by Marc Cameron
Nice man-purse, Chavez thought.
The wily bastard had gone all day without logging on to his computer. Nobody did that. The team had decided that if he didn’t pop up online by that evening, something had gone wrong with Gavin’s malware. As it was, they were operating in the blind, with no idea of what da Rocha was up to.
A stubby two-car commuter train squealed and rumbled down the tracks in the middle of Calle San Fernando, north of the Hotel Alfonso XIII and the Hard Rock Cafe, where da Rocha and Fournier had apparently gone for drinks. They were inside only a half-hour before they came out and hung a left, hand in hand, looking for all the world like tourists. It seemed odd to Chavez that someone would come to a city as steeped in history and culture as Seville and go to a Hard Rock Cafe, but, he supposed, if you were from Europe, a Hard Rock offered a change of pace—and, at the very least, a cool T-shirt.
It was late evening, and the streets around Seville University and the Real Alcázar park teemed with people heading off for predinner drinks. Flocks of tourists took advantage of the temperate spring weather before it gave way to the incredible heat of an Andalusian summer. The Plaza de Toros was less than a kilometer to the northwest. There had been another bullfight tonight, which added substantially to the crowds.
Hundreds of people, some milling in place, some rushing here and there, broke up the human terrain and made it relatively easy for Chavez to follow without being spotted. It didn’t seem to matter. Da Rocha and Fournier were so engrossed in sightseeing that they never even looked behind them.
“Heads up,” Chavez said over the radio. “They must have somebody out there running countersurveillance.”
“Maybe,” Clark said.
“Or maybe they’re just dumbasses,” Midas offered. He was waiting around the corner, ready to pick up the eyeball if the couple turned past the university onto del Cid.
“Or,” Clark said, “they’re professional criminals, not intel experts. They might think about somebody following them once in a great while, but they’re more likely to worry about personal security in the mano-a-mano sense of things—what is going to try to hurt me in the here and now, rather than who might be building a file on me.”
“Not very smart,” Adara said, “but it works to our advantage.”
“We’ll see,” Clark said. “They may not be experienced in tradecraft, but I don’t get the impression either one of them is stupid.”
Da Rocha checked his watch for the fifth time since leaving the hotel.
Chavez reported this to the rest of the team. “This dude has to be meeting someone. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but he is concerned about some kind of appointment.”
“Maybe he’s killing time,” Adara offered.
“Right turn on del Cid,” Chavez piped. “They’re crossing to the west side like they might be going to walk around the Plaza de España or that little park right beside it. Lots of trails there, if I remember my map correctly.”
“I have the eye,” Midas said, crossing San Fernando on the opposite side of del Cid. Chavez continued walking straight, passing him at the intersection without making eye contact.
“Copy that,” Adara said, sounding a little breathless. She was dressed in running shorts and a T-shirt that was loose enough to conceal her copper-wire neck loop and microphone. Her radio was in a small fanny pack. “I’m a block to your east. I’ll jog down to the park and get a little ahead.”
“They’re picking up their pace,” Midas said. “Not running exactly, but walking with purpose.”
“Are you burned?” Clark asked.
“I don’t think so,” Midas said. “They’re still chatting, but they’re definitely walking faster.”
Chavez turned right at the next block, working his way through the food stalls and carnival rides of the San Sebastian Park night market. The smell of grilled meat and fried bread made his stomach growl, but he hustled along toward the east side of the park, not following yet, but providing backup for his now diminished team in case things went bad. He wasn’t so much upset about Ryan and Caruso heading off to Afghanistan as he was realistic. Even the full complement of six wasn’t optimum for a prolonged surveillance op. Four was little better than a wing and a prayer. Still, this was the field. You soldiered on, doing more with less, and grinned about it because, in the end, stopping evil dumbasses in their endeavors to do bad shit was still the best job in the world.
“They’ve cut into the park,” Midas said. “Just south of the Plaza de España.”
“I’m jogging loops,” Adara said. “I’ll head that way and pick up the eyeball.”
“Stand by,” Midas said. “I’m with a crowd of tourists that happen to be taking the same route they are. No need to switch up yet.”
Crisscrossing paths through the orange groves, palms, and jacaranda made it possible for the team to move in a little tighter. Their targets meandered back and forth, stopping now and then to read signs or watch the ducks—as Midas said, killing time.
Da Rocha checked his watch again.
They were on the western edge of the park now, and he pointed north, up the six-lane avenue called Paseo de las Delicias.
“Looks like he might be heading toward the hotel,” Midas said.
“I’ll keep to the trees,” Adara said, “running parallel.”
“Copy,” Midas said. “Still northbound on—”
“They’re crossing the road,” Midas said. “East to west.”
Chavez broke out of the park a half-block behind Midas, planning to pick up the pace so he could take over the eye. But he could tell that was not going to happen.
It was as if someone had just flipped an on switch. Both da Rocha and Fournier became much more animated. Chavez watched as they waited for a lull in the traffic and then trotted across. There was no more hand-holding or gazing at the sites of Seville. They were going somewhere.
“Are they turning?” Clark asked, as if he already knew the answer.
