Independence Day (6 page)
“I expected it, Senator,” said Gant. “There’s nothing wrong with what we did.”
“He’s going to rip your head off.”
“Calibrisi? I’ll be ready for him. In the meantime, you need to continue demand access to any other aspects of Andreas’s life that are even remotely questionable. The death of his first wife. His time on the oil rig. Jessica Tanzer’s death.
Push it.
”
“Look, Josh, I don’t like the guy either,” said Furr. “I was willing to run the psych eval, but I’m not about to start ruining his life. We’re talking about a bona fide American hero. For fuck’s sake, he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Dellenbaugh loves the guy.”
Gant took a sip of his tea.
“You don’t get it, Senator,” said Gant. “This isn’t about Dewey Andreas. He’s a means to an end. He’s a pawn, a poker chip.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Furr. “But if he’s innocent—”
“The question is not whether Andreas is innocent,” interrupted Gant. “It’s about image. This is a political campaign. We’re going to expose a security risk at the highest levels of the Central Intelligence Agency. We’ll be notorious, Senator.”
“I’m not sure I want to be notorious.”
“Notorious is the rung on the ladder just before ubiquity,” said Gant.
There was a short silence.
“It would be a front-page story,” agreed Furr, calming down. “The American public likes their heroes until they’re exposed as something else, then they tear them down and kick them to the curb. The press would have a field day, Josh.”
“We need to be patient,” said Gant. “Calibrisi might say something, but I can handle it. We need to be patient and bide our time.”
PIVDENNA BAY
SEVASTOPOL, UKRAINE
A rusty light blue CMK 12.5-ton crane spewed diesel smoke out into the Sevastopol sky. The smoke blended into the thick fog shrouding the port city as dawn approached. The sun would burn off the fog by 6:00, but now, at 4:30
A.M
., it hid the port well enough to obscure any possible observation from satellites overhead or Ukrainian patrol boats.
The operator of the crane sat in the cab and smoked a cigarette as he maneuvered the boom. He swept it above a flatbed semitruck. The truck was parked on a concrete pier sticking out into the ocean. He stopped the boom when the hook and ball were above a brown-skinned man named Al-Medi.
He was tall, with a thin, sinister-looking mustache, a beaklike nose, and long black hair. He was shirtless. His chest, shoulders, and torso were thick with muscles.
He was standing near the back of the flatbed, next to a wooden crate. The crate was four feet tall, eight feet long, and wrapped in thick steel cables, drawn around to a thick steel padlock on top.
“
Lower!
” yelled Al-Medi to the crane operator. “One foot.
Hurry!
”
Moored alongside the pier was a fishing boat, a 211-foot vessel built for use in deep ocean all over the world. The ship had been in dry dock for several years before its current owner purchased it, in cash, just a week ago.
Cyrillic letters spread across the bow. Roughly translated, they meant
Lonely Fisherman.
The ship was black, old, and ugly, with long streaks of rust and slash marks along the hull, earned over decades. A half dozen men stood on the deck. They were young, all in their early twenties. There was not a smile to be seen among them. Their eyes scanned the dirt road behind the pier, the small area of visible waterfront, and the foggy sky, looking for any unexpected visitors.
The hook and ball were lowered down next to Al-Medi. He grabbed the hook and moved it to the top of the crate. He latched it to a steel ring at the center of the large container.
Slowly, the crate was lifted into the air. The crane boom creaked as the object stressed rusted bolts and pulleys. The crane operator swung the crate gingerly through the air toward the deck of the ship. Once the boom was above the center of the deck, he lowered the crate until it came to rest. One of the men unhooked it.
A distant noise interrupted the low din of the crane. Every man turned. A brown cloud of dust and dirt accompanied the sound of a car engine. It was a dull blue Porsche 911 4S. Two of the men on the deck of the ship lifted submachine guns reflexively into the air, training them at the approaching vehicle.
“
Put the guns down!
” yelled Al-Medi angrily.
The Porsche stopped at the end of the pier. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. He was joined by an older man, in his seventies, with gray hair and glasses, who carried a steel briefcase.
Al-Medi jumped down from the flatbed to greet the visitors. As he walked, he looked at the six men aboard the ship.
“Get ready to cast off!” Al-Medi barked. “Tarp the crate.
Now!
