by Sean McFate
Ensher started to respond, but Winters held up his hand. “I know, I know,” he said. “No need to play out scenarios. No need to start rumors we can’t control. I understand that perfectly, Ambassador. That’s why I brought this situation to you, gentlemen, and to you alone.” He looked around. Everyone was impressed. He’d sidelined Ensher already, even from his right-hand man. Time to get down to business. “So what do you need?”
“Abdulaziz,” Martin said. “What do you know?”
Winters shook his head. “Just what I shared with the ambassador yesterday.”
Ensher looked dubious. “You understand the gravity of your situation. Abdulaziz is your business partner, and this is not sitting well with USG.” United States Government.
It was Winters’s soft spot. Apollo Outcomes needed to keep its number one client—USG—happy, even as it serviced its lucrative Saudi clients. This arrangement rankled some in the National Security Council, as Ensher was reminding him, but it was the way the contracting world worked.
“You would not even be aware of the situation, Henry,” Winters said with a smile, “if I hadn’t already betrayed the confidence of my client. I’m a businessman, sir, but I am first and foremost a patriot.”
“Here, here,” the marine colonel muttered. What was his name again? Mullens? Winters made a note to keep him close. He would make a good ally.
“I’ve already deployed a top Apollo team to action Farhan Abdulaziz,” Winters said, looking at the colonel. “They’re in theater right now, vicinity Mosul.” No need to mention Sinjar, of course. It wouldn’t help him, so what was the point?
“Excellent!” Martin exclaimed. The colonel nodded his approval.
“Do you have teams in Iraq?” Winters asked.
“That’s classified,” Ensher said, but Winters had seen the colonel nod.
“What about Abdulaziz?” Martin asked. “What are his plans?”
“He’s kept them close to the vest”—Winters smirked at Ensher—“but I know his best man is there.”
“Do you have his trust?”
Winters sighed. “Abdulaziz is paranoid, with good reason, obviously. When he’s paranoid, he’s dangerous, and unpredictable. I tried to talk with him about his son. He wouldn’t bite.” He almost bit my head off, actually, Winters thought.
The colonel squirmed.
“You’re not putting our minds at ease,” Martin said.
Well, they shouldn’t be, Winters thought.
“So you’ve confirmed the nukes?”
Martin nodded. “Human intelligence sources confirm that a suspicious shipment left Gwadar, Pakistan, on a freighter about”—he checked his watch—“fifty-four hours ago. We don’t have enough intel for target identification.”
“Hence, Operation Urgent Vigilance,” the colonel said abruptly. He was a military man. He despised nuance. “A top NSC priority. We’re scrambling every asset from Bab el Mandeb to Hormuz. Planes. Ships. Satellites. Boots. If nuclear assets are moving”—military men loved the word assets—“and that’s a big if, mind you, we will intercept them.”
Martin didn’t look convinced.
“What about Paris?” Winters probed. “What was stolen?”
Martin was about to speak but Ensher interrupted. “That’s classified.”
“But it was nuclear in nature?”
Ensher shook his head. “I told you, that’s classified.”
Garcia grimaced at his boss’s rudeness. There was clearly an imbalance of trust at the table. Divide and conquer, Winters thought.
“I just want to know if we’ve conclusively PIDed”—positively identified—“the nuclear nature of the assets,” Winters pushed, adopting the colonel’s nomenclature.
“We believe we have,” the colonel said, before Ensher could intervene.
“But not conclusively, no,” Martin backtracked. “We’re still working with hypotheticals.”
“What about Prince Mishaal? Where is he now?”
Ensher looked at Garcia. “Al Ha’ir prison,” Garcia said. “He’s receiving, umm, spiritual instruction for his addictions. We’re monitoring the situation.”
“You have a man inside?”
“Nobody has a man inside al Ha’ir prison,” Martin said.
Naïve, Winters thought. “Prince Khalid does. The Wahhabis run that institution. They control what goes on there.”