Chavez figured it out at about the same moment Clark did.
“Well, shit,” he said, as their targets continued to jog to the banks of the Guadalquivir River canal and hop deftly into a waiting inflatable boat. Moments later, the outboard growled to life and the little boat sped south into the darkness.
Chavez reported what he’d seen.
“That,” Midas said, “was pretty damned slick.”
“I should have thought about the river,” Clark said. “Midas, how much luggage did you see in the hotel room last night?”
“Not much, now that you mention it. You want me to go check his hotel room while he’s not in it?”
“No,” Clark said. “If the malware is working I don’t want to spook him in case he has someone watching it. We better pray he logs on with that computer, because he could be going anywhere. It’s only fifty miles to the ocean. If he wanted to, he could be in North Africa by morning.”
40
Elizaveta Bobkova took a sip of mineral water and closed her eyes. Her joints were stiff, her mind lethargic. She probably just needed to get away from the noxious fog of Pugin’s cologne and go for a long, relaxing run. Gorev lay asleep on the couch, snoring softly. It was Pugin’s turn on post with the laser mic that was aimed across the street at the bedroom window of Senator Chadwick’s Arlington, Virginia, condo. What little talking did occur came from Chadwick, and from the sound of things, her young assistant, Mr. Fite, was having trouble keeping up.
Pugin’s lips spread into a lascivious grin. “These Americans are strange animals.”
“All animals are strange,” Bobkova said, after another sip of mineral water. “If they are watched long enough.”
Pugin tapped a pencil on the notebook beside his computer. “They are going to be hungry after this round.”
The desk in front of Pugin contained a wide assortment of gear, all of it dedicate
d to sniffing, listening, watching. The laser microphone and receiver, both aimed at the window across the street, sat on tripods to the man’s left. A ladderlike Yagi directional antenna was on his right, mounted on its own stubby tripod and pointed at the same condo, collecting cell phone, wireless router, computer information, and two IP addresses Bobkova believed to be Chadwick’s “smart” television and dishwasher. The antenna gleaned information from the other condos, along with the IP address of any passing vehicle that had GPS or other connectivity, a phenomenon that was becoming more and more of a reality these days. Bobkova wondered, if the average American suddenly became aware of the digital cloud that followed them around, how many would melt into a pile of emotional goo. If you had a mobile phone in your pocket, grocers could be fully aware of which products you loitered in front of with your shopping cart. Online advertisers knew if you’d looked at a certain type of bra—and bombarded you with adds for that bra if you had the temerity to decide to buy something different. Automobile dealerships knew if you put off that oil change for a few thousand miles beyond their recommendation, giving them a reason to deny your warranty claim. It was probably healthier to be oblivious to the constant intrusion, at least in the short term. Bobkova had taken to disconnecting her own life shortly after joining SVR, placing a small square of electrician’s tape over the camera of her laptop while she was still in training. Just as liars found it difficult to trust, watchers were always the most paranoid.
Bobkova was especially proud—and disgusted—at how simple it had been to find out the senator’s mobile phone number. The life of a politician and Chadwick’s own narcissistic personality made her especially active on social media. There were more close-up photographs of her face on her accounts, perfectly framed in that helmet of hair, than Bobkova had ever seen. It was as if she’d ducked into one of those shopping-mall photo booths and the camera had gone on overdrive, spitting out strip after strip of photos of the same mugging face. Chadwick took care to attach that face to worthy causes, making her, at least in the judgment of her handlers, a more electable senator. Homeless shelters, crisis centers, museum openings, all provided backdrops for her toothy smile. To her credit, she kept her personal life personal—except for her dog.
It was a handsome little thing, as far as dogs went, a mix of border collie and something with a curly tail. Bobkova had once adopted a stray in Afghanistan, where the locals did unthinkable things to the dogs. She’d invested a great deal of emotion, only to have the stupid thing die on her once she got it back to Russia. Chadwick cared enough for her little mutt to share the camera with it on a few occasions—and enough to have it licensed and tagged in case it became lost. It was a straightforward matter for Bobkova to zoom in on one of the hundreds of social media photos and find the mobile phone number engraved on the metal dog tag. Once she had the number, it was simple enough for Bobkova to set herself up as a “man in the middle.” Less than an hour later, she was able to “go up” on the phone and begin logging incoming and outgoing calls, collecting packets of information on all Chadwick’s Internet sessions. She recorded login data, passwords that the senator would surely use more than once, building the pattern of life that was needed to cause someone’s death.
Elizaveta Bobkova did it all through gritted teeth. The pasty sycophant Dudko would soil himself were he to spend one minute in the field alongside her. And still, he pushed her relentlessly to make things happen quickly. Bobkova reminded him that she knew what she was doing. She was thorough, she was meticulous, and she was good at her job. He did not care. It had to happen tonight. And it could not splash back on anyone from Russia.
Pugin raised his arms high above his head as if he’d just scored a goal. “And . . . they are done.”
Bobkova shook her head in disgust, as much for her thoughts of Dudko as this operative with the hairy ears.
