by Bradley West
“I have to run. By the time you land, I’ll have several addresses for your mother. Check your Safe-mail account at least—”
“Bye, Dad.” Mei Ling hung up. She’d heard this all before.
Nolan stared at the handset for a few seconds. He went into the open Gmail and replied to Joanie, incorporating the family code words vacation for help is coming, and traffic for caution. He wrote that he wouldn’t be able to join her for a week. He blind copied Mei Ling and Bert to keep them in the loop.
He wasted ten minutes trying to get a lead on where the Ministry of State Security might be holding Joanie in the boondocks of Guangdong province. Unable to read Chinese characters and lacking access to the Agency’s databases, he realized it was a futile task. He’d have to schmooze his favorite sinologist tomorrow.
Turning to the dark web, he saw that Mark Watermen had been online every hour in the last eight looking for him. Tempted as he was to condemn Watermen for giving him up to Chumakov, Nolan knew the game was chess and not checkers. What looked treacherous in the short term could be the prelude to a subsequent masterstroke. Watermen’s email errors were deliberate warnings. It wasn’t Watermen’s fault that Nolan had been caught napping, escaping only by the grace of the DEA through their ISD contacts.
He logged into Tor to find Watermen waiting. Watermen signaled that he was moderately confident of a fully encrypted connection. Nolan gave him the plan in short form. He would hand the Fourth Policy over, but only in person to Watermen. The exchange had to be outside Russia, somewhere where Watermen could stay on and live in peace. Watermen needed to pick a country in Asia given that Nolan had to be able to get there and back in a day. Countries without enforced US extradition treaties and featuring reasonable, affordable lifestyles included Indonesia, Vietnam and Sri Lanka.
After a short delay, Watermen replied “Sri Lanka this Friday.” The country boasted the winning mix of amiable people, a low cost of living and a president with a healthy contempt for the West. It also featured a pair of hackers Nolan trusted.
He confirmed the place and time of their meeting, then took a minute to describe the aborted kidnapping by the FSB, probably attempted by locals. Godson Mark expressed surprise. They agreed to reconvene online in twenty-four hours.
Nolan went elsewhere on Tor to connect with his trustworthy Lankan computer criminals. It was now almost one o’clock, and he was unwinding, sorting a few lower level IPPL issues that Walsh had thrown his way and jotted down the next day’s to-do list.
Just before exiting the work email, Hecker popped up to report that his “bad asses with bandoliers” were mostly in-country, and he’d been able to source “Betty Crocker and several cooks.” It appeared Hecker had made progress on the nuclear materials tracking front. Nolan suggested they speak live Tuesday morning and received an immediate confirmation. He wondered why Hecker was now emailing using veiled references. Who the hell else was reading secure DEA-CIA email exchanges?
Before calling it a night, Nolan scanned the CNN, BBC and regional websites for the latest theories on the MH370 vanishing act. Most were either preposterous or rewrites of the same few recycled press releases. The search was still split between the Southern Indian Ocean thousands of miles from land, and the Gulf of Thailand off Vietnam. Nolan reckoned they were both wrong.
He was a wreck. Sleep came easily despite a bed that smelled of baby oil and sex.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE
TUESDAY, MARCH 11, BEIJING
Despite Ambassador Ghorbani’s caustic remark, Secretary Yi maintained his composure. “Of course, China shares Iran’s hatred of the United States. And we wish for Operation Menander to cause maximum damage. However, as I explained, Rear Admiral Zhao was on the Malaysia Airlines flight that went missing three days ago. As of yet, no wreckage has been found. Rear Admiral Zhao knows everything about Menander. If he is under interrogation, he may talk. Therefore, it is imperative that the operation commences as soon as possible.”
Ghorbani persisted, his stilted style indicating prepared remarks. “My Pasdaran—Revolutionary Guard to foreigners—colleagues are equally certain that the Zionists or Americans murdered the passengers on MH370 just as in 1988, they killed 290 innocents on Iran Air Flight 655. Regrettably, your Admiral Zhao is dead.”