Winters didn’t know much about the furtive Khalid, other than he was one of the few men Abdulaziz feared in the Kingdom. Khalid was top brass inside the Ministry of Interior and commanded the Kingdom’s notorious secret police, the Mabahith. There wasn’t much in the Kingdom that Khalid didn’t know about, or couldn’t touch. And Winters hadn’t found a way to touch him in return. The only thing more menacing than what he knew of Khalid’s power was that there was so much about the man he didn’t know. And Winters was in the business of knowing.
“Khalid is a dangerous man,” Winters said. “You should keep eyes on him.”
Ensher sighed. “Mr. Winters,” he said, “we did not bring you here so that we could listen to your conspiracy theories about Prince Khalid. We have an assignment in mind. A favor.”
Winters knew that must have hurt Ensher to say, but he nodded, as if it were nothing. He’d pushed the Saudi conspiracy angle as far as he could go. He turned to the colonel—the military man in the room—like a good student waiting for his assignment.
“We have a solid plan in play,” the colonel said. “Nearly wall-to-wall surveillance on the ocean. The Gulf States are cooperating, although they are obviously not fully read into the situation. They think we’re chasing a major arms dealer for Shia terrorists. Between our intelligence capabilities and partners, we have the entire region locked up. Everything, except one gaping hole.”
“Let me guess,” Winters said. “Yemen.”
“Affirmative,” said the colonel. “The country is a civil war wrapped in a lawless desert inside a black hole. We have assets in place. SOCOM. CIA. Partners. But conditions on the ground are deteriorating, and the coastline is simply too damn long. You, however, have been running counterinsurgency operations in Yemen for the past two years—”
“At Abdulaziz’s request,” Winters pointed out.
“We need those men and their skill sets for this mission,” the colonel said, barely registering the interruption. “The black SOF units. You know the ones I mean. How many do you have, Mr. Winters?”
“That’s classified,” Winters said with a straight face.
Ensher scoffed. Winters knew he was thinking of Ukraine. There were some in USG who appreciated his efforts against Putin. Many more, like Ensher, did not.
“Where’s the gap?” Winters asked the colonel.
“Hadhramaut region, especially the port at Al Mukalla.”
“That’s a lot of coastline.”
“We know you have the assets to screen it.”
“And you don’t?” Winters said, with mock surprise.
“We have planes in the air, ships on the sea, satellites in space, but we don’t have the”—the colonel paused—“political will to put more boots on the ground beyond our current SOF assets, and they’re overstretched. The top brass worries that dead SEALs might raise questions. No one cares about dead contractors.”
“No offense, Mr. Winters,” Garcia added.
“None taken,” Winters replied. “It’s why I have a job.”
“Understand, Mr. Winters,” Ensher said, “we want you to watch the coast. Not intercept the nuclear weapons. We have a SEAL team on station for that.”
“I understand. Screening operation only.”
The colonel nodded. “So, do you think you could help out your country?”
The room fell silent, as everyone looked at him. Even Ensher, although the ambassador was looking down his nose. He was a stuffed suit. He’d spent his whole life in air-conditioned offices. What did he know?
“Abdulaziz won’t like it,” Winters said, looking down at the table. “
I’d be taking assets away from him to cover the coastline for you.”
“The U.S. government will compensate your losses,” Garcia said.
Winters winced.
“Double your losses,” Garcia corrected.
Winters held up a hand, as if the thought of payment wounded him. “I meant, he will be suspicious. He might change his plans.”
“It’s five days, Mr. Winters,” Martin said. “He won’t even notice.”
“Five days,” Garcia said, “for fifty million dollars. And another five-day contract, if and when needed, to follow.”
Winters sucked in his breath, as if impressed by the number. “It’s not about the money, gentlemen.”
“But you’ll take it,” Ensher sniffed.
“Title 50 tasker under my existing IDIQ umbrella contract with the Agency, I assume?”
Martin nodded. “You’ll have a Langley COTR on paper, but we run it out of this embassy, is that clear? Keep Washington out of it.”
Winters sat motionless, enjoying the moment. He didn’t even have to look at Ensher to know the man was sweating this deal already.