Faqir, come with me.”
One of the men jumped off the boat and walked with Al-Medi toward the visitors.
“Cloud,” Al-Medi said as he stepped toward the parking area to greet him.
Cloud was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. He had on white-framed sunglasses. His Afro of blond curls stuck up in an unruly pattern. In his right hand was a small duffel bag.
Al-Medi put his hand out as Cloud approached, but Cloud made no effort to return the gesture.
“Is it ready?” asked Cloud, with urgency in his voice.
“Yes,” said Al-Medi. “They will push off within the hour. This is the captain, Faqir.”
Cloud scanned the other man.
“How old are you?” asked Cloud.
“Twenty-seven,” said Faqir.
“And you are capable?”
“I have made six transatlantic crossings in my life,” said Faqir. “Yes, I believe I am ready, sir.”
“Have you ever been at the helm when making those crossings?”
Cloud stared into the Arab’s eyes. He already knew the answer to his question, but he wanted to hear what Faqir would say.
“No, sir, I have not.”
Cloud nodded impassively. But Faqir’s answer pleased him. He was not a liar.
Cloud handed him the duffel bag.
“This is a VHF radio,” said Cloud. “It was bought in Nova Scotia and is registered to a Canadian citizen. Its AIS beacon will indicate that it is a Halifax cod dragger. When you get to Georges Bank, initiate contact with whatever vessel you can find. Do not send a distress signal. You simply are having engine problems. Inform whoever you can raise that you’re in need of engine filters. When they come close, do what you need to do to take over the boat. No witnesses. Move the bomb, then sink the dragger.”
“I understand,” said Faqir.
“Dr. Poldark has potassium iodide pills for the crew. You’ll want to start taking them today. They won’t stop the radiation sickness, but they’ll delay it. After that, you know what to do. The specific maps and time lines have already been sent to you.”
“Yes, I have studied them.”
Cloud nodded to the older man with him.
“This is Dr. Poldark,” said Cloud. “He’ll inspect the device and connect the detonator. Give him whatever assistance he needs.”
Faqir nodded at the older man.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” he said.
“Is my equipment here?” asked Poldark. “Lathe? Soldering devices? Explosives?”
“It arrived last night. It’s been placed aboard.”
“Very good,” said Poldark. “What about hazmat suits?”
“Yes, they’re on board.”
“And did you cover it in the tarp I sent?”
“Yes, sir. What is it for?”
“The Americans measure radiation from satellites in the sky,” said Poldark. “Uranium depletion emits a signature that enables them to pinpoint and track the bomb from stationary locations in outer space based solely on molecular level air characteristics. Soon, the United States will know the bomb is moving. They will scan the coast. If their Milstar satellites attempt to find the radioactive signature that matches the bomb, the covering will obscure the readings and cause them to lose track of the bomb for several hours. By then, we will be out of their imprint lines. Hopefully, they won’t know where it’s gone.”
“If the Americans somehow find us—” said Faqir respectfully.
“There are too many boats and the ocean is too busy and too wide for you to be caught,” said Cloud, interrupting. “However, if the Americans catch you, tell them whatever you know. There’s no glory in trying to protect me. They will torture you to get at the truth. I am deeply grateful for your service and your sacrifice. I wouldn’t want you to suffer torture. Now get going. I’ll be in touch after you’re through the Strait of Gibraltar and are free and clear.”
He turned to leave, then reached into his pocket and removed a small remote.
“Faqir,” he said, tossing it in the air. “The detonator.”
Faqir caught the device, a panicked look on his face.
“It’s not connected yet,” said Poldark, shaking his head.
Cloud moved up the driveway. Al-Medi followed him. He stepped close, so that Poldark and Faqir couldn’t hear him speak.
“I must tell you something,” he said in a low voice. “At dinner last night, there was talk. Chatter. Everyone is talking about the next nine/eleven. They know something.”
“This is because of your jihadists,” said Cloud, nodding toward Faqir. “We need them, but they have big mouths.”
“What if the Americans—”
“You seem worried,” interrupted Cloud. “Do you remember nine/eleven? Do you remember coming to me after school and asking for my help? You didn’t have any fear back then, did you?”
Cloud stepped forward so that he was only inches from Al-Medi’s face. He glared into Al-Medi’s eyes.
