Red ultimatum, p.19
Red Ultimatum, page 19
“You don’t look happy,” Matthews said.
“A lot of people are moving a lot faster to make everything work, Madame Secretary.”
“And will they work, Tom?”
“Hey, l learned from the best.”
“Yes, you have.”
They were both talking about Carlos Santiago.
“Then make him proud.”
Tom Hunter gave Matthews a smile that felt just a little off. She wondered if Hunter was up for the job. He’d had to be.
34
DAN REILLY DID WHAT HE RARELY ALLOWED HIMSELF TO DO. He relaxed. Yibing had taken days off as well. They visited the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom at the National Archives to see the original Declaration of Independence on permanent display. They toured the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum, which he hadn’t done since he was a kid, and Yibing had never gone to. They ate sandwiches and had cheap sweet wine sitting beside the fountain at Dupont Circle. Later they enjoyed an especially romantic dinner at Apéro, a small French restaurant tucked in amidst a row of Georgetown townhouses. The champagne and caviar starter put them in the mood for all that followed on the menu and everything they wanted to share back at Reilly’s condo.
That was Day One. It cleared Reilly’s mind of Egypt and Miami. Day Two took him further into the zone as they picnicked on the Mall, took in a showing of Costa-Gavras’s classic political thriller Z at the 100-plus-year-old Avalon Theater, then dinner at the funky Mansion on O Street.
Day Three began with breakfast in bed. While Yibing showered, Reilly broke a promise and logged on to read his emails. Amazingly, the world was cooperating. No threats. No crises. No urgent trips. But that didn’t mean he could rest easy. There were threats to think about, crises to prepare for, and a trip that he was always packed and ready to take.
Yibing came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She saw him at the computer.
“You said you weren’t going to check in until tomorrow.”
“Sorry.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Surprisingly.”
“But you look worried,” Yibing said.
“Not worried. Just wondering about some loose ends.”
“Secretary Matthews?” she asked wrapping her arms around him from behind.
“Not her as much as the murder of her DSS chief.”
“Murder? I thought it was a disappearance. An accident.”
“You and the FBI, and her temp chief.”
He explained his concern. The conversation took them to his living room couch where she asked if he had any tangible proof.
“No. But I kicked it over to my buddy at Langley to look into.”
“Well then, let him do his job so we can enjoy our last days together before I fly out.”
She was returning to Mexico City for a trade summit on nanotechnology.
“What worries you?” Reilly asked.
“Missing a meeting because of jet lag,” she joked.
“No, really.”
“I can’t believe you want to talk about this with me in nothing more than a towel.”
Reilly laughed. “A little. You’ve never told me about your worries.”
“Well, in order, Taiwan, the southern border, whether we’ll ever negotiate a two-state solution for Israel and the Palestinians, Gorshkov’s next move, and, as a matter of fact, yours.”
Reilly leaned in and kissed her. At the same time, he slipped his hand under her towel.
“Well,” she whispered in his ear, “that’s one worry off the list.”
The time for talking was over. But Reilly knew his worry would return if and when Heath came up with anything on the woman in Miami.
35
SOUTH PACIFIC OCEAN
200 FEET BELOW THE SURFACE
Captain Song-Taek continued on course and on schedule. With each passing day and every mile closer to the American coast, he worked harder to disguise his concern for the exercise.
Exercise? Command had instructed him to use that term. He had a sinking feeling it was going to be more than that. But he wouldn’t know until he could open a timed message on his computer.
Before leaving port he was told that he would be performing the greatest duty of his career in service of the Supreme Leader. They’d be testing the limits of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’s power and the capabilities of a new generation of weaponry. Neither Song-Taek nor the crew of the Wonsan Yong-Ganhan would know they were actually doing the bidding of Russian President Nicolai Gorshkov.
25,000 YARDS NORTH-NORTHWEST
SAME DEPTH
The USS Annapolis was a shadow, as invisible as the captain of the Wonsan Yong-Ganhan hoped his sub was.
“No change, Captain. No sign that she suspects us,” Lt. Okim Katema reported.
“Thank you, Mr. Katema.”
The identity of the North Korean submarine had been confirmed by its faint audio signals, exactly matching the sound of the screws with recordings in the Annapolis computer database. Onboard library files also contained a biography of its captain, a 53-year-old submariner who’d spent more than half his career undersea.
Zimmerman studied the file for the fifth time. The Navy had a psych-up on Jang Song-Taek. He was a hardliner, loyal to the core, a true believer in the right and might of North Korea, whoever led the country. This made him a dangerous foe, and considering how far his vessel was from North Korean waters, Captain Zimmerman had to view him as a deadly dangerous foe.
Ten minutes later, Zimmerman was back on the comm asking for another status update.
“Speed unchanged at four kilometers an hour. Signal comes in and out, but I’m still on him, sir.”
“Don’t lose him, Mr. Katema.”
Okim Katema cupped both hands over his headphones and nodded. He needed rest, but he wasn’t willing to go off-station yet.
