a coffee and assured her that Allah had big plans for her. She had resisted at first, but the taunts continued to get worse, and the teachers just laughed. The day the biggest bully in her class had come up to her and said, ‘Why don’t you go back to where you fucking came from, you Muslim bitch,’ she hadn’t responded with her usual ‘I was born here – in Chicago.’ Instead, she decided to accept Hasan’s offer of a better life.
Together with the other teenager he’d radicalised, Khadafi Sali, the trio laid out their prayer mats on the warehouse floor. Atef had already calculated the direction of Mecca from Chicago as north-east at 48.65 degrees, and he had marked the Qibla, or the direction of the Kaaba, the stone cube in Mecca that was draped in black. Known around the world, it was the focal point for all Muslims when they circled it during their pilgrimage to the most holy site in Islam.
Atef led the prayers, raising his hands to his ears.
‘Allahu Akbar . . . God is great . . .
‘Subhanak Allahhuma . . . You are glorifed, oh Allah . . .’
Atef spoke softly, even though the CCTV security cameras showed the area around the warehouse was deserted. The trio assumed the sujood, the kneeling position, on their prayer mats. They bent forward, their noses and foreheads touching the ground.
‘Subhana rubbiyal a’ala . . . How perfect is my Lord, the most high . . .
‘Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah . . . The peace and mercy of Allah be upon you . . .’
Their sunset prayers concluded, Atef switched on the television and Chicago’s CBB nightly news anchor, the dark-haired Kelly McPherson, appeared.
‘White House Press Secretary Seth Dungworth has tonight denied that late last month the president tried to sack the vice-president and secretaries of State and Defense,’ McPherson began. The vision cut to an agitated Dungworth responding to journalists’ questions in the James S. Brady media briefing room in the White House. The room had been named after White House Press Secretary James Brady, who had been shot and disabled during the assassination attempt on President Reagan in 1981.
‘The allegations that President Travers has tried to sack anyone are a complete fabrication.’ Dungworth almost spat the words at the offending journalist. ‘They are a fabrication that has its genesis amongst those who are opposed to our policies for this great nation, and that opposition is not only coming from the Democrats, it’s coming from the media as well. And if that’s the best you people can do – if you’re not going to ask intelligent questions, then my time and the time of the president is far too valuable to waste on you.’ With that, Press Secretary Dungworth stormed out of the room, leaving the White House correspondents shaking their heads.
‘And in news closer to home,’ McPherson continued, ‘police are investigating a break-in at the Carson Engineering compound in Chicago’s Pilsen industrial corridor.’ The vision cut to Bill Carson, the rugged-looking CEO of Carson Engineering.
‘At this stage, we’re still checking to see precisely what’s been stolen, but the thieves seemed to be after just one item in our inventory: Tovex gel. There were far more valuable items, including computers and engineering tools, but they all appear to be intact.’
‘And what is Tovex gel?’ the anchor asked.
‘I won’t get too technical here,’ said Carson, ‘but essentially it’s a water-gel explosive with a jelly-like consistency. Unlike dynamite, which contains nitro-glycerine that can be quite sensitive to shocks and impact, Tovex is safer and very powerful, and it’s widely used in blasting and other commercial operations.’
‘Would it be attractive for terrorists?’
‘I have no doubt that explosives of any kind are an attractive commodity for terrorists, but that’s not a matter for us to speculate on. It’s a matter for the police to investigate the motives and indeed apprehend the perpetrators, and we’re providing every cooperation.’
‘But given that explosives are a valuable commodity for any terrorist group, shouldn’t these explosives have been more tightly secured?’
Carson’s media training kicked in, and he reminded himself that regardless of the question, remain balanced and calm. ‘At Carson Engineering,’ he responded, ‘we pride ourselves on the security standards at every one of our compounds, and particularly those containing explosives and other sensitive stores. In this case, the CCTV system was disabled, as were the alarms.’
‘Does that mean an inside job?’