“Let me worry about the CIA,” continued Cloud. “You have one job to do. Get that boat moving, then get back to Moscow.”
He handed Al-Medi a cell phone.
“Keep this on you,” said Cloud. “I want to be able to reach you.”
“What about my payment?”
Cloud moved up the hill. He climbed into the Porsche and started it, then revved the engine as he looked at Al-Medi, standing in front of the car. He stared at the cell phone as Al-Medi stuck it into the pocket of his jeans.
He lowered the window.
“You get paid when the boat is through the strait,” said Cloud. “That should be Friday or Saturday. Saturday I’m having a dinner party at the dacha. Come by. It will be fun. I’ll pay you then.”
Cloud cranked the wheel hard clockwise, then slammed the gas, burning a fiery, dust-choked cloud into the air behind him.
IGUALA, MEXICO
A white Chevy Suburban, windows tinted sunglass silver, ripped along a decrepit, pothole-rutted road at a hundred miles an hour. It was just past midnight.
The vehicle sent a simple, ominous message to the locals as it cruised by:
Stay the fuck out of the way.
Everyone assumed the shiny white Suburban was from the Sinaloa cartel, or someone having to do with Sinaloa. The locals feared the psychos who ran the cartel. Gunning down a local was not only possible, it happened all the time, often without provocation or explanation. No one dared even look at the vehicle as it moved along Iguala’s winding roads.
Sinaloa was Mexico’s largest criminal enterprise. It was a drug-trafficking, money-laundering, and organized crime behemoth believed to rival the Moscow mafia in its size and scope. Both groups had tentacles deep inside the United States, Europe, and Asia.
But the Suburban wasn’t from any cartel.
Inside the vehicle, two men sat quietly, one driving, the other in the backseat. They hadn’t spoken since departing Mexico City two hours before.
“We’re five klicks out,” said Pete Bond, glancing in the rearview mirror at Dewey.
Dewey didn’t look up. His eyes were focused on the window and the passing countryside.
“Hey, Dewey?”
Dewey gradually moved his eyes away from the window and toward Bond. He remained silent.
“I need you briefed up,” continued Bond.
“Sure,” said Dewey. “Take me through it.”
Bond was Central Intelligence Agency; a senior officer inside the National Clandestine Service’s Political Activities Division. He was dressed in clothing that could only be described as ostentatious: black Lanvin slacks, white Givenchy button-down, gold chains, Prada shoes. His hair was long, black, and slicked back. He had a mustache. Bond’s get-up was highly planned, in case they were stopped along the way. He looked like a high-level capo inside, or affiliated with, Sinaloa, come to pay a visit to the refinery.
Dewey had on jeans, a black synthetic shirt that clung to his chest, arms, shoulders, and torso, a flak jacket, and a Lycra ski cap. His face was camouflage black.
Across his lap was an unusual-looking assault rifle: HK MR762A1-SD. Dewey had selected the gun based on his experience as a Delta fighting cartel gunmen. It was a stealthy, very powerful piece of killing hardware, a gun that could silently take out a guard from two hundred yards without being seen or heard, then, a minute later, could be used to mow down a dozen of that guard’s colleagues after they discovered the corpse on the ground and went to guns.
The refinery was located in remote territory several hours south of Mexico City, technically part of the sprawling city of Iguala but twenty miles from the city’s decaying urban edge. The roads leading to the refinery were bordered by squalor. Shacks were scattered every hundred feet or so. Old steel oil barrels tossed flames into the sky from gasoline fires. Front yards were overrun by chickens and mongrel dogs.
The refinery was situated at the end of a weed-covered, mile-long dirt road. A hundred years ago, the road led to a sugarcane mill, but the buildings had long since been boarded up, abandoned, then burned to the ground by vandals. Now the site was occupied by a neat-looking corrugated steel warehouse. Inside, a small state-of-the-art cocaine and heroin refinery turned out street-ready narcotics that left in semitrucks bound for the United States.
For the Sinaloa cartel, the refinery was neither important nor valuable. It was one of more than one hundred such coke fabs that dotted the Mexican countryside. Portable, tremendously profitable, totally expendable.
Bond was a highly trained operator, but his true m
é
tier was in-theater intelligence acquisition, synthesis, analysis, and strategy. The operation was his design.