The Mingrelian (3 page)

Lado didn’t know the details of how a tanker load of Persian Gulf crude got into a storage tank for Caspian Sea crude at Batumi, for which AGI Trading had just been paid $2 million to accomplish. But he knew well that both the main railroad line and the Western Route Export Pipeline from the Caspian Sea at Baku to the Black Sea run through the ancient principality of Mingrelia, his home.

He saw each of his guests to the front door of his bank, wishing them well and making sure they had, in fact, left. He returned to his office and signed papers and made a few call-backs before telling his secretary he would be out until after lunch. He took his hat, a broad-brim fedora, from a hat rack and put it on, checking in the mirror that the brim was turned down ever so slightly. He left the building, checking carefully that he wasn’t being followed, and walked two blocks.

“It’s done,” Lado said, hands still shaking two hours after the closing. He was sitting in a quiet restaurant. His companion was a government minister.

“Bayramov signed?”

“First one.”

“Where is the note?”

“In the vault.”

“No copies?”

“No.”

“The risk is for him,” the government minister said, switching from Georgian to the Mingrelian dialect.

“Yes, but not so much. Azerbaijan will never see a bill, and we will credit principle and interest for the duration, every month,” Chikovani said, also in Mingrelian. “The note is legal, properly listed on our ledger and physically present if anyone wants to see it. One day, it will suddenly be ‘paid’ and disappear forever.”

“Good.”

They ate in silence.

“There’s another tanker next week,” the minister said.

“So soon?”

“We’ve improved our methods.”

“Yes.”

“Our friend, (Jamshid Kadem of AGI), will contact you with the details.”

Lado nodded but said nothing. He’d not gotten over making $1 million in one transaction, and now he’d been told he must do it again in a week. His cousin Davit was going to be burning some midnight oil with the papers. They ate in silence for several minutes before his companion spoke again.

“The Americans have sent a representative.”

“Oh?” Lado’s pulse began to pound again.

“They’re looking at Iranian deposits in Georgian banks.”

“They must think we’re stupid.” There were no significant Iranian deposits in his bank. Twenty-five million dollars had passed through it like fat through a goose and left no trace.

“They have their embargo to police.”

“Yes,” Lado said.

Beyond the Persian Gulf, where the American Fifth Fleet controlled the Straits of Hormuz, the embargo was a fantasy. Lado had just proved that and expected to do it again in a week. America could delude itself that it could force the Iranians to stop their nuclear program without violence, but people closer to Iran needed to contend with reality.

War would come. How and to whom were issues that might still be influenced.

Chapter 5: CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

id they know? Dabney St. Clair’s face burned as she checked through security on the first floor of the CIA Headquarters building. Her going-away party had been just a month before, with a cake and an appearance by the chief of the Office of Russian and European Analysis to send her off. Now she was in the Clandestine Service, and that was on a different floor. Maybe nobody would see her.

It was all a big misunderstanding. Part of her was really angry that they’d made such a big deal out of her slip-up. Summoning her back in person seemed a bit much. They wouldn’t even let her give her side of it over the scrambled secure line.

“Dabney St. Clair to see the director,” she said, after slinking down the hall from the elevator. She was angry at herself for being so afraid she’d run into somebody she knew. After all, this whole affair was classified, and they weren’t a part of it. She could have been called back so soon to work on some new project. Yeah, if she saw somebody, she’d act like she was right out on the leading edge of something big.

“Go right in, he’s expecting you. Would you like some coffee?”

“No.” She swept into the director’s office. “Sir, good to see you again.”

“Sit,” he motioned to a chair as he closed the door. “Good flight?”

“Long. Sir, we need to talk about my being ambushed before I even got my feet on the ground in Tbilisi.”

“OK.” He sat behind his desk, chin resting on both hands. He waited.

She gushed on about how rude the Georgians were and that she was sure nothing of importance had been given up.

“Stop,” he said, holding up his hand after a couple of minutes. “Do you remember our talk the day I personally briefed you on this assignment, not a month ago?”