36
MOSCOW APARTMENT
THE SAME TIME
Alina Ostrovsky pretended she was happy to see General Sergei Bortnik the same way she pretended other things. Hopefully, he would get what he wanted quickly and she would get something useful in return.
Bortnik came with chocolates that she could do without and a gold bracelet that she wouldn’t mind wearing. She also was certain he had news to coax out. No rush, she thought; she knew the right nerves to touch.
“My darling, you look so stressed,” she said in due time. “Why can’t we take time together at a dacha at the Black Sea?”
“I wish, but I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t, my sweet,” she said. “We could have such fun. A few days away, who would care?”
Who would care? Bortnik thought. Surely not his wife who hadn’t shown interest in him in years. He’d had her followed. He knew what she was doing. “Maybe Paris?”
“Paris? Really?” Ostrovsky said, her eyes lighting up.
“I’ll have to come up with a reason. It’s not easy with Nicolai—”
He stopped short. She began working the buttons on his shirt. Time to coax him.
“Sometimes I worry he’s going too far, Alina.”
Ostrovsky said nothing. Bortnik would keep talking especially while her hands kept doing what they were doing. They were now on his belt.
“He takes such risks. Beyond Ukraine and the Baltic.”
“Shhh, you don’t need to talk now.”
She was at his zipper.
“Relax.”
“Should anyone find out, it could lead to more sanctions or war.”
Bortnik’s pants slipped down.
“Too much work, not enough play,” she said lowering his boxer shorts.
Ostrovsky wanted to know more. Everything. But slowly.
“Be here with me now,” she whispered. “I’ll make us dinner...”
Bortnik nodded. She backed him up into a cushioned chair.
“…After.”
“My sweet you have quite the touch,” Bortnik sighed.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” she said. “Speaking of—”
She began to give him what he loved and what ultimately led to his satisfaction, followed by confession. That’s what she waited for. But today he had more stamina. Probably his Viagra. They moved to her bed.
An hour later she gasped, “Give a girl a break.”
Sergei Bortnik laughed. “For a while.”
He nestled up to her breasts, and she began to gently trace her fingers around his lips, eyes, and ears. She turned, looked at Bortnik, and caressed his forehead.
“Oh, there are those worry lines again. I guess I’m not doing a good enough job.”
“It’s not you.”
She didn’t say anything. The rules of the game and her training, meant only subtle prodding, no leading questions. Nothing beyond her sexual coaxing and her feigned interest.
Bortnik sighed deeply and asked, “What is it you like about me? I don’t shower you with gifts.”
“You did today, but you surely don’t need to.”
“You could have younger men.”
“I have. They’re not you,” she said appealing to his ego. “I know I can’t have you, but you care. They don’t.”
“I wish I could take you out in public,” he said lifting up, “and show you off.”
This was a question she deflected before. The last thing she wanted was to encourage him to leave his wife.
“Enjoy what we have,” she said, “and sleep. I need my general to be strong.”
Bortnik slipped back into her breasts. She was certain he was ready to talk.
“Unless you need to get something off your chest.” She rolled over and laughed. “But I’d prefer you stay on mine.”
He laughed as well. After a minute’s silence, the confession began. “You’re right, darling. I keep so much inside. At times I get so afraid for Mother Russia. The alliances that are made. Should the West ever find out—”
She was about to learn more. And when she did, so would her people.
37
HUMBERTO DELGADO AIRPORT
LISBON, PORTUGAL
Parisa Dhafari saw the old man sitting in the Terminal 1 passenger lounge. His fourth finger on his right hand pressed inward. She took him as her contact palming a small note. In a moment she’d know for certain. He slowly sauntered toward her. She extended her left hand down to her side. They casually swept past each other. Dhafari didn’t acknowledge him as he slipped a small folded piece of paper into her palm. He had done his job and was out the door with a roller suitcase, blending in with people coming and going.
She waited to read the communique until she was in a restroom stall. It told her where to meet her next contact at the airport and how to identify her. Dhafari tore up the paper and flushed it down the toilet. Ten minutes later she stopped at a specific gate indicated on the note. She spotted her contact, a woman in her 30s wearing a business suit, hat, and veil. On the seat next to her, a black leather Ferragamo purse, a shopping bag from Chic Coração, and a copy of the day’s International New York Times.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” Parisa Dhafari asked in English. “I’ve been on my feet for hours.”
She wasn’t just being polite. It was code.
“Yes. Walking on these hard floors can be tiring.”
The woman provided the correct response. There were two more lines to exchange.
Dhafari said, “I should have worn better shoes.”
The woman replied, “I swear, I’ll never wear heels again when I travel.”
With the script perfectly recited, the woman removed her purse and bag but left a newspaper on the seat. Dhafari picked it up and sat.
Two minutes later, and with no more words between them, the woman left. Dhafari nodded to her and nonchalantly read the paper’s front page while deftly feeling for an envelope between the pages. It was there. Back in the ladies room she removed it and took out a ticket for her next flight, a Canadian passport with her photograph as a brunette and her new name, two credit cards, and $1,000 in U.S. cash.
