Assassin's Strike

by Ward Larsen

  Rahmani: “I understand. But we are increasingly set upon by the Arabs.”

  Slaton exchanged a glance with Bloch, then turned to a second page.

  Petrov: “I have been told your own technicians are making great strides with this class of weapons. Soon you may no longer need our help.”

  Rahmani: “We did not sit still after pausing our nuclear program to appease the West. Our Revolutionary Guard employs teams of scientists who have developed many such weapons. The Syrians could never have gotten the upper hand in their war without our contribution of chemical agents. This will give us a new level of lethality.”

  Bloch said, “Petrov is placing the blame on Iran for providing chemical weapons to the Syrian regime.”

  “Russia has long been the main suspect, but this puts the blame squarely on Iran. Perhaps not the primary objective in what’s going on, but a nice opportunistic touch.” Slaton shifted to the last page.

  Petrov: “I should remind you, any such capability must be kept out of the hands of others—I think we both know who I am referring to.”

  Rahmani: “Hezbollah or the Houthis? Certainly not. They have their uses, but technology escapes them. Iran alone will have access.”

  Petrov: “And just to be clear … you will never initiate first use?”

  Rahmani: “Rest assured. This agent would only be employed as a last resort. An insurance policy, if you will.”

  Petrov: “Then we are in accord as ever, with a common goal of peace in your corner of the world.”

  Slaton set the papers aside. “With the right audio technicians, and some good editing software, you can create an entirely new conversation. One that provides an entirely new narrative.”

  “There is no mention of the delivery of samples. Petrov could maintain that this new agent was a Russian design, but that Iran produced it, tested it … and perhaps used it.”

  Slaton locked eyes with his old boss. “I don’t like where this is taking us.”

  Bloch pushed his chair back, ran a hand across his meaty chin. After a moment of contemplation, he said in a perfectly flat tone, “There is something I should tell you, David.”

  Slaton straightened in his seat. In his experience, the more neutral the former director’s voice, the more damning his impending words.

  “As I told you earlier, when I heard what was on this recording I suggested to Director Nurin that we quickly evaluate where this agent might be used. I talked to him a few minutes ago and he had the preliminary answers.”

  “That was quick.”

  “You are surprised at our sense of urgency? Israel’s most hated adversary has acquired a new weapon of mass destruction, and by all appearances tested it on innocents. That is a rash move on their part. Rashness implies haste. If the Iranians are in a hurry, then so are we.”

  “All right. So, where might it be used?”

  “We first studied our own vulnerabilities, of course. The Knesset will assemble this week in Jerusalem, but security there is generally good. The prime minister is hosting a dinner for the Egyptian foreign minister tomorrow evening.”

  “Where?”

  “9 Smolenskin,” Bloch replied, referring to the Israeli prime minister’s official residence.

  “Has security been tightened?”

  “Of course. There is also a regional security conference in Tel Aviv, taking place at a hotel on the coast.”

  Slaton looked squarely at his old boss. He knew they were thinking the same thing.

  “I agree,” Bloch relented. “None are symbolic enough to be likely targets.”

  “What else then?”

  Bloch’s hesitation was like a held breath. “We analyzed external events, and there is one that stands out light years beyond the others.”

  “I’ve been a little too busy to keep up with current events—enlighten me.”

  “At noon tomorrow there will be a dedication ceremony for Jeddah Tower.”

  “The big skyscraper?” Slaton asked. He’d heard about the project, but little more—keeping up with who had the tallest building on earth wasn’t a priority on the ranch in Idaho.

  “The biggest ever. It has been under construction for years, and the House of Saud is eager to gloat over its newest bauble. The ceremony has been months in the making, and it will be very well attended. The king and crown prince, most of the royal family. Over a dozen emirs and heads of state from across the region.”

  “Is this an indoor or outdoor event?”

  “Where better to appreciate the grandiosity? The tower has an observation balcony—it is half the size of a football pitch, suspended two thousand feet in the air.”

  Slaton considered it. It would make an attractive target. Yet the outcome of such a strike seemed unconscionable. “Targeting so many leaders with an aerosolized nerve agent? That would be a flat-out act of war.”

  “Yes … but only if it could be verified who undertook the attack.”

  “We know. Or at least we have some damning evidence. And the Iranians know that Kravchuk defected. She was at the meeting between the two presidents.”

  “Everything you say is true. But would it deter Rahmani from risking such a strike?”

  The two stared at one another. Slaton still felt something amiss. The words in the transcript, the messy killing of two poor cattle herders, the calls to emergency services in Sudan.

  It was just coming into focus, coalescing in his mind, when a technician on the far side of the room said, “I have Miss Sorensen back on line from Langley…”

  SIXTY-SIX

  The source was one of many Sultan had been provided—part of the wandering network cultivated and maintained by the faithful since the diaspora of the Ba’ath Party. His call was answered on the second ring, then immediately ended. He waited five minutes for the response, which came from a different number, undoubtedly a throwaway phone.

  “I am glad you called,” said the distant voice. The accent was regional, familiar—not far from Sultan’s own Jordanian inflection. He had never met the man, but he might have if he’d tried—only days earlier they’d been in very close proximity.

