Cold Shot: A Novel Page 6

  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 h
e 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.”

  “You’d never have survived in the Navy,” Cooke mused. “It was good to see you again this morning, Kyra.” She poured her own cup, then seated herself at the head of the table.

  “It had been a while, ma’am.” More than a year, she realized. She knew Cooke and Jon made excuses to see each other on occasion, though not as often as either would prefer.

  “You can stop with the ‘ma’am,’” Cooke ordered.

  “My apologies, ma’am. It’s not optional. Southern upbringing.”

  Cooke shook her head, took her first sip, then set the mug on the coaster. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Kyra pressed a button on the touch controller and a video feed appeared on the conference room monitor. Then she pulled a photograph out of a folder and held it out. Cooke accepted the paper, never moving her gaze from the screen. “I spent last night in the Ops Center with their IMINT team and we found this at 0330. That’s our best candidate for the Markarid. We can’t really confirm it’s her . . . hard to see the name on the side of the hull when you’re looking straight down and they probably changed it anyway,” she said, deadpan. “But she’s missing a raft from the starboard side.”

  Cooke’s head turned at that bit of news. “Nice call,” she offered. “What happened there?” She pointed at a spot on the photograph.

  Kyra pressed a button and the satellite video magnified by a factor of two. “It’s hard to tell. It looks like she suffered some kind of explosive damage to the superstructure, more than the crew could fix at sea. They covered it over with tarps and moved some cargo containers around to prevent anyone from getting a look at sea level. We’re just guessing at that but I think it’s a pretty good guess. The imagery analysts tell me that’s fresh paint higher up, above the tarp . . . probably to cover some scorch marks. They also tell me there’s not much aboard any legitimate cargo vessel that could tear up a hull like that . . . the worst thing they usually carry is fossil fuels, which would just burn the paint, not tear up the metal unless they did something spectacularly stupid.”

  “If they hosted a firefight, somebody might’ve gotten a bit happy with the high explosives,” Cooke answered.

  “That’s what Jon thought when he saw it,” Kyra conceded. “But it would take something bigger than a grenade to do that—” she said, pointing at the ship’s damaged island. “At least an RPG round. I guess Jon has seen a few go off.” She’d asked him for the particulars but the man had demurred.

  “Where is she now?” Cooke asked. “Where are we looking?”

  “Southwest of Grenada, almost due north of Caracas. She’s inside Venezuela’s coastal waters on a west-by-southwest heading. Extend the line and it looks like her port of call will be Puerto Cabello. If that’s right, she’ll dock by noon tomorrow. Drescher has asked the National Reconnaissance Office to keep a bird on her and let us kno
w if she changes course, but they’re not in a hurry to retask a satellite just to prove Jon’s theory.”

  “I’m sure,” Cooke said. There had been an unhappy note in the younger woman’s voice. The director looked up from her coffee. “So what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m thinking maybe we could get coverage the old-fashioned way?”

  “We should send someone down there?” Cooke offered.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you volunteering?” Cooke asked her.

  “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t willing to do it,” Kyra finally answered after a second’s pause.

  “There’s a difference between ‘wanting’ and ‘willing.’ Which is it?” Kyra pondered that for several seconds, long enough for the silence itself to tell Cooke that the younger woman wasn’t sure. “Kyra, why are you still in the Red Cell?” the director finally asked.

  “Ma’am?” The question had left her off balance.

  Cooke stared at the younger woman long enough to make sure she had her full attention. “You weren’t thrilled about becoming an analyst when I first assigned you to the Red Cell last year. The last time we talked down at the Farm, you weren’t even sure you wanted to stay at the Agency. But you’re still here and you’re still working with Jon. I’m the CIA director, so I don’t have career conversations with people at your level as a general rule. But you have two Intelligence Stars, both of which you earned within six months after you came on duty, and I’m pretty sure that’s never happened before, so I’m making an exception. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’re a very good analyst but you proved that you can be a better case officer and I don’t want you working in a job where you’re performing below your talents. People who do that usually just drag down their unit before they finally quit. So, again, why are you still in the Red Cell?”