Pugin rolled his chair away from the table and pointed his pencil at the session data that was now scrolling down his computer screen. “I told you she would be hungry.”
Bobkova walked over and bent down to get a better look. Pugin’s cologne was actually quite nice once it had a chance to wear off a bit—or perhaps she was just nose-blind to it.
“See, a table for two at a Morton’s steakhouse.” Pugin made a note of the login and password she used for the reservation website. They would use it to try and gain access to Chadwick’s other applications.
Bobkova watched in real time as Michelle Chadwick—or possibly her carp-lipped boy toy using her phone—made seven-o’clock dinner reservations in Crystal City. Bobkova knew the place well. Morton’s steakhouse faced the street but had another entrance inside the underground mall. Her meeting with Reza Kazem had taken place across from the Starbucks in the very shadow of the restaurant. She often ran along the Mount Vernon Trail, which followed the Potomac across the street.
Bobkova folded her arms, pacing the length of the hotel room several times as she thought through the particulars of this location.
There would be enough people to offer the right amount of panic and melee, making the killing highly visible—as Dudko had instructed. There were several other restaurants in the vicinity—seafood, tapas, noodles, even a place that specialized in bison. Some diners would drive, but many would come and go via the Metro, funneling them right past Morton’s to reach the terminal. The crowds would at once provide the necessary witnesses and cover their escape.
Bobkova had studied the security cameras in the Crystal City Underground in advance of her previous meeting with Reza Kazem. Then, she’d wanted to be seen, but such preparation was a habit. She’d send Gorev to check the area again and disable the camera directly in front of the restaurant on Crystal Drive.
Ideally, Bobkova would have liked a little more time to build her file, but Dudko insisted she rush things. Bobkova was smart enough to see what he was up to. Certain news stories were already being written, little flames that thousands of Internet bots would fan into a larger fire across the Web, “liking,” tweeting, sharing, commenting. Monday-morning drive-time radio loved a good conspiracy. More tweets would follow, many of these from real people, helped along by the bot army. One story would bolster another until even the most cynical began to doubt their convictions.
Mundus vult decipi—the world wanted to be deceived.
Senator Chadwick would die tonight—and the American people, or at least a substantial portion of them, would blame the man who she accused of having his own assassination squad, the man who stood to gain the most peace from her death: President Jack Ryan.
41
Reza Kazem sat behind the wheel of the stolen Fath Safir—Iran’s answer to the Jeep CJ 4x4—and shielded his eyes from the sun as the gigantic plane crabbed into a stiff wind over the makeshift airstrip. A woman in her fifties sat in the passenger seat, hunched over a small notebook in which she made frequent notes with a pencil she kept behind her ear. She wore red lipstick and dark eyeliner, but the pencil appeared to be her only jewelry. A lock of steel-gray hair escaped the scarf and blew across her face, but she left it there, engrossed in whatever she was doing. She hardly ever spoke, except to herself—with whom she carried on many lively conversations that she noted in her little book.
Overhead, the Il-76’s engines screamed as it came in on final approach. Carved out of the desert in the valley east of Mashhad, the runway provided an adequate, if not ideal, landing spot for the Ilyushin. The strip was fifteen hundred meters—a thousand meters short of what the airplane would need to take off again had it been loaded to maximum weight.
Reza Kazem didn’t care about that. In a short time, it would be some seventy-four thousand kilograms lighter.
The woman in the Safir’s passenger seat looked up suddenly at the sound of the engines, startled from her stupor.
“Tell your people to take great caution putting the missiles inside the launch tubes.”
Kazem drummed long fingers
against the steering wheel. “Two hours and thirty-six minutes until the next American satellite passes overhead. It is better the Great Satan does not see what we are up to, don’t you think?”
“This is true,” the woman said, her voice dripping with condescension. “But the great accuracy we require will be lost if the components are damaged even in the slightest way. Secrecy will not matter if we cannot hit what we are aiming at.” She went back to her book for a moment, then suddenly looked up.
“Do you shoot?”
Kazem nodded. “I have, on occasion, fired a weapon.”
“Are you very good?” A professor of engineering, she spoke bluntly, unaware of any possible consequences for the words that escaped her lips.
“I suppose,” Kazem said.
“I want you to think of this,” she said. “Imagine one of your friends fires an average mortar over your head. This round travels at, say, sixteen hundred meters—or approximately one mile—per second. You are tasked with shooting this projectile out of the air with your Kalashnikov, which shoots a projectile that travels at approximately seven hundred meters per second. The mortar is a larger target, but traveling over twice as fast. You’d want the best bullet possible, would you not?”
“That is exactly what I would want,” Kazem said.
“Then please,” the woman said, “be careful with the missiles. The analogy I posed is not far off from what you propose we do.”
42
Special Agent in Charge Gary Montgomery sent two agents from Presidential Protection in separate cars to park down the street from Senator Michelle Chadwick’s apartment as soon as he’d gotten off the phone with President Ryan. Once the trigger was pulled to get things moving, he called his bosses. It took less than ten minutes to be conferenced in with Director Howe and his right hand, Deputy Director Kenna Mendez, and a Service lawyer. There always had to be a lawyer.