  “I must know the status of the Russian woman,” Sultan said.

  “We believe she crossed into Lebanon last night. A Desert Guard unit nearly had her, but someone intervened.”

  “Intervened? Who?”

  “We cannot be sure, but we suspect a CIA operation.”

  “CIA?” Sultan repeated. “What leads you to that conclusion?”

  “A number of units ended up pursuing a man in a stolen vehicle. The method of his escape was extraordinary. The kind of thing only the Americans would attempt.”

  Sultan didn’t press any further, his thoughts advancing to what it meant. “You have contacts in Lebanon, do you not?”

  “I suspect we both do. I have already referenced my most reliable man. He was able to learn that a small jet of questionable ownership took off very early this morning out of Beirut. An eyewitness report leads me to believe the interpreter was on board.”

  “Are the Russians aware of this?” Sultan asked.

  “I was going to call them soon—but I hoped to talk to you first.”

  Ibrahim, who was standing nearby and monitoring the call on an earbud, nodded to Sultan.

  “Very well,” Sultan said. “I am sure you did all you could. Tell the Russians what has happened—it is more a problem for them than for us.”

  “I agree,” said the source.

  “Are your travel arrangements made?”

  “That was next on my list. One way or another, I will be in place tomorrow.”

  The two went over the timetable, then the source ended the call abruptly.

  As Sultan lowered the phone, Ibrahim pulled his earbud free. He said, “The Americans were very efficient.”

  “As they can be. But it hardly matters. The interpreter couldn’t possibly know the details of the attack. And even if the target is identified, we have the insurance of our diversion.�
�

  Ibrahim agreed. The two men settled at a table, a tray of tea and honey between them, and began a deep discussion about how to organize the rising caliphate.

  * * *

  Six hundred miles west, outside the police headquarters building of the Damascus Governorate, Inspector Omar Hadad tossed the disposable phone into a dumpster. He went back inside and took the elevator to his colonel’s office.

  “What is it, Hadad?” the colonel asked, looking up distractedly from a file he was reading.

  “I have a new lead on our Russian interpreter. A highly confidential source claims to know where she’s gone.”

  The colonel removed his reading glasses. “Very well … so why aren’t you out chasing it?”

  “I would like to, but it requires that I travel abroad—for that I need your approval.”

  “Where must you go?”

  “Jeddah.”

  The supervisory brow furrowed. “That is delicate ground. It would require strings to be pulled. Our relations with the Saudis are strained to say the least.”

  “True, but we do still have relations. I fear if we don’t catch up soon, this woman will disappear forever. Her case, of course, is of little direct interest to our affairs. Yet if we could steer the Russians toward her … I think it might reflect very well on our president.”

  The colonel pretended to be thoughtful before saying what Hadad knew he would say. “Make the arrangements then. And happy hunting.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Sorensen was plainly energized. “We have a pretty clear picture what happened in Darfur. Our priority has shifted to figuring out who introduced this weapon to Sudan. If an attack really is in the planning stages, we need a trail to follow. Yesterday I assigned a team to start a crash investigation—all agency assets available, no restrictions about whose nose gets out of joint. It’s messy, but tends to get results. I also got the backing of NSA for their sheer data-crunching ability.”

  “Let me guess,” Slaton said. “Start with transportation hubs?” He and Bloch were back at the same work station for the video conference.

  “It seemed like the obvious place to start. The Sudanese have been mostly cooperative, especially after we told them what happened to those herders in Darfur. In truth, we didn’t need their cooperation. Sudan has long been a haven for terrorists, so we committed some years ago to keeping an eye on things there. It’s not hard. The country only has a couple of commercial airports worth watching, and the road network is about the same—two northbound border crossings. We accessed the monitoring networks years ago.”

  “Accessed,” Bloch commented.

  “Okay, call it a breach. We’ve gone over the security camera footage from the two airports with immigration: Khartoum International and Port Sudan.”

  “And?” Slaton asked.

  “NSA is getting outstanding results with their new facial recognition software—it’s pure black magic. The bad news is, we can’t match any individual unless they’re in our database to begin with. We went back a week before this event and got roughly three dozen hits. We examined every profile exhaustively, and were able to track most of them up to where they are at this minute. Money launderers, nickel-and-dime arms merchants, soldiers of fortune. No matter how we twisted it, none seemed like realistic suspects for the trafficking and employment of Russian nerve agents.”

  Slaton said, “Transporting something like that is extremely risky. I think whoever did it would have avoided commercial airports entirely.”

  “That was our next line of pursuit. Unfortunately, there’s no way to monitor thousands of miles of desert frontier, especially when the neighboring countries are every bit as dysfunctional. The Sudanese make an effort to monitor maritime shipping, primarily in Port Sudan. That was going to be our focus … until we stumbled on this.”

  The screen filled with a video. Three men could be seen walking through a lounge of some kind. All were dark-haired, olive-skinned, and sported brooding five o’clock shadows. The one in the middle was carrying a hardened Pelican case, the other two dragging standard roller-bags. Moments before they disappeared through a heavy glass door, all three faces appeared in good focus. The eighteen-second clip looped back to the beginning.