Dhafari smiled inwardly. This was the ultimate assignment she had been trained for. She was more than ready. Eager, excited, thrilled.
It was well over a year ago when she first prepared for the mission. She and her team were presented with multiple scenarios, each with different operational requirements and details to master. They were prepared to operate in Brussels, London, Berlin, Taipei, Seoul, Mexico City, and Panama City, and five other international cities. Dhafari had visited each location, considered the best options for executing the plan, and mapped the safest routes for exfiltration. Now, the location was confirmed. She was satisfied with the selection. More than that. She was certain it offered the best opportunity for success.
Parisa Dhafari felt a stirring far greater than anything sexual. She was a masterful asset, a skilled assassin, and a loyal soldier. In her zeal, however, she failed to see that, like her sister, she was merely a tool.
Once on ground, Dhafari would meet her team, evaluate the final operational challenges, make appropriate adjustments, and retrieve equipment and weapons from rented storage facilities.
Her first class ticket earned her entrance to the TAP Premium Lounge where Parisa Dhafari, now Thea Pappas, a Greek Canadian tourism blogger, enjoyed a glass of Porto Valdouro Rose Wine and appetizers, far better than she’d had on the submarine and the fishing craft. She laughed to herself thinking, And far healthier than what she’d served Battaglio’s Secret Service, by now fish food themselves.
According to the schedule, she had four hours before departure, ample time to buy a suitcase and the clothes to go in it, and pick up a book for the three flights. The first leg, a nonstop to Rio de Janeiro. From there, she’d work her way up north to Mexico City, and then to her final destination.
As for the trip, she’d read, sleep, watch a movie or two, and think. Opportunity for it all on the long TAP Portugal flight, and the connecting Avianca and Copa Airlines legs to Panama City.
38
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Bob Heath eased back in his office chair. The CIA operative, along with hundreds of others in America’s intelligence and military services up, was trying to fill holes in their investigations. The trouble is they didn’t have much to spoon, let alone, shovel in.
Heath had his computer open to the CCTV footage of Battaglio’s flight crew leaving the terminal. Two men and one woman. Investigators had already determined that the woman, the lone flight attendant, was cleared as a last-minute substitution. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a problem. But Battaglio’s crash made it anything but ordinary.
According to preliminary interviews from the flight leasing company, the original flight attendant had come down with food poisoning. She’d called in on her way to the hospital and fortunately, as he was told, the copilot was able to find a replacement. That made the copilot a person of interest as well as the flight attendant, a woman named Shannon O’Connor.
Horst Mueller, the German pilot, didn’t raise any immediate concern, but Peter Lee, the copilot, a South Korean national, was a red flag. North Korea had successfully infiltrated South Korean institutions and businesses for decades. Why not the aviation industry?
Heath played the video backward and forward. Mueller was seen in the open. So was Peter Lee. The woman walked to the left of the men and was mostly obscured from view.
Intentional? He wondered.
Heath called Katie Koehler at the FBI Criminal Justice and Information Division in the hills of West Virginia. She’d been scrutinizing Reilly’s stills and videos along with the Puerto Rico footage. “Anything new on your end?” he asked Koehler.
“Not from me, but the bureau verified Battaglio’s flight crew’s IDs. Mueller, the German pilot, had twenty-one years with Lufthansa before going private. Married with four kids, impeccable record.”
“The others?”
“Co-pilot, former South Korean Air Force captain before he went in for the money.”
“Married, single?”
“Single. Thirty-seven.”
“That’s all you have?”
“Checking on more, but so far, nothing untoward.”
“I want whatever you can find. His record, his routes, his parents. Everything. Now, what about the woman?”
“Her name comes up on scores of flights on private carriers.”
“And facial rec matches?”
“Haven’t run it yet.”
“Please do.”
“Roger, that. No one really knows much about the flight attendant except that she was recommended by the copilot. They flew her in from Miami.”
“Thanks. If anything comes up—”
“Of course,” Koehler said.
They hung up, and Heath played the video in slow motion. Forward, rewind. Forward, rewind. He looked for subtle signs or signals. There were none between Mueller and Lee, nor Mueller and O’Connor. But O’Connor and Lee appeared to connect. A smile from Lee. A flirtatious hair flip from the Irish woman in one of the final frames before they cleared view of the camera. Since Lee brought her in, Heath didn’t consider that especially unusual. Then he did focus on something. He froze the video and stepped through frame by frame, settling on one moment.
He cupped his hand under his chin and stared at the footage, straining to see something he thought was there.
39
THE KREMLIN
Nicolai Gorshkov had survived economic squeezes from the West and coup attempts from within. He had spies everywhere, and people feared speaking out. As president, he was living in the shadows of Lenin and Stalin rather than their successors. He was the ultimate leader with ultimate power and little soul.
Gorshkov believed that the chaos he would create around the world would further weaken his enemies. However, he had learned that even a politically vulnerable American president could deal with an isolated threat. The same for the most feckless European leaders. But multiple challenges that simultaneously popped up around the world? No democratic government could keep its citizens together through oncoming and ongoing global crises.
