by Mark Greaney
Hendriks stood behind him, and the Dutch special warfare operator said exactly what Ricks was thinking. “Bad intel, Chief.”
There was no nuclear material inside the container. No missile parts, either. Instead, there were three huge round pieces of machinery lying on their sides that Ricks first thought were industrial-sized boilers.
There were invoices in pouches on the side of each massive unit. Ricks lowered his weapon and used the light on the side of his helmet now, and he saw the invoice said exactly what the equipment was.
“Froth flotation tanks.”
Greaser looked over some writing on the side of the unit. “It’s mineral refining equipment.”
The chief turned away without replying, headed to the next container to break the seal there.
Twenty minutes later Chief Ricks stood at the fantail of the ship with his sat phone to his ear. “Typhoon Actual to Typhoon Main.”
“Typhoon Main. Go ahead, Actual.”
“No joy on the cargo.”
“Understood no joy. What did you find?”
“It’s not WMD equipment.”
A pause. “Understood. What did you find, Actual?”
Ricks explained. He waited a long time for a response, and he was about to check to see if Main had copied his last transmission, but then they replied.
“Typhoon Actual. Listen up. These containers are going to be offloaded from the ship. You will stay on board until a transloader arrives from Seoul, ETA to follow. You will oversee the transloading, and then you will release the ship and the rest of the cargo.”
Ricks cocked his head. “Uh . . . Roger that. Just to clarify. I understand we are to confiscate this mining equipment, and hold the ship until we offload it?”
“Typhoon Actual, Typhoon Main. Roger.”
Ricks paused. “Can we do that?”
“Chief, as far as you are concerned, you have been told that material is WMD-related. Do you understand?”
Ricks scratched the narrow portion of his neck between his body armor and the bottom of his helmet. “Roger that, Typhoon Main. Actual out.”
Chief Ricks made his way back to his team in the cargo bay, where he found Greaser, Hendriks, and Hackworth. Echo Platoon was ready to hear the order to release the crew and disembark. Ricks said, “Listen up. If anybody asks, we just found ourselves some more WMD.”
Greaser turned to his chief. “Come again?”
“Nuke parts.”
Hendriks said, “They look more like washing machines.”
“Fuck, Hendriks. I don’t know. Maybe they use them to wash their ICBMs. I just know we are transloading this stuff to a ship heading over from South Korea.”
Hendriks said, “So . . . this is kind of like stealing, right? We’re pirates now?”
Ricks just shrugged. “I guess national command knows what it’s doing.”
Hendriks said, “Doesn’t sound to me like POTUS knows what the hell he’s doing. The North Koreans are assholes when we don’t do anything to them. Stealing their shit might just send them over the edge.”
“Hendriks,” Ricks said, “I can’t wait till you’re president. You’ve already got it all figured out.”
“I can’t be president, Chief. I was born in Holland.”
Ricks turned and headed for the main deck to let the rest of the platoon know the plan. He called back in a sarcastic tone, “Well, that sure is a pity, Hendriks.”
55
Sam Driscoll was just twelve hours into his surveillance of Veronika Martel’s apartment building when a black BMW i8 pulled up in front and parked on the street. It was well past nightfall and a thunderstorm sent thick sheets of rain onto the street, so Sam couldn’t make out the license plate from his vantage point, but he didn’t need to.
He knew the vehicle.
He’d seen Edward Riley pulling into the parking lot under Sharps Global Intelligence Partners more than once during his surveillance there, and he couldn’t help but admire the man’s choice in automobiles.
Driscoll’s job here had been to keep an eye out for any North Koreans watching over Martel. Ryan didn’t know if they’d come after her, but now that she seemed to be on the outside of the operation to help them obtain intel for their rare metals refinery, he worried she’d end up like Hazelton. It seemed unlikely, but he didn’t want to leave it to chance.
Sam called Ryan, who answered quickly.
“Hey, Sam. What’s up?”
“Wanted to let you know that Edward Riley just pulled up to Martel’s apartment.”
“You sure it’s him?”
“Have you seen his car?”
“No? What does he drive?”
“Beamer, i8.”
“Nice. Not exactly covert, but nice.”
“That coming from the guy who used to drive a canary yellow Hummer.”
“Touché. I wonder what he’s doing there. I guess he’s either going to give her another assignment or fire her. He’s alone?”
“Yep. I checked the street for followers. It’s raining up here, but as far as I can tell there are no sneaky North Koreans skulking around tonight.”
“Okay. Hey, by the way, you are getting some company.”
“Who?”
“All of us. Clark has us all heading back up to NYC. We don’t have anything else to do but keep an eye on Martel.”
“I thought Sharps compromised the team in New York. You going to go mobile on the streets?”
“We think she’s clear of North Korean surveillance, and we think the North Koreans were the ones who tipped off Sharps. We might be okay. Still, I have a feeling we won’t be mobile very much. Most likely we’ll all be hanging out at your place.”
Sam said, “Awesome. Five dudes in a one-bathroom studio apartment eating pizza all day.”
“Just like college,” Ryan said, and Sam just grunted.