‘At this stage, we’re not sure if it’s an inside job, as you put it,’ Carson responded, ‘or if our systems have been compromised, but we’re working very hard with the police and other authorities to get to the bottom of it.’
‘Mr Carson, thank you very much for giving us your time tonight. That was Mr Bill Carson, the CEO of Carson Engineering. Now to other news . . .’ Carson unhooked his lapel mike, relieved that the journalist had not asked how much explosive had been stolen. It was, he knew, a very substantial amount.
Atef switched the television off and smiled to himself. A long-time Carson Engineering employee, Mohammad Almari, incensed at the increasing marginalisation of Muslims in Chicago, had sought solace in Atef’s local mosque, the Masjid Al-Faatir mosque on 47th Street near Morgan Point. Atef momentarily reflected on one of their many conversations. ‘We need not despair, Mohammad,’ Atef had said quietly. ‘Take heed of the message in the sermon today. No harm will come to you if you trust in Allah. Read your Qu’ran every day, and particularly Sura 9, Verses 38 and 39,’ Atef had urged. ‘There you will find clear direction. Allah is giving us a warning, Mohammad. We are prisoners in our own country, and if we don’t fight for Allah against Washington, we will be punished and punished severely. We will never know the wonderful joys of the Hereafter. Instead, we will spend eternity in hell.’ Atef knew the verses off by heart:
O ye who believe! What is the matter with you, that, when ye are asked to go forth in the cause of Allah, ye cling heavily to the earth? Do ye prefer the life of this world to the Hereafter? But little is the comfort of this life, as compared with the Hereafter. Unless ye go forth, He will punish you with a grievous penalty, and put others in your place.
After their conversation at the end of Friday prayers, Almari had agreed to disable Carson’s alarms and security systems.
Atef turned his attention to the task at hand. New York was 800 miles to the east and 15 hours away, but Atef was confident they could get the truck into Manhattan. The bomb he had designed wasn’t quite as big as the one Timothy McVeigh had used to demolish the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building, but Atef knew it would be far more deadly.
‘The fertiliser contains the ammonium nitrate we need for the explosion,’ Atef explained to his young bombers. ‘It won’t explode on its own, which makes it much more stable than other explosives. We use a higher grade fertiliser than normal, and provided you have a licence and a reason to purchase – in our case our corn farm west of Bloomington – that’s no big deal.’ The fertiliser came in 50-pound bags, and under Atef’s direction, Aysha and Khadafi part filled the ten blue plastic barrels.
‘Next,’ he said, ‘we need to mix the fertiliser with nitromethane.’ Atef had no trouble in turning up with a racing bike for the purchase of the high-octane fuel, and he showed Aysha and Khadafi how to gently pour it in with a measuring jug
, and stir the mixture with a wooden stirring rod until it had an even texture. ‘To this, we insert the Tovex explosive,’ Atef said, lifting the red sausage-like packing. ‘This is much more stable than other explosives, and you can cut it to the required length or bundle it up. We won’t,’ he added, ‘be fitting the blasting caps until we get closer to New York. They won’t know what hit them.’ Atef smiled menacingly. ‘This is the same bomb that has been used right around the world, from McVeigh in Oklahoma to the Bali bombings in Indonesia, and it’s very effective.’
Satisfied that all that remained to be done was load the rental truck and link the blue plastic barrels with fuze and blasting caps, Atef disappeared outside the lock-up space to where the shipping container of basmati rice had been delivered the day before.
‘What’s that?’ Aysha asked when Atef returned.
‘We call this a booster fuel,’ Atef lied, not wanting to unnerve her. ‘We place it in the centre of the truck bomb, and it gives an added impetus. Alhamdulillah! Allah be praised!’
Atef again consulted his watch. ‘Tomorrow, I will drive for the first shift, and Khadafi will then take over. That will get you used to the truck, because although it’s not a big truck, the traffic in downtown Manhattan can be very busy. It’s time,’ he said, ‘for prayer.’ The last of the five prayers of the day, the Isha was practised between dusk and dawn, and it had taken until nearly midnight to prepare all the barrels.
The Russian Affair Page 26