“I do,” she said, feeling like the earth was slipping away beneath her feet and she was about to tumble into the abyss.

“I told you that your two covert agents manage one of our most important assets, did I not?”

She nodded.

“Do you remember his code name?”

She shook her head.

“It’s not in any of the classified documents I gave you to read, it isn’t in the computer, it’s not written on any sheet of paper, and we don’t say the name or even refer to it in any electronic or telephone communication, no matter how secure. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.

“I’m going to give you the code name again, and I’m going to outline in simple language exactly what your role is to be for the next year. Your career is damaged, but it will be summarily over if you violate any part of these instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Code name 'The Mingrelian' is our source for virtually everything we know about the Iranian nuclear program. When you blew your cover, you nearly blew his. He traveled to Armenia and sent an email from the library in Yerevan to a webmail account we maintain just for him. He did all that to tell us he doesn’t trust the CIA and won’t have any contact with anyone from the embassy in Tbilisi. We will make other arrangements
to work with him. You will not be a part of those arrangements, and I tell you the code name and why he’s important only so someone in the embassy will know who he is if he has to come in for asylum. You will spend the next year functioning in the capacity of your cover job, deputy chief of mission. You will take day-to-day orders from the ambassador, not discuss or have contact with any – ANY – CIA personnel, and make no effort to learn about this contact and our efforts to work with him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The two agents you exposed will be reassigned as soon as possible and not replaced until the next rotation, so there will be essentially no CIA presence in Tbilisi for a year.”

Chapter 6: Kennett, Missouri

ikki was chained to the wall in the master bedroom, nude, bruised, beautiful. She saw him and stood; the chains rattled. Her nipples puckered. That could only mean someone was about to die. Boyd had begun to turn before he heard a swish and ducked instead. The sword hit masonry just above his head with a metallic clank. Constantine’s bulk blocked the light from the other end of the hall. Boyd aimed a kick at the nearest knee, and Constantine shifted his weight to deflect it. Boyd fled headlong toward Mikki, who stood against the wall, lips curled back in an ecstatic grin.

Constantine dropped the sword and grabbed for Boyd, apparently deciding this killing needed to be done bare-handed. Constantine was on top, meaty hands around Boyd’s throat. His dark eyes bored into Boyd, his breath was hard and reeking of garlic and fish as his thumbs found Boyd’s windpipe. As Boyd struggled to draw his pistol, he glanced over Constantine’s shoulder and saw Mikki at the end of her chain, crouched, straining to get closer, to see him die.

“Ungghuh!” Boyd screamed, drawing his legs beneath him and leaping up with all his strength.

The leap sent him flying into the center of the room, where he came down on a coffee table, shattering it with a crash. He regained his feet in an instant and turned looking for Constantine, crouching, ready.

A light came on.

“Boyd! Wake up!” Betsy Rhoades, clutching a nightgown, stood in the door.

“It’s a dream, Boyd,” Narvel Rhoades said, stepping around Betsy to cautiously approach Boyd.

Mikki, Constantine and the fight to the death in the Azores faded, leaving Boyd panting, bathed in sweat, and standing in his boxer shorts in Narvel and Betsy Rhoades’ family room. He was in his hometown of Kennett, Mo.

“Uh, whew. That was tough,” Boyd said, noticing the shambles around him. He’d been sleeping on their couch.

“What happened?” Adele Rhoades, age 5, stood in the door.

“It’s OK, honey. Uncle Boyd had a bad dream,” Betsy said, going to the little girl, picking her up.

“He broke the table,” Adele observed.

“Yeah, he did,” Narvel said.

“Will he get a time-out?”