—
Riley arrived during a thunderstorm; he wore jeans and a black sweater, and he came empty-handed other than his umbrella and his mobile phone.
Veronika offered him tea, which he declined, so they sat on opposite chairs in her living room. She could tell from his demeanor there was a problem.
“What’s happened?”
Riley leaned forward. “Last night our time, the United States Navy stopped the vessel delivering the froth flotation tanks to North Korea. They confiscated the material.”
Veronika did not reply. She was an intelligent woman. She assumed the Americans learned of the existence of the material from her download from Valley Floor.
And she also realized Riley needed someone to take the fall for what happened in Vegas.
“Just so you are aware, Duke is angry with you. He thinks you tipped off the Americans. The North Koreans are bloody furious as well.”
Martel rolled her eyes. “That is completely absurd. Someone compromised the operation somehow. They broke into my hotel room knowing exactly what they were looking for.”
“And you have no idea who might have done this?” Riley asked.
She stared him right in the eyes. She knew the truth, but she also knew how to lie. “None whatsoever.”
Riley clearly wanted her on the defensive, but that wasn’t her style. She said, “Perhaps you can help answer that question. You seem to be the one aware of the goings-on in my hotel room. You had me bugged? Did you have cameras on me? Is that it? Were you watching me change? Watching me sleep?”
Riley shook his head. Now her attempt to put him on the back foot had failed. He was utterly unruffled.
“Associates, on their own, were there in the hotel. There was a listening device left in your room.”
Martel recoiled in surprise. “Associates?”
“Let’s just say an interested party.”
“You mean the North Koreans? Who? RGB?�
�
Riley conceded this with a nod.
“So you are working directly with the North Koreans now? Not with New World Metals?”
Riley did not deny it. Instead, he said, “Twelve trillion dollars. Can you get your pretty little head around that number?”
“That’s the value of the mine?”
“Yes. There is an opportunity here to get in on the ground floor of an incredible enterprise. By the very nature of the enterprise, only a few people will be involved. There won’t be competition for the mineral wealth in North Korea. Instead, there will be one state-owned company extracting it inside the country, and one foreign firm handling everything else outside of the country.”
Riley held up a finger. “One firm.”
“New World Metals.”
“That’s just the name this week, the operation to get the equipment and personnel into the country. Óscar Roblas has a hundred companies under him, and he’ll create a hundred more. Shipping, materials, purchasing, marketing . . .” Riley smiled now. “External security. Each venture will grow and grow until they explode in value, because he is North Korea’s man. Once North Korea gets their shipment of flotation cells, nothing will stop them.”
“And how does any of that help you? You are Sharps’s man.”
Riley waved away the comment. “I’m my own man. Duke is hell-bent on keeping his involvement limited to the business intelligence field. I see the opportunities as being much broader, and I see Sharps’s ideas as being too narrow in scope. North Korea will come around to my understanding.”
Veronika nodded. “So you went directly to the North Koreans and told them you were there for them. You would help them by going even further than Sharps. You’d help them kill people on the streets of America, if that’s what they wanted.”
“I am doing both entities a favor. All three, if you count Óscar Roblas. Sharps gets plausible deniability. I work for Roblas and General Ri, North Korea’s intelligence chief, directly.”
“And they cut you in?”
“That’s the idea.”
Veronika thought over everything that she was hearing. She didn’t understand why Riley was telling her all this. She could turn right around and tell Sharps that his number-two man was doing an end run around his clients.
She’d been in this business long enough to trust her instincts, and for a brief moment she wondered if she might be in some danger here. Was Riley here to eliminate her as payback for Vegas?
She leaned forward a little, ready to leap for the kitchen and the knife rack if he made any sudden moves. It seemed highly improbable, but the stakes had been rising on this New World Metals operation from the beginning.
Riley said, “If you don’t know it yet, you are done with Sharps. You are going down for the mistake in Las Vegas.”
“But—”
“Call him yourself. I’m here to deliver your marching orders.”
Riley added, “But even though he can’t use you anymore, I can.”
Martel understood, or at least she thought she did. She leaned back now; gone was any faint concern she had for her well-being, replaced now by anger and indignation. Riley was going to try to recruit her into his scheme, as if she were some sort of cheap agent who would flip at the drop of a hat. He thought he could control her by getting her fired by Sharps, so she’d have no choice but to ally herself with him.
Ridiculous. She’d been spied on by the North Koreans. Now Riley was extorting her to join him as an accessory to murder for a rogue regime.
That wasn’t going to get her back to Paris. No, she wouldn’t play ball.
She said, “I will contact Duke. And I will demand a face-to-face meeting to explain myself.”
“You won’t get it.”
“You really think I won’t? Let’s see. I bet I could get a meeting with him in his wife’s bed if that’s what I wanted.”
She saw the muscles in Riley’s jaw tense and then release. His eyes narrowed to slits.
He stood and started for the door, and she followed, yelling after him, “You are famous for blaming others for your mistakes, and for letting your ambition cloud your judgment. It happened in Italy, and it led to your downfall.”
He had reached the door and put his hand on the latch, but he turned back to face her.