“We don’t know that. As the programming has concluded, we should take the prudent route and initiate Operation Menander immediately. And if China is to work with Iran in the future, it is mandatory that you repatriate our six programmers who are currently being held hostage.” Secretary Yi was less composed, his voice rising.
“Hostage? That is a strong word. We also have a wide difference of opinion regarding Operation Menander's state of readiness. My Pasdaran Quds Special Forces colleague, Colonel Gilani, informs me that the server arrays for the operation are not yet finished. Furthermore, given the high skill levels of your Unit #61398 team, we will require their assistance as we prepare to activate the malware. Unless you wish to assist remotely from China and greatly increase the risk of discovery, it is best that your people remain in Beirut as our guests.”
“Locked up underground and guarded by Hezbollah militia hardly qualifies them as ‘guests.’ I’ve spoken with President Gao, and his nonnegotiable message is that our citizens must be released immediately or there will be consequences.”
“Fine. We wish to ensure that Iran and China maintain a smooth relationship. Let’s not allow something as minor as this come between us. I will alert Gilani and he will repatriate your people clandestinely, but we still expect full cooperation from China when it comes time to initiate Menander.”
His tone hardening, Ambassador Ghorbani leaned forward. “Now let me share with you my country’s deep concern regarding the safety of one of our senior scientists. Dr. Fariborz Farrokhzad heads the research and development team responsible for aspects of our advanced weapons program. Your Admiral Zhao induced Dr. Farrokhzad to travel with him to Beijing. Apparently, Zhao told Farrokhzad that he should bring with him certain apparatuses and that China could render these operable. Perhaps you could explain the reasoning behind such a request?”
Yi leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips to his temples in disbelief. “Nothing you just said is known to me, Mr. Ambassador. I am hearing this for the first time.”
Referring to his notes, Ambassador Ghorbani continued with annoyance. “Allow me to explain. Farrokhzad took with him two defective implosion devices—nuclear triggers for missile warheads—and an IR-1 centrifuge damaged by the Stuxnet virus. And one other thing: a shielded one-kilogram quantity of weapons-grade U-235 to provide irrefutable evidence of Iran’s nuclear capabilities.”
“Have your senses abandoned you? You shipped enriched uranium in the cargo hold of a passenger plane?”
“It was safely encased in its own containment vessel, which in turn was placed inside the lead-lined crate housing the centrifuge. The likelihood of a leak was exceedingly low.”
Yi didn’t know what to say, so he shifted focus. “And where are Dr. Farrokhzad and these various items?”
“That is the question we are expecting you to answer, Mr. Secretary. We know that, at Admiral Zhao’s insistence, Farrokhzad adopted a civilian identity and flew commercially to Bahrain on March 6, and on to Kuala Lumpur on March 7. It appears Farrokhzad was on board the missing Malaysia Airlines flight along with Zhao when it departed just after midnight on March 8. So the leader of Iran’s advanced weapons program has gone missing because he accepted the invitation of your rear admiral. And you tell me you had no prior knowledge? Perhaps there’s someone in higher authority with whom I might speak?”
Yi’s tone was measured, but his ire unmistakable. “I chair the Politburo’s Central Commission for Intelligence. I see every intelligence briefing that crosses the desk of the president. When I tell you this is the first we are learning of these events, that is indeed the case. What do you propose?”
“I’m not cert
ain there’s anything to be done about that plane. Farrokhzad was essential to our nuclear arms development efforts. The Israelis have had him at the top of their assassination list for several years. We can only assume that the Mossad, perhaps abetted by the Americans, destroyed MH370 in flight. Regrettably, your Admiral Zhao must have died as well.”
Yi was quick to reply, “While tragic, the alternative scenario is even worse. Should that airplane be found with bomb-grade uranium, two implosion triggers, a centrifuge, and Iran’s leading nuclear weapons scientist aboard, the logical conclusion would be that China was helping Iran develop a working atomic bomb. China is a signatory of nonproliferation treaties. Being caught in a violation of these would be very damaging to my country’s international stature at a delicate time.”