“As a private military company,” the colonel said, “you don’t need to observe our rules of engagement. You may board any ship, raid any facility, risk collateral damage, do whatever it takes. This is a license to kill, Mr. Winters,” he said. “I expect you to use it.”
“You have my word,” Winters said. “Now all I need is the intel.”
He went around the table shaking hands. He held the colonel’s for a moment, making a show of noticing the ring on his finger, although he’d actually noticed it upon entering the room. “An Academy grad,” he exclaimed. He held up his own hand. “I’m West Point, class of ’80. Pride and Excellence!” It was that year’s class motto.
“Annapolis, class of ’81,” the colonel beamed. “Second to None!”
Ensher caught him by the door as he was about to leave. “You don’t fool me, Mr. Winters,” he said. His breath smelled of stale pipes. “You’re a snake.”
“I’m a patriot, Henry,” Winters purred. “Second to none.”
Ensher looked like he tasted vomit in his mouth. “Don’t touch those nuclear weapons.”
“Don’t worry,” Winters purred. “You can trust Apollo. You have my word. Just feed me intel, and my assets will do the rest. I promise.”
Chapter 32
The recently renamed Eleutheria’s fax whirred on the bridge and spit out a weather report as soon as the radio operator turned it on. The navigator read it, then handed it to the captain, then turned the fax off again. Fax machines were hard to track and easily forgotten, but it could be done.
“Fair weather?” the captain asked, taking the paper.
“Fair weather.”
“Good. Last time we sailed these waters, there were seventeen-foot waves.”
“That’s the Arabian Sea for you.”
Captain Goncalves walked across the bridge, examining the report. There was more here than the weather, but only he could read the code. His contacts had changed the exchange location. Again. Whoever they were, this commission was careful. Good thing, since he’d spotted aircraft more than once this morning, and the captain knew they weren’t flying training missions this far out.
He lit his pipe. Dolphins frolicked in the bow wake as the ship cut nine knots due south, along the sixty-two-degree longitude line, out beyond the reach of the regular cutters that policed the ocean’s freeways, and well beyond the coastal patrol boats. His longitude. The smuggler’s route. The sea spray wet the deck and the prow sliced the waves, a few hands working the endless tasks of repairs and keeping the rusty scupper shipshape.
The captain smoked as he watched the men work, then looked upward. He couldn’t see anything above him but scattered clouds—even the seagulls had given up and flown back to shore—but he knew they were up there: satellites, passenger planes, drones, naval jets, weather balloons released weeks ago in Madagascar or Mumbai, still drifting on the upper currents, tracking. Always tracking.
But not tracking me, he thought, crumpling up the fax and tossing it overboard.
He would give the men half an hour, then order the new coordinates, as coded into the weather report.
“I’m picking up radio chatter, probably a fax, but no Navtex or AIS signals. Sending you the location. Confirm.”
The U.S. Navy P-8 Poseidon, a flying surveillance platform, was thirty-five thousand feet in the air. It could track a small boat hundreds of miles away, eavesdrop on any kind of electronic communication, read billboards from cruising altitude, and more. But this Boeing 737 could also kill. It could launch sonobuoys, depth charges, SLAM-ER cruise missiles, torpedoes, and Harpoon antiship missiles. The P-8 redefined Flying Fortress, and it was looking for just such an anomaly: a fax being received by a boat that, according to AIS info, wasn’t there.
The supervisor looked at the blip sent to his screen. It was within their search area, and profiled like a smuggler. “Confirmed. Magnify.”
With a few keystrokes, blue ocean became a ship, as the camera zoomed in.
“We have a group-three freighter, aft pilothouse.”
Meets our target description, the supervisor thought. “Ship name?”
The operator zoomed in further, so he could see the letters on the ship’s stern. “I read E, L, E, U, T, H, E, R, I, A. Eleutheria.”
“Flag?”
The operator checked, swiveling the camera.
“Malaysia.”