She continued, “You think the North Koreans will trust you over Sharps? You think Roblas will? Sharps isn’t in charge of the operation. He is a figurehead. They know that. I am not in charge of the operation, either. Blame me for Las Vegas if you must. But whatever happened in Vietnam and New York had nothing to do with me. You are in charge. You will take the fall for that.”
She smiled now. She saw indecision on his angry face. “I might not keep my job, but you will go down with me, Riley.”
He squared his body to hers, his breathing deepened, and his eyes widened out of the angry slits. His indecision receded, and he seemed ready to act.
“What?” she asked.
He took a step closer, and his hands raised toward her face.
Veronika thought he was going to pull her to him, to kiss her. She’d seen this look many times in her life, it was always the same. In the throes of an argument came the throes of passion. “This turns you on? You think I want you? Are you insane?”
But he didn’t pull her close. Instead, he laced his fingers around her feminine throat and tightened his grip.
She tried to push away. “What are you—”
Her voice left her, replaced by a scream, and then a frightened shriek.
Riley threw his body on her, knocked her to the floor. He squeezed with all his might, her legs kicked and her arms flailed, but he’d positioned himself out of the way of the brunt of the blows.
While he choked the life from her, he leaned into her ear, so close her hair tickled his nose. “Silly, Veronika. So tight and proper and cold. I told you why I was here. I can still use you. I didn’t come to get you to join up with me. I came because I need someone to take the fall. The North Koreans are angry . . . so somebody has to die.”
Thirty seconds later she went limp in his hands, but he kept talking to her softly. “This was your mistake. This was Sharps’s mistake. But they know me. They appreciate my resolve. They see I’m not like Sharps.” He recognized she was dead now, so he let go slowly, and lowered her head onto the hardwood floor.
He rose. “I’m a man who gets things done.”
56
Adel Zarif woke at first light, rolled out his prayer rug, and knelt facing Mecca. He said his prayers and then sat around waiting for Emilio to wake up. When the young Mexican finally did stir, it was another twenty minutes before he rose and knocked on the door to Zarif’s room.
They ate breakfast in silence, and then watched some television. By ten a.m. a local news station was already covering the impending arrival of Jack Ryan. Zarif could not understand the reporter, but he watched the pictures of the National Palace and the airport, and Emilio did his best to provide running translations. From the reporter Zarif learned several things he already knew, like the time the President would arrive and his planned agenda for the official visit. Zarif also heard talk of a lot of things that he knew were never going to happen.
No matter how much the reporter gushed about the spread of the meal that would be served tonight, there would not be a dinner thrown in Jack Ryan’s honor. And no matter how big and beautiful the Plaza de la Constitución was, Ryan was not going to go on a walking tour with the Mexican president there, because he would die before he got there.
But the Iranian did pick up one interesting tidbit. This was the first Zarif had heard that the First Lady of the United States was not accompanying her husband today, but would instead fly down the next afternoon. The woman was apparently some sort of a doctor, Emilio didn’t hear what sort, and according to the pieces Emilio translated into En
glish that Zarif understood, she had important work to do in Maryland and would come down when she was finished.
Zarif told himself this woman would not be working all day today and tomorrow as she had planned. When she learned that her husband had been blown to a thousand pieces, she would probably never work again.
At eleven a.m. the two men were picked up by two more Maldonado operators from Guerrero who didn’t know the city as well as they should, and they made a few wrong turns on their way to their destination. Emilio yelled at them from the back and the men yelled at him. Zarif was unnerved by the two men’s disheveled appearance and their utter lack of knowledge of the city, and he worried his entire plan to make a new life for himself in the safety of North Korea could be derailed by these uncouth cowboys getting pulled over by a cop on the way to the assassination.
Zarif had nothing on his person that would incriminate him. He just carried his mobile phone, the long-range cordless phone he’d use to trigger the bomb, and the rechargeable batteries that went into it, which he kept outside the unit so that it did not accidentally send a signal and detonate the bomb too early. But he knew he might get questioned by the police if these fools drew attention to themselves, and the police would quickly find he was foreign and detain him.
Despite Zarif’s concern, they made it to their destination without incident. At the scene, crowd-control barriers had already been erected, and at the street market on José J. Herrera, enough of a crowd had formed close to the barricades that Zarif decided he didn’t want to get any closer. The police were already in place at the barricades, and although the Iranian didn’t think he looked much different from the Mexicans around here—he was dark-complexioned and he wore a dark beard and mustache—he did not want to put this belief to the test and ruin his chance at a comfortable retirement on a beach full of beautiful Asian girls.
So Adel Zarif and Emilio stayed back and out of sight, but this was no threat to their plan, because they did not have to get any closer to detonate the bomb.
Another Maldonado man, Emilio said his name was Gordo, was already positioned across the street, close to the barricades at the other side of the intersection. He had a near-perfect position and line of sight on several blocks of Vidal Alcocer because there was a large parking lot to the north that gave him unobstructed views. He also had an iPad with which he would film the arrival of the presidential motorcade, and transmit it instantly to Emilio’s iPhone.