Chapter 7: Little Rock Air Force Base

The rated weight limit for Boyd's Chevy half-ton pickup truck was 1,200 pounds, including gas, driver and passengers. With Eight Ball in the passenger seat, and his big-screen TV, weight set, clothes, flight gear, books, dishes, pots and pans, and golf clubs in the back, Boyd was just there. Twelve years in the Air Force, counting the Academy, and he could put everything he had in a pickup truck. Was that good or bad? Passing through Tuckerman, Arkansas on his way to Little Rock Air Force Base, he pondered that question.

He was sunburned from splashing about in the Rhoades’ swimming pool with Adele and some other kids from the neighborhood, while Narvel barbecued a couple of pork butts. They’d listened to the Cardinals beat the Cincinnati Reds on the radio. A handful of his friends from school joined them later in the afternoon, and the eating and talking and beer drinking went on into the night. Sparklers and fireworks were set off, and someone brought a guitar. Two single women were there. It was perfect. Then, just when it looked like he was settling back into a normal life, he’d had that dream.

He showed his ID and orders to the gate guard at Little Rock, got a temporary pass for his truck and directions to the Bachelor Officer’s Quarters. Checking in, he had a debate with the desk clerk over Eight Ball but finally prevailed, and soon the two of them were ensconced in a comfortable room.

****

With bravado he didn’t feel, Boyd approached the reception desk at the Flight Surgeon’s Office the next morning. He still remembered that officious prick flight surgeon in San Antonio.

“You need these?” He dropped a copy of his orders on the desk.

A senior airman rose to meet him.

“Just checking in, Captain?”

“Yep.”

“OK, Captain, uh, how do you pronounce your last name? Is it Chairland?

“SHYland,” Boyd said, used to confusion about his name.

“Oh, sorry, Captain Chailland.”

The airman pecked at the computer for a minute, and then said, “OK, looks like you’ve got a recent workup at the Consultation Service and a new flying waiver. You’ll need a Form 1042, a local medical clearance to get your new aeronautical orders here at Little Rock. Dr. Bridges doesn’t have any appointments. I think he can see you right now.”

The airman stepped away from the desk and was back in a moment. “OK. Let me just get some vitals.”

Boyd hadn’t expected such quick service. He had a dull feeling in his chest as the airman had him step up on the scale and recorded weight and height.

“You must be in the transition class,” the airman said, nodding toward the F-16 patch on Boyd’s flight suit as he took Boyd’s blood pressure. “It starts tomorrow.” He entered the data into the computer. “OK, come on.”

Boyd followed him down a hall past empty examination rooms to an office at the end.

A gray-haired lieutenant colonel stood as the airman led Boyd into the office.

“Colonel, Captain Chailland is just checking in," the airman said. “He’s in the transition class. Need to get a new 1042 signed before he can start.”

“Hi, I’m Doc Bridges. Have a seat.”

Bridges looked like the doctor who had delivered Boyd and took care of him all the way through school, caring for his father from his broken pelvis through his cancer and final days. Boyd had seen older doctors, but they were the generals and command surgeons who never had any contact with the average fighter jock. Boyd thought it odd to see an old guy as a squadron flight surgeon.

“Anything new since you left Shaw last week?”

“No, sir.”

He continued to scroll through the record, finally coming to the aeromedical summary.

“Oh, been to the consult service. Hmm.” He read the summary and then looked up, searching Boyd’s eyes.

Boyd tensed. He didn’t need any more trouble from the flight surgeons.

Doc Bridges closed the file on his computer and opened another, typed in his signature code and hit the return key.

“OK, there’s your medical clearance.” He leaned back in his chair and casually stuck a boot out from behind his desk to rest on the trash can and pulled up his pants leg to scratch down inside his sock.

“Chiggers,” he said. “Jimmy’s printing up your 1042. It’ll just take a minute.”

Boyd relaxed, a major hurdle passed.

“You got busted up pretty bad.”

“Well, it wasn’t all at once.”

“Got busted up pretty bad more than once?”

Boyd nodded.

“Classified.”

Boyd nodded.

“So, they sent you somewhere and you got busted up, and then they sent you somewhere else and you got busted up, and they won’t let you talk about it?’