A second passed as the plane’s computer looked up the ship against a classified database stateside. The Office of Naval Intelligence, located outside Washington, DC, collected information on nearly everything that floated at any given time. The Eleutheria’s last known port was in Singapore, according to the computer, but that was six months ago. It must have been running black ever since. That was illegal, but far too common. It was possible it had been in Gwadar, but doubtful. Ships like this usually stopped in even more dubious ports of call.
“A negative. Not our target,” the supervisor said.
“Why do you say that?”
“This ship is carrying contraband for sure, but its heading and position indicates it’s coming from the Far East, having rounded the tip of India.”
“But it matches our target profile,” the operator said.
“So does every fourth freighter in the Indian Ocean. We can’t call in SEAL Team 6 every time we see a ship of this class.”
The operator stared at the screen, not fully convinced.
“Besides, would you transport nukes in that rusty scupper?”
The operator shook his head.
“It’s not our ship. Log it and move on,” the supervisor said. It’s a smuggler, he thought. Just not our smuggler. At least now it was in the navy’s database.
Chapter 33
Brad Winters knew it was trouble the moment he entered Abdulaziz’s office. The man was trying too hard to look calm. The two guards on the door were too alert, aware this wasn’t a typical meeting. Winters pulled on his suit lapel to straighten it and brushed lint from his sleeve. He took a seat. He had considered the angles in the car ride over. He had been considering them since the moment Farhan disappeared in Istanbul. Talk wasn’t cheap. Talk made deals. It ran the world. Today, he sensed, talk would have to save his life. Fine. He was ready. This is what he did better than anyone in the world.
“Farhan has escaped,” Abdulaziz said, coming straight to the point.
“Maybe.”
“So you know. You don’t deny it. You had men in Sinjar. They participated in a firefight against my men.”
“The fog of war.”
The prince pounded his fist on his desk. “I told you to stay out of Iraq.”
“I told you I didn’t like that idea.”
“I didn’t hire you to think,” Abdulaziz said.
“Then you shouldn’t have hired me at all,” Winters replied calmly. His honesty had the prince off balance; now he
had to push him the right amount to tip him over.
“No, Mr. Winters, I shouldn’t have. But mistakes can be corrected. No loose ends, as you always say. Above all else, this operation stays confidential.”
Winters knew the guards were in position to grab him, but he also knew Abdulaziz wouldn’t shoot him here, on his million-dollar rug. He had black torture cells for that.
“I agree. Those responsible for the debacle should die,” Winters said. The prince stared, wrong-footed again. “But it was not my men who made the mistake.”
“They killed my team.”
“But Farhan wasn’t there. You understand that, right? Your son was not in the building when the assault took place.” Abdulaziz clearly didn’t know, so Winters pressed on. “He had help. It was a ruse, allowing your son to escape through a secret exit in the floor. Your men had already let him escape, before they met their unfortunate demise.”
“They could have caught him. He couldn’t have gone far.”
“Agreed. Farhan is still in Sinjar. My men will apprehend him, and kill whoever is helping him.”
“Your men shouldn’t be in Sinjar,” Abdulaziz thundered, bashing his fist on his desk again. “I said I would take responsibility for my son.”
“This isn’t about your son.”
Abdulaziz started to object, but Winters cut him off.
“This is about nuclear weapons, Prince Abdulaziz. It’s not about managing your personal affairs. You want to keep your family together. You want to hide the fact that both your sons are a disgrace. You want to keep your high treason a secret. But the Americans know. They told me of their suspicions not one hour ago.”
Pause. Let him chew. Hit him again. “I don’t doubt your intentions, Prince. I know you and the Sudairi clan would never use a nuclear device. It is a deterrent against the Shia, a guarantee to keep the Kingdom safe. But what about the other side? What would Prince Khalid do, if he had the power? What would ISIS do, if your son gave them the ability to kill a hundred thousand people fifteen times over?”
Abdulaziz didn’t say anything.
“A hundred years ago, terrorists initiated World War I with a single assassination in Sarajevo. ISIS will do the same, except they will assassinate a whole city. Fifteen bombs, fifteen cities, fifteen mushroom clouds.”
