Cold Shot (5 page)

“I wouldn’t put it past the Russians and I’ll blame the Chinese for anything just for old times’ sake. But I don’t see how we can narrow it down any further just looking at the geography or naval presence.”

Jonathan nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Neither NSA nor Naval Intelligence has picked up intercepts over the last two months from any of those countries that seem useful. So let’s look at our theoretical raid on the ship. Assume a military team has retaken the ship and captured the pirates. What next?”

“I think at that point, the captain has two choices. First, return home. Second, continue to his destination. But in either case, the cargo ship would be late for port calls, assuming it had any scheduled.”

“Which isn’t an uncommon occurrence anyway,” Jonathan told her.

Kyra stared down at the picture of the swollen corpse.
But you really made somebody angry, didn’t you?
Shot in the knees. Smashed hands. Burns everywhere.
She said nothing for several minutes. This was where she had the advantage over Jon—for all his logical skills, he couldn’t read
people
.
I’m sure you made them mad just by taking the ship. But was that it? Or did you do something else when you got on board? Killed somebody?
“Why not just shoot him and toss him.” She waved the picture. “This was cruel. He made somebody angry.”

“Your point?” Jon asked.

“Maybe I’m mirror imaging too much, but special forces don’t usually do this kind of thing. They’re professional and efficient. Either detain the guy or just shoot him and be done with it. I don’t know, maybe they were mercenaries. Or maybe our pirate here did something that really ticked somebody off. He killed someone . . . members of the crew or the raid team. Or maybe he broke into the cargo. If there was something aboard that justified a military raid and this guy cracked into it, then maybe the ship isn’t just late for port calls. Maybe it’s
missing
port calls altogether because it’s hauling something the owners can’t risk being discovered during a port call,” she suggested. “Has NSA picked up any reports of a cargo ship missing port calls along the African coast for the last two months?” Kyra asked.

“See? Not boring,” Jon said. He held out another folder, which Kyra took and opened.

“You had this figured out before you called me last night,” she said.

“I had a theory,” he admitted.

“Then why make me go through the exercise?” she asked.

“I thought you might like the privilege of briefing the Director.”

“When?” Kyra asked.

“Ten minutes.”

“You don’t want the credit?”

“Call me generous,” he said.

“You softie.”

“Hardly. You’ll be the one on the hook to answer the really hard question that you know she’ll ask,” he warned.

Kyra thought about that for a second. “How will we know we have the right ship?”

Jonathan nodded. “You might want to think about that one on the way upstairs.” Kyra grinned as she walked out, missing his own rare smile as the door closed behind them.

CIA Director’s Office

7th Floor, Old Headquarters Building

CIA Headquarters

“We have a theory,” Kyra said, setting the binder down on the coffee table before Cooke and taking a seat next to the director. The first page was a color photograph copy of a cargo ship, with information from the Department of Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control listed to the side.

MARKARID (a.k.a. IRAN DEYANAT)

Bulk Carrier 43,150 Dead Weight Tonnage, 25,168 Gross Register Tonnage, Iran flag (IRISL); Vessel Registration Identification IMO 8107579 [NPWMD].

Builder Country SPAIN Company ASEA ordered Feb 1982 launched Aug 1982 delivered Nov 1983; Hull Form H1; Dimensions 119.50 x 29.06 x 11.72 m (654.53 x 95.34 x 38.45 ft); Cargo holds volume 54.237 m3 strengthened for carrying heavy cargoes; Speed 15.25 kt; Single engine/screw motor vessel.

•    •    •

“The MV
Markarid,
” Kyra told her. “She’s a dry bulk carrier owned by the Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines. IRISL smuggles cargo for the regime and this particular ship’s been banned by the UK and by Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control from docking at US and British ports. The NPWMD tag is the marker for Treasury’s Non-Proliferation of Weapons of Mass Destruction Sanctions Program.” Kyra realized that Cooke knew that fact as soon as she’d said it. Embarrassed, the younger woman pushed ahead and turned Cooke’s binder to the second page, a map of the African east coast with a line drawn in red ink by hand and ruler tracing a southern course. “She put to sea seventeen days ago from Bandar-e ‘Abbas,” she continued. “Satellite imagery shows that she passed through the Strait of Hormuz and followed a southerly course for thirty-six hours before making a sudden turn southwest, here.” Kyra pointed to a junction in the line. “If you extend that line”—which Jon had done with a ruler and a Sharpie. She traced the line with her finger—“you run straight into Eyl, which is a major pirate port on the Somali eastern coast. But two days later, she turned southeast away from Eyl and headed down the coast toward Madagascar.”