  After the clip ran three times, Sorensen froze on the best frame.

  She said, “The footage you’re seeing is from the corporate terminal at Khartoum International. Needless to say, not many wealthy businessmen vacation in Sudan. Anybody who shows up here is in town for business, most of which is on the shady side.”

  “You hacked this camera network as well?” Slaton suggested.

  “Actually, the Chinese did.”

  After a lengthy pause, Slaton finished with, “And … you hacked the Chinese.”

  “The details are beyond my technical grasp, but in essence, yes. We acquired footage for all of last month. As you can see by the time and date stamp, this took place at ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

  The video flickered, and a new picture appeared, this time an exterior view. The three men walked across the tarmac to a waiting jet. Slaton studied the Pelican case closely. It wasn’t a rifle case, but something thicker. Hardened and lockable, no doubt with custom foam inserts. Judging by the center man’s irregular stride, it was also heavy. All three men strode up the boarding stairs and disappeared. Within three minutes, the airplane was taxiing.

  Sorensen said, “NSA was able to match one face as a known. The guy in the middle, the one carrying the case, is Mohammed Mahdran. He’s a major in VAJA, and known to have been given high-level assignments in the past.”

  “Sounds pretty conclusive,” Slaton said distractedly.

  “We went back two weeks,” Sorensen said, “but didn’t see any corresponding arrival. We think they went into Sudan by some other means.”

  “Where did the jet go?” Slaton asked, suspecting the head of the Special Activities Center had already figured it out.

  “We found two solid radar tapes—one from Israel, the other from one of our missile boats that was transiting the Suez. The jet flew straight to Tehran.”

  Slaton exchanged a look with Bloch. The thoughts that had been brewing earlier returned. “Show me both clips again,” he said.

  A few beats later, the videos ran in sequence. Slaton studied every corner of the screen. He noted how the men moved, checked the periphery. For a moment, as they passed a desk inside the corporate terminal, he saw a receptionist in the background. On the ramp outside he discerned a fuel truck in the distance, perhaps a driver at the wheel. He noted a wave from the pilot to the approaching passengers, and an empty baggage cart near the jet’s cargo bay. He mentioned all of it to Sorensen. She promised to follow up, and said her own analysts were going over the video as well.

  “So, you don’t know how this team got into Sudan,” Slaton said. “But they’re clearly leaving with a suspicious package.”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “And whatever it was, they took it straight to Iran,” Bloch added.

  “There’s one last thing,” Sorensen said. “We think we’ve identified the car they were using. It’s a Land Rover, rented last Thursday from an agency in central Khartoum. The name on the contract is a legend, and not a bad one—it has certain hallmarks that point to VAJA.”

  “Was the car tracked by the rental company?” Slaton queried.

  “No luck. The Rover was GPS capable, but that feature uses ground-based signals to send location data. Sudan doesn’t have the digital infrastructure to support it outside a very narrow geographic area. Basically, rental car companies there don’t bother.”

  “What about the mileage?” Slaton asked.

  “A good question—that’s always recorded. The usage was high, averaging over two hundred miles a day.”

  “Enough to go to Northern Kordofan and back,” Bloch surmised.

  “More than once. We think we have a bead on where they were staying, a hotel called the Corinthia. It was booked in the same fal
se name as the rental car. We’re checking cameras there, but nothing has come in yet. I’m doubtful it will add to what we already know.”

  Bloch summarized, “So we have three Iranian nationals carrying a suspicious package onto a jet. Individuals whose DNA could conceivably be matched to samples found at the site of a nerve agent attack. And all this took place soon after a meeting in which the Russian president promised to deliver a new nerve agent to Iran.”

  He looked at Slaton expectantly.

  Slaton said nothing.

  “You don’t look convinced,” Bloch prompted.

  “What doesn’t fit?” Sorensen seconded.

  Slaton shook his head. “Everything fits perfectly … which is what I don’t like. Iran knows Kravchuk is missing, and she was at the meeting between Rahmani and Petrov. Since my work in Syria last night wasn’t exactly stealthy, they’ll assume the CIA has her in custody. If Iran uses this nerve agent, the evidence linking it back to them is overwhelming. But I can think of one other scenario…” Slaton waited.

  Sorensen said, “A false flag op? You think someone is setting Iran up?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Russia?” Bloch suggested.

  Slaton hesitated a beat. “I’m not sure. If we hadn’t gotten Ludmilla and that recording, they might have used it to manufacture an excuse. But what if the Russians are working with some third party? Somebody who set up what happened in Darfur. The decon suits you found with the DNA inside—that bugs me. It was too easy. Why would anyone leave evidence like that behind?”

  “All good points,” Sorensen said, “but we’re only speculating. I have to go with what we know, and what we know forces me to think preemptively.”

  Bloch said, “David and I were discussing precisely that when you called. We have to assume these three men delivered some amount of this nerve agent to Tehran. If that is the case, it could be employed at any time.” For Sorensen’s sake, Bloch went over Mossad’s analysis of likely targets in the days ahead. Not unexpectedly, the same one had drawn her attention.