“I see your perspective. Frankly, Iran’s concerns lie in other areas. We are now without the head of the project tasked with perfecting the trigger design for smaller nuclear warheads. Without proper triggers, our missiles cannot be relied upon. Your man Zhao assured my senior colleagues in Tehran that China’s scientists could swiftly repair or replace the defective triggers. And, as an added inducement, your nuclear technicians would also demonstrate how to clean and repair the key elements of the centrifuges used to extract U-235 from uranium hexafluoride gas.
“Take this copy of the recording of Zhao’s and Farrokhzad’s meeting one week ago in Tehran. Your admiral coerced Farrokhzad to come with him.” Ghorbani pushed across a jewel case containing a CD labeled in Farsi. Yi fingered it warily.
“China must honor Zhao’s promises. We require two nuclear triggers that work properly. Before the end of today, we will send via diplomatic bag another pair from Iran to this embassy. I will alert you to have your people collect them. We are not keen on transporting machinery with U-235 contamination. The signature is too easily traced. We will abandon efforts to recover the centrifuge and the U-235 sample, and ask that you assist Iran in ensuring that these items are destroyed, or at a minimum kept away from multilateral organizations and our mutual rivals."
“And for the sake of discussion, what would happen if China were unable to comply with these requests?”
“We would have no choice but to cancel Operation Menander, decry the loss of Dr. Farrokhzad and mention in diplomatic channels that sensitive Iranian technology has gone missing in China’s care.”
“Ambassador, don’t think for a moment that any country can blackmail the People’s Republic of China. This meeting is over.” Yi arose, scraping his chair to demonstrate his annoyance.
“Comrade Secretary, let me know where you want the triggers delivered, or be prepared for China’s blueprints for the same to be presented at the next UN Security Council meeting. I’m sure the UNSC would be particularly interested in learning that Iran received the implosion trigger designs from North Korea, which in turn sourced them from China. Good day, sir.”
Yi slammed the door on his way out.
Ghorbani sat at his desk and pondered. Iran was undertaking Operation Menander in order to render its enemies deaf and blind at the time it tested its first nuclear weapon. Ghorbani’s promotion hinged on getting those two triggers repaired by China. One trigger they’d test fire to make certain it worked. The second they’d use to arm a weapon. Whether the test would be underground or on the tip of a Sejil-2 ballistic missile aimed at Israel was something Ghorbani didn’t know.
He prayed it would be the latter.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MISDIRECTION
TUESDAY, MARCH 11, SINGAPORE AND RANGOON
All night Nolan had agonized over what to do with the Fourth Policy. Damaging his marriage was one thing, but handing over state secrets to a lifelong foe was quite another. For him? For his family’s safety? His thoughts churned, and sleep eluded him for hours.
He woke up to the incessant chatter of birds and the crumpled, formerly fresh sheets looking not much different from the ones left on the floor seven hours previously. No baby oil, but certainly a surplus of sweat and anguish.
He felt like hell, but the glimmer of a plan floated just below his consciousness. He would outmaneuver them all one last time.
* * * * *
The eight o’clock interrogation in Constantine’s anteroom went as expected. Neither the head of security nor the station chief was particularly worried about Nolan’s safety in the wake of the SVR’s putative daylight snatch yesterday. However, they were curious as to why the SVR would bother.
Nolan had learned long ago that the best lies were ninety-five percent true. He said, “Well, it’s one of two things. Either SVR is behind MH370 and working with Teller, or it’s not. And if it’s not, then the only thing I can think of is they found out that I’m close to Mark Watermen and wanted to question me regarding his situation. If that was the case, they could have called and asked to have a cup of coffee.”
Neither man was mollified by these explanations, but Constantine, not having anything better to throw back at Nolan, let him go with a warning to keep his nose clean and assume he was now under Agency surveillance. Nolan dryly thanked them for providing the personal security he’d requested the previous day, and excused himself to attend the task force morning meeting.
Taking the elevator one floor up and walking through the security checkpoint brought him to the biggest conference room. It had the look of a small town newsroom on election night, whiteboards aglow with primary color marker strokes, large-scale regional maps on the walls and two silent TVs running CNN and BBC side by side. His aches and pains from the Airstrip One foray were subsiding, only to be supplanted by various more localized strains due to Millie’s gymnastics. He was too old for any more adventures, outdoors or in.