Cooke studied the page. “You think she was hijacked off the Omani coast?”

“That’s the guess,” Jon confirmed. “Somali pirates have been charging farther north for years. Pirates might have taken the ship and the mullahs decided they really didn’t want anyone looking at whatever was in the hold. Naval Intelligence reports that the Iranians launched a
Moudge
-class corvette from Bandar ‘Abbas, the
Jamaran,
less than twelve hours after the
Markarid
changed course and that ship’s course would’ve put it within helo distance of the
Markarid
within twenty-four hours. The
Jamaran
has a flight deck and usually carries a Bell 214 helo,” he explained. “They could have sent out a team to take back the ship.”

“And the boarding party decided to have a little fun or send a message, whatever, and put this guy out to sea.” Cooke turned the book back to the autopsy photos.

“The sea currents around the area at the time roughly match to put the life raft in
Vicksburg
’s path if it was launched from the
Markarid
at the point of the course change,” Jonathan observed.

“But this may not have been for ‘fun,’” Kyra disagreed, tapping the pirate’s picture. “The
Markarid
has missed three scheduled port calls over the last month.”

“Missing one is common. Two is a problem and three is trouble,” Cooke agreed. “So the cargo is too important to turn the ship around and too illegal to risk a port-call inspection now that the container is breached. I like it. Where is she now?”

“Her last known position was east of Dar es Salaam three weeks ago and heading south by southwest,” Jon answered, pointing at marks near the bottom of the map. “After that, imagery loses her west of the Seychelles. I would guess she’s well out in the Atlantic by now.”

The Atlantic,
Cooke thought.
Heading north again? Or west?
“The Suez Canal would’ve cut a few thousand miles off the trip. Kind of a tell that she didn’t go that way,” Cooke observed.

“The chances for inspection go way, way up in the Suez,” Jonathan agreed.

“There’s no real proof that we’re right,” Kyra admitted. “It is just a theory.”

“But if this is right, I want to know what the mullahs are sending into my half of the world on a vessel flagged for smuggling materials related to weapons of mass destruction.” Cooke looked up at the analysts. “One more question. If it is an Iranian ship, they’ve probably reflagged and repainted it by now. How will we know we have the right ship?”

Jonathan smiled and looked sideways at Kyra. The younger woman shot him a wry look.
You suck. “
Cargo ships keep smaller life rafts stored on the deck for easy access in case of an emergency. The
Markarid
will be the ship missing a life raft.”

Cooke pondered that answer for a moment, then grunted her approval. “Very well, thank you.”

CIA Operations Center

Cooke hated to visit Jacob Drescher in the mornings. The senior duty officer was at his best in the dead of night and better still when some war or riot was keeping his staff busy and he was giving orders to his own troops. An appearance by the CIA director near his end-of-shift would trigger the man’s sense of duty to stay in the office until he finished whatever tasking she would deliver. Only a direct order would prevent that and even then he would come in early that night to attack the request if the day shift hadn’t finished the job.

The Ops Center was quiet, its usual state more often than not. The sun leaked in through the blinds in the back, not entirely closed. The monitor array that dominated the front wall showed morning news shows in three quadrants. The fourth showed Cooke’s own schedule for the day. The Ops Center would have been a waste of resources if it couldn’t reach Cooke no matter her location.

“Good morning, Madam Director.” Drescher had sidled up to her while she was staring at her own schedule.

“Morning, Jake. Anything new?” She knew the answer. Drescher would have called or sent a runner if the answer had been yes. Most people seemed to have a muddy line about when events were important enough to disturb the Boss. It wasn’t muddy for Drescher. The man seemed to know intuitively when it was time to pick up the phone and Cooke had learned to trust his judgment.

“No, ma’am. The world’s quiet, mostly,” the senior duty officer replied. “At least the parts we care about. Something we can do for you?” Drescher asked.

“You’re off duty in an hour?”

“Unless you need me longer.”

“I want you to find me a ship,” Cooke told him.

“That’s always a tall order.” He respected the director too much to use the word
maddening
 . . . hundreds of ships in constant motion en route to and from ports spread across millions of square miles of ocean. There was no way to assemble the entire picture fast enough before it all changed. “The MV
Markarid
?”

Cooke let out a frustrated exhale. “Jon came to see you?”

“No, it was that young lady he works with, but I’m sure he was the taskmaster. You don’t think he’d go through the trouble to dig up those satellite photos, do you?”

