Cold Shot: A Novel Read online

  “Feel free to eat while we work,” he said over her shoulder, missing her point entirely. Kyra looked up, startled. She’d been focused on the gory photo and hadn’t heard him come over.

  “Not a problem now,” Kyra said. Any semblance of hunger was gone. “I think this guy is a little beyond help.”

  “True, but not the smartest observation you’ve ever had,” Jonathan said. “And not the problem at hand. The starting assumption is that he’s a pirate, tried to take a ship or actually managed it, and somebody dumped him back out into the Gulf of Aden. That’s not usually how pirate raids go down, so she’s wondering whether he didn’t target a ship that someone really cared about.”

  “What if he wasn’t a pirate?”

  “Then this entire mess is somebody else’s problem. But that would make him boring, so let’s ignore that for now.”

  “Boring is good in this business,” Kyra countered.

  “Says the woman who just spent a week shooting automatic rifles. Anyway, it’s the director’s assumption,” he pointed out. “And I like it because it’s not boring.”

  “All right. No starting point in space or time?” Of course not, she realized. If they had that, any decent analyst could have found the ship. “So we have to deconstruct a scenario that we know nothing about, in reverse, and hope that it might provide some clues to what we should be looking for,” she observed.

  “Correct,” Jonathan replied.

  “And you waited until I got back to do this because . . . ?”

  “I have my own thoughts but I want to hear yours,” he said.

  Kyra stared at Jon, focused on his body language. The fifteen months she’d been in the Red Cell had been more than enough time to learn that Jon didn’t coordinate his analysis with anyone, even people he liked, who were few. A training exercise? Or you need to prove something to someone? “It’s a red team exercise,” Kyra said. “A decision tree. But decisions are subjective evaluations reached through education and cultural influence, which we don’t share with the subjects who made them. So you’re asking me to mirror image.”

  “Mirror imaging isn’t entirely useless if you’re aware that you’re doing it,” Jonathan counseled her. “Strategies often are culturally dependent; tactics, not so much. The more basic your options, the less they care what country you’re from.”

  “Okay,” Kyra conceded. She stared at the picture of the bloated corpse. Funny how quickly you can get used to seeing that. Her mind churned, Jonathan letting her sit in silence, totally comfortable and willing to wait on her. “So assuming he was a pirate engaged in a mission, there are . . . three possibilities for how he ended up in the life raft. First, his own crew did it, in which case the ship is probably still under pirate control and docked at one of the haven ports along the Somali coast. If that’s true, NSA will probably identify the ship from phone calls between the pirates and the ship’s owner. Or if the cargo really is that valuable or interesting, the pirates might offer the ship to any country or intelligence service willing to bid for it.” She shuffled through the other papers in the file. “I take it there haven’t been any intercepts or offers or we wouldn’t be doing this. So we can probably discount that idea.”

  “I agree,” Jonathan said. “And the second?”

  “The ship’s crew took the vessel back,” Kyra suggested. “But if the crew had the will and the firepower to retake the ship, the pirates probably never would’ve gotten aboard in the first place. So that doesn’t seem likely.”

  “And the third?” Jonathan said, sounding like a proud parent.

  Kyra paused for a brief moment. “Someone retook the ship from the outside.”

  “Excellent,” Jonathan said, smiling. “So how do we narrow the candidate list of countries?”

  “Lots of countries in the area have military units that could’ve done it. The ones that don’t could’ve hired mercenaries. So the real question is how the raid team got on board the ship.” Her thoughts turned back to the hard landing she and Jon had made on the Abraham Lincoln off the coast of Taiwan the year before.

  “A good thought,” Jonathan said. “There are only three real possibilities for that. Airdrop from a cargo plane, fast-roping from a helo, or a rope climb from an assault craft. The first option would be the hardest. Parachuting from altitude onto a moving ship is doable but it’s the riskiest option, especially if it’s a night raid . . . leaves the men exposed to hostile fire for a relatively long period with no covering force.”

  “Fast-roping from a helo solves that problem. That’s a short, fast drop while a door gunner lays down cover fire,” Kyra said.

  Jonathan nodded. “A small boat also is a common option, though problematic depending on weather and the size of the vessel you’re boarding. If the target is a large cargo ship, that could be a long climb if you’re under fire.”

  “The pirates did it,” Kyra noted. “Unless Somalis have graduated to helicopter boardings.”

  “The crews of most cargo vessels aren’t heavily armed, if at all. That usually eliminates the ‘under fire’ part of the equation.”

  “So if we assume a helo drop, they would’ve had to launch either from a nearby coastline or a vessel out in the Gulf that has a flight deck,” Kyra said. “Combine that with a special forces capability and I’d be looking at Israel, Iran, the Saudis, or Pakistan . . . maybe India at the furthest. How many countries are part of Task Force 150? Any of them looking good for it?”

  “Seventeen,” Jonathan told her. “I looked it up. A lot of them are smaller European countries with no interest in smuggling anything through the Gulf worth a military raid to recover at sea. But the Russians and Chinese keep a presence in the area.”

  “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 open
ed.

  “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 t
he 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.