A well-coiffed Melissa Shook stood at the front of the room; he sat at the rear. Millie scowled at him from mid-table, her efforts spurned to save him a seat. He surveyed the other occupants, recognizing only a handful, and certainly no one of his vintage. Most appeared to be kids on their first overseas tours. Instead of hack newscasters forecasting election outcomes, the people around the table looked like grad students on the second day of classes. Most of them were wearing handwritten sticker nametags.
It was 8:35 when Melissa called the meeting to order. Until 9:15, various Agency and NSA functionaries, along with disembodied speakerphone voices, reported the overnight updates. The most interesting development was that there was nothing new to report. Zip. Nada.
He tuned out the Mickey Mouse hour and instead read Al Jazeera’s English language website for a more succinct summary of the MH370 search. Software downloaded in the background and periodically Nolan configured his quirky set of personal hacks and shortcuts to help navigate more swiftly and securely.
Finally the briefings were over, and Melissa asked if there were any questions before the collective split into various clusters tasked with the day’s to-dos. Mercifully, Nolan was unassigned, having missed the inaugural Monday meeting. He hoped no one spoke so he could nip over to the China desk. Before anyone could rise and break his former lover’s spell, his current paramour piped up.
“What about Burma? Bob Nolan saw a guarded airstrip surrounded by a ten-foot chain-link fence. There’s evidence that a large plane landed and took off on Saturday night about the time MH370 could have been there. The DEA investigated and took some samples, which turned out to be radioactive.”
“Yes, yes, Millicent. Thank you for bringing up Bob’s Burma theory. Last night Rangoon COS Matthews, Director of South Asia Policy Analysis Finegold and I spoke. No doubt some interesting things went on in the Irrawaddy Delta, but there’s no evidence that MH370 had anything to do with them.”
Millie bristled. “No evidence? How about four dead, an ex-CIA mercenary in command on the ground, mangosteens—which incidentally are on the MH370 cargo manifest—and the opinion of Bob Nolan, the only one in this room I’m aware of who has a D.I.M., the Agency’s second highest award for valor?”
Melissa and Nolan spoke at the same time,
with normally mild-mannered Nolan rising to his feet and finding a voice to match. “Thank you for your support, Ms. Mukherjee. This angle is being explored from Burma and there’s nothing that the task force can or should do at this time. As task force leader Shook said, there’s no evidence of anything more than a large-scale drugs and arms smuggling operation by a violent group. It’s a DEA matter, not a task force issue.”
Melissa nodded silently in agreement. Everyone in the room looked at Millie, who in turn was looking at Nolan with a furrowed brow. Nolan, for his part, stared impassively across the room at CNN, where former tabloid editor Piers Morgan silently mocked another advocate of the people’s right to keep and bear arms.
There was a scrape of chairs and the rustle of papers and laptops as the class adjourned. Millie made her way to Nolan, but Melissa strode up before she could speak. “Lisa Finegold told me you asked to be assigned to my task force. Let me assure you this isn’t something I agree with. As far as I’m concerned, you are not part of the investigation.”
One of Nolan’s strengths was staying cool when antagonized, something his adversaries found doubly irritating once they’d lost their own tempers. “Melissa, it’s nice to see you after all this time.”
Melissa turned to Millie and said, “Did your hero Bob tell you how he faked a crime scene to try to turn a suicide into a murder case? That he singlehandedly pushed Singapore-US intelligence cooperation off-axis for over a year? That he specializes in committing adultery with younger colleagues?” Melissa had not planned the onslaught, but she was angry—more at herself than Nolan—for falling in love with him even though he was over fifty and married. Bob was the smartest man she had ever met, a highly decorated CIA officer, and a considerate and enthusiastic lover. But when it mattered most, his legendary composure failed him. Nolan begged his wife's forgiveness and remained mute while others ordered Melissa’s exile. Two and a half years later, Melissa couldn't understand how she had ever been in his thrall, particulary when today she could barely stand having Nolan in her sight.