“No, that would be ‘boring.’”

“I’ve got a crew looking at all the African ports. They’ve already checked the Seychelles and are working their way down the eastern coast now. We’re pinging the South African National Intelligence Service for anything they’ve got, and we’ve got a request in with NATO to poll the European ports and see if she’s scheduled to dock anywhere in the EU,” Drescher confirmed. “It’s been tying up my manpower. I could use a few spare hands if you’ve got any to lend.”

“I’ll give you Jon,” Cooke said with a smirk. “It’s his theory. No reason he should just be an idea man and leave the real work to other people.”

“That’ll help,” Drescher said. “What would help more would be the
Markarid
’s itinerary. I can’t begin to tell you how much that would help.”

“I doubt the Iranians will share,” Cooke told him. “But don’t be surprised if she’s coming west.”

“Yeah,” Drescher admitted. “But it’ll be the devil to find her out on the open ocean staring at imagery. The Iranians are friendly with the Cubans and the Venezuelans, so we’ll check those ports along with Africa and Europe. But I can’t promise anything.”

Cooke shrugged. “Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

“I’ll call you when we’ve got something”—by which the man meant
don’t wait up,
she knew. Jacob Drescher was a pessimist but Cooke knew he was right. Luck seemed to favor the enemy more often than not.

“Fine,” Cooke said. “Now go home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

DAY TWO

The Atlantic Coast

40 Miles Northeast of Maiquetía, Venezuela

The Boeing 727-200 was not the most comfortable plane in which Dr. Hossein Ahmadi had ever flown. The craft was forty years old, making it only marginally younger than he was, and showing its age. The carpets were wearing thin and the interior plastics were discolored despite what he hoped were diligent cleanings by the maintenance crews. He would have much preferred an Airbus A320-200 or one of the Fokker 100s that Iran Air had managed to buy up the decade before, but he couldn’t convince the head of the airline to give him one of its most modern jets when he was going to be the only passenger aboard. His influence still had some limits.

The operation would change that.

Ahmadi looked out the window and watched the Atlantic waters passing beneath the plane in the morning twilight. The
Markarid
was somewhere down there, close, if Sargord Elham had kept the cargo ship moving on schedule, but that was an open question. Ahmadi had ordered radio silence after that affair in the Gulf of Aden. Some of his critics in Tehran had whispered that he should have stayed aboard and sailed with the ship, which notion he had laughed off. Even his political enemies had to admit that his duties were too important for him to spend six weeks aboard a cargo vessel at sea and so he had delegated the task to lesser men. Would his opponents spend a day aboard such a ship with no comforts, much less two months? The answer was obvious and the argument ended there.

The flight from Tehran’s Imam Khomenei International Airport had taken eighteen hours thus far, with two refueling stops adding almost three more hours to the schedule. It was an exercise in frustration and his patience was at its end. He had arranged for Iran Air to fly a Tehran–Damascus–Caracas route in years past that had allowed him to travel more directly but the security and cover stories surrounding those flights had been weak. Western intelligence services had seen through their purpose quickly and so Iran Air had terminated them. The route, though advertised commercial, had never sold a ticket to any common passenger. Those planes had been reserved for more special men and cargo, and Ahmadi despised the unknown idiots who had allowed their shoddy security to create this inconvenience for him now. Had that route been available, the
Markarid
itself wouldn’t have been necessary.

Ahmadi turned back from the window.
That cursed Somali.
The fool’s ignorant greed had almost derailed the entire operation at the start. The man’s punishment had been deserved. In retrospect, a bullet to the head would have been better for operational security but not as satisfying. And that was the real point of punishment, wasn’t it? Not to reform the criminal—a stupid expectation—but to make restitution to the offended. And in this case, the entire Islamic Republic of Iran had been offended, though only a few men knew it. How to make restitution to an entire country? Death was too quick. Even the pirate’s prolonged suffering wouldn’t measure up but it was all Ahmadi could exact at the time, so he’d left it to Allah to settle the difference in accounts. Ahmadi’s only regret was that he couldn’t drop the man’s broken body on the desk of whatever warlord had funded him, to send a message that his ships were not to be touched.

The Boeing’s pilot made the cursory announcement to prepare for landing. The plane had left the Atlantic and was now passing over mountains covered with shantytowns and tin-roofed shacks. A few minutes more and the wheels touched down on the Venezuelan runway. The pilot drove the plane onto the tarmac, then rolled it past the commercial concourses to a private hangar at the airport’s far end where the Boeing stopped, the engines began spooling down, and the steward took his place by the door. He stared out the window, waiting for someone outside, then finally raised the lever and pulled the door open. Only then did Ahmadi finally move to leave.

The hangar was old, unpainted metal walls with a high roof of steel, rust and bird’s nests, and brightly lit. The entire space was empty except for the plane and the two armored cars sitting near it. Ahmadi saw more black cars outside on the tarmac, doubtless the security team for his host, still kept at a distance because not all bodyguards could be trusted.

Two men in black suits stood near the base of the boarding ladder staring up at him. Ahmadi forced a practiced smile.

“Buenos días, estimado Señor Ahmadi. ¡Bienvenidos a Caracas!”
one of them said. A second man translated the greeting into Persian.
Good morning, esteemed Mr. Ahmadi. Welcome to Caracas.

“Mamnoon, President Avila. Salaam alaykum.”
Ahmadi replied in Persian.
Thank you, President Avila. Peace unto you.
He waited on the translator to do his work. He had learned some Spanish, enough to converse generally, but preferred to make his hosts speak his language. Ahmadi could not have cared less whether Allah bestowed peace upon President of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela Diego Avila. He certainly had showed none to the man’s predecessors. Hugo Chávez had died years before from metastatic rhabdomyosarcoma and had suffered tremendously before expiring. But the man had at least shown the good sense to invite Ahmadi’s superiors to make use of his country before the cancer had eaten him alive, so perhaps God’s hand was supporting these people after all.

Avila stepped forward as Ahmadi touched down on the concrete floor and took the Iranian’s hand in both of his. “Señor
Ahmadi, it is good to have you standing on our soil again. I take it your trip was free of trouble?”

Ahmadi had no desire to engage in pleasantries with this man and the translator gave him a few moments to consider the right words to seize the conversation. “It was,” Ahmadi offered. “Have you heard from our friends?”

“We have,” Avila confirmed. “They are inside our coastal boundaries to the northeast and will arrive tomorrow, late morning. But they are coming later than the schedule dictated. Engine troubles?”

“There was a minor problem after departure. I regret we could not inform you of the issue sooner but communication silence was necessary.”

“I understand,” Avila said. The man was fawning. He understood nothing, really, only that Ahmadi had something he wanted. “Your accommodations are ready now as requested. The driver will take you there. You may leave in the morning at your convenience and the head of the Servicio Bolviariano de Inteligencia will meet you dockside upon your arrival. I would accompany you, but it would be better, I think, if my presence did not draw attention to this.” The Servicio—known as the SEBIN—was Venezuela’s answer to the CIA.

“A shame,” Ahmadi lied. “But I agree.” Which he did. It was hard enough to keep the American intelligence services from looking in the wrong places, and the Israelis had eyes everywhere. Having an armored convoy and police escort leading Avila directly to the
Markarid
wouldn’t help matters. “If you have nothing else, I will take my leave. It was a long flight.”

“
Por supuesto.
Please come see me before your departure this time,” Avila said. “When this is all complete, I think that a dinner together would be in order.”

“Presidente Avila,” Ahmadi said. “When this is all complete in a few days’ time,
my
president intends to come dine with you. At that point, there will be much to discuss.”

Avila smiled, surprised. “Excellent. My kindest compliments to your president, then.”

“I will share them.” Ahmadi pulled himself into the waiting car, closed the door, and laid his head back to rest during the drive through Caracas.

MV
Markarid

The Caribbean Sea

The sun was rising behind the
Markarid
.
Thirty hours,
he thought.
Thirty hours and we’re done.
They were inside the Venezuelan coastal boundary now so no hostile vessels, particularly American naval vessels, would approach.

Six weeks they’d been aboard. It hadn’t been the worst duty he’d ever performed, but it was one for which he and his men were not fitted.
Soldiers, not sailors,
he thought. Still, his men had performed well enough. Now there would be no complaints from their superiors, none directed toward him and his unit anyway. Ahmadi would be the target for any blame but he was a connected man. He would survive if the mission came off well and Elham had given the civilian a chance now to make that happen.

One of his sergeants approached and held out a piece of paper—the daily status report. Elham stared at the sergeant, then turned back to the ocean. “Just tell me.”

“All ship’s systems are nominal. No unusual communications requests. Surface contacts tracked and logged. We dock by noon tomorrow.” The last was no surprise.

“The forward hold?”

“Still sealed.”

Elham nodded. The hold had been closed for the duration. He didn’t expect anyone to disobey orders and breach the seal, and no one had, but he made sure that all hands knew that checking it was a daily priority lest any of the surviving crew get stupid or curious.

“And our men?” By which he meant his actual team and not the
Markarid
’s own crew members. It was surprising how quickly he, a nonmariner, had fallen into the pattern of thinking of everyone aboard as “his crew.”

“The four who were in sickbay appear normal. No recurrence of symptoms.”

That was good news. The ship’s medic had insisted that they suffered from seasickness and prescribed Dramamine, but Elham knew from the start that the diagnosis was wrong. They had all taken the drug before boarding the vessel. There were other possibilities besides his worst-case scenario. Who knew what diseases those Somali pirates had carried? But those four had been the fire team that searched the forward hold, looking for Somalis during the raid.

It had been days before they could hold down solid food and none of them could control their bowels. The medic had labored mightily to make sure they didn’t succumb to dehydration. They were all back on duty now, under orders to report to the medic daily for follow-up and to limit their contact with the rest of the crew. If the Somalis had infected them with some malady, Elham didn’t want it spreading.

“Very good,” Elham finally said. “Any problems with that?” He nodded toward the island superstructure where several tarps covered the crater in the ship left by the thermobaric RPG round one of the Somali pirates had fired off at the moment of his death.

“No,” the sergeant confirmed. “The lashings held fine during last night’s storm. We are still checking it every hour.”

“Good.” The hole was sizable, large enough that it wouldn’t be repaired without a welding team, a dry dock, and more supplies than they had aboard. Even covered, he worried that any vessel could have seen at a thousand yards that the ship had taken damage, so he had ordered the crew to avoid contact with other vessels and populated islands. Ascension Island, home to a UK airbase, had been a particular concern some days ago, but they had passed far enough away that there had been no incidents.

“Your orders?”

Elham shook his head. “Prepare for docking and unloading. After that’s complete, the actual crew remains aboard until we receive further orders. Our men will provide initial security until I can hand off that responsibility to our hosts.”

“The men are asking about shore leave,” the sergeant noted.

“I’m sure.” Six weeks aboard this barge had felt much, much longer. “Perhaps after the cargo has been relocated. Dismissed,” Elham said. The sergeant saluted and walked away.

After the cargo has been relocated,
he repeated in his mind.
You should have found a reason to scuttle the ship,
he thought briefly, then quashed the thought. That was treason . . . but was treason the smarter course here? His country was hated. Even their fellow Muslim states despised them. A few kept it hidden for the most part, barely, behind false smiles and closed doors but some like the Saudis didn’t even bother with that pretense. The cargo in the forward hold would not change that for the better. It would earn them neither the respect nor the fear that Ahmadi insisted it would, he was sure.
We will be true pariahs now, to everyone.

Elham pulled back from the portside rail. Such debate was pointless but he’d rarely had the luxury of so much time to reflect on orders while carrying them out. Time could be dangerous for a soldier in so many ways. He’d been drilled to obey orders as a younger man and taught the reason for it as he’d climbed the ranks. Questions were a hindrance to duty . . . and yet he’d never fully quashed that part of his mind that wanted to reason things out. It was a terrible habit for an Iranian soldier but he’d long since given up trying to kill it.

He forced his attention away from the debate going on in his head. Elham had never truly been in control of this mission, no matter how free he’d felt on the bridge high above. Such was a soldier’s life. Freedoms were always bounded by the whims of higher men. Decisions about cargoes and the fates of nations were not his to make and he was happy for that.

CIA Director’s Conference Room

The room was smaller than some of the other conference rooms in the building but more ornate than most. That was fitting, Kyra supposed. The CIA director met with presidents and every other kind of dignitary here on occasion. Like the rest of the CIA director’s office complex, no expense had been spared here. High-back leather chairs surrounded a real hardwood desk. Colored wooden seals of all the intelligence community agencies hung on the walls at eye level. The largest flat-panel monitor Kyra had ever seen hung between the U.S. and CIA flags standing in the far corners and it had taken her ten minutes to figure out how to drive the controller mounted on a touch panel rising out of the table.

Cooke entered, seven minutes later than promised, and Kyra knew better than to ask the reason. “Coffee?” Cooke asked without preamble.

“No, thank you. I’ve never had a taste for it.”

“A tea drinker?”

“Only sweet tea on hot days,” Kyra explained. “I’m a Virginia girl after all.”