Countdown to Midnight, page 7
He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
These men were quite obviously out of their depth, which was exactly what he had intended. Centuries of tradition inclined officers in Russia’s armed forces to see themselves as a superior caste—as sacred guardians of the State set high above the grubby, inconsequential world of commerce and private enterprise. It was a fable, of course, he knew, but one that held a powerful grip on every Russian military man’s mind. Breaking this myth was essential to his plans.
Voronin motioned to a set of leather high-backed chairs arranged in a conversational semicircle around a mirrored glass coffee table. “Please sit down, gentlemen.”
Warily, they obeyed, though clearly uncertain of the proper etiquette involved here. Everything about this unusual situation indicated that their “host”—civilian or not—stood far above them in wealth and position and power. In the circumstances, his extravagant politeness seemed somehow ominous.
Voronin himself casually strolled around the room while another group of his servants served drinks—vodka, whiskey, or brandy to each guest’s preference. There was a moment of worried silence as each man suddenly realized he’d been offered only his personal favorite brand. The implication was clear and chilling: Their formidable host undoubtedly knew a great deal about them. Far more than he should.
Once the four men had their drinks, the servants withdrew. As the doors closed behind them, grim-faced bodyguards took up their posts at every entrance. Slight bulges marked the weapons concealed under their suit coats.
Voronin moved out to the middle of the room. For a long moment, he studied his guests without speaking. Under his silent, pale-eyed gaze, they fidgeted slightly in their chairs, adjusting ties or shirt cuffs or quietly clearing their throats—all telltale signs of anxiety.
At last, he broke the increasingly uncomfortable silence. “I know that you must be wondering why you’re here.”
After glancing at his colleagues, the oldest man among them, a colonel in the Ministry of Defense’s 12th Main Directorate named Krylov, nodded carefully. “Yes, sir.”
Voronin smiled broadly. “It’s quite simple, Mikhail Sergeyevich. You’ve all been temporarily assigned to my firm, the Raven Syndicate, for a very special project—a project of enormous importance to the Motherland . . . and to President Zhdanov personally.”
His guests exchanged puzzled glances. There were occasions when officers in the ground forces or even air force pilots might find themselves posted to private industrial firms—to provide professional advice on the development of new armored fighting vehicles or combat aircraft, for example. But that was never the case for soldiers from their particular, highly specialized, and tightly controlled branches of the armed forces. Like Krylov, two of them served in the 12th Main Directorate, which was directly responsible for the security of Russia’s nuclear weapons stockpiles. The fourth man was a weapons specialist in the Strategic Rocket Forces, which controlled its ICBMs.
Krylov put his drink down untasted. “I don’t quite understand what it is you expect us to be able to do for this Raven Syndicate of yours, Mr. Voronin. For one thing, our respective security clearances strictly forbid the disclosure of any information—”
“Your clearances forbid the unauthorized disclosure of information,” Voronin interrupted. He shrugged. “But as it happens, I’ve been granted the necessary authority by the president himself. You now work for me. And for me alone.”
He smiled again, this time at the shock on their faces. “Relax, gentlemen. I’m aware that this situation is unprecedented, but I think you’ll find the terms entirely acceptable.”
“How so?” Krylov asked bluntly.
“From this moment forward, your pay will be ten times that of your regular military salaries,” Voronin said. “And you will earn substantial bonuses upon the successful completion of this special project. Bonuses on the order of two hundred million rubles each.”
One of the younger officers whistled involuntarily. Two hundred million rubles was the equivalent of roughly 250,000 American dollars. Like everyone responsible for Russia’s nuclear weapons and strategic missiles, they were better paid than those serving in conventional branches of the armed forces—but a promised bonus of that size still represented nearly ten years’ pay.
Krylov frowned. “Your offer is generous indeed. But what exactly do you want in return?”
“You’ll be thoroughly briefed,” Voronin assured him. He snapped his fingers once. An aide hurried over from the far end of the living room with a briefcase. Opening it, the young man handed out copies of a single page document and pens. “But first, I must ask each of you to sign these agreements.” His voice hardened slightly. “You’ll find them perfectly clear and quite easy to understand, without any of the usual legal gibberish.”
The four officers turned pale when they saw what he meant. In the plainest possible terms, they were being sworn to absolute secrecy for life. Any breach of security involving the operation code-named MIDNIGHT, however small, however unintentional, would result in death.
Voronin nodded coolly to them. “Let me assure you that I mean what I say. If you betray me or my secrets, there will be no appeal to any higher authority. There will be absolutely no recourse or reprieve. And should it prove necessary, I will personally act as your only judge, jury, and executioner.”
Avalon House, Winter Park, Florida
A Day Later
Nick Flynn took the steps of the mansion’s wide, curving staircase two at a time. Besides several suites set aside for Quartet Directorate agents who needed rest and recuperation between field assignments, the upper floor held several other rooms used on relatively rare occasions—including a private study that had once belonged to the prominent New York banker who’d first had Avalon House built. As the decades passed, the room’s leather chairs had grown rather worn and shabby, though they were still comfortable. Four allocated its funds to operations, not fashionable décor.
Two other men were waiting for him in the study. One was Fox. The other was a short, older man with a high forehead and wispy tufts of bright white hair. They rose to greet him.
“Nick, this is Professor Gideon Ayish,” Fox said quietly. “He’s just flown in from Jerusalem.”
“Oh?” Flynn asked, shaking hands with the newcomer. He hid a moment’s surprise. For an academic type, Ayish had one hell of a grip.
Somehow, the other man read his mind. “I may not be in the first flush of youth, Mr. Flynn,” he said good-naturedly. “But perhaps that doesn’t mean as much as it seems, eh?”
“I’ll let you know when I get the circulation back in my fingers, Professor,” Flynn told him with a quick grin of his own.
They all sat down. “Gideon is Four’s head of station in Israel,” Fox explained. “But before joining us, he had a very active career in the IDF—serving with some of its most lethal and effective special operations units.”
Flynn nodded his understanding. The Quartet Directorate drew its personnel from a variety of sources. Some were disenchanted veterans of various official intelligence agencies. Others, like him and apparently this guy Ayish, too, were ex-military, usually with a set of very specialized skills. A small number were recruited directly from civilian life by Four’s talent scouts.
He looked from one man to the other. “So does this little get-together have anything to do with my plan to put people on the ground inside Iran?” he asked.
“Not directly,” Fox answered. He took off his glasses, polished them briefly, and then put them back on. “I’m afraid your proposal is still under debate, Nick. You’ve got Gideon’s vote, but there are a couple of others who aren’t yet convinced such a risky operation is worth it, especially since we can’t guarantee a payoff in actionable intelligence.”
Flynn frowned. One of the things that had drawn him to Four in the first place was Fox’s guarantee that he would be allowed room for independent action, without being continually held back or second-guessed by superiors. Coming as it did after he’d been railroaded by both the CIA and the Air Force brass for making them look bad that had been a mighty attractive prospect. He’d hate to find out it was all bullshit, like so many of the bogus promises made by armed forces recruiters through the ages in order to get their prospects to sign on the dotted line.
“If there’s such a thing as a sure bet in the intelligence business, I’ve never seen it,” he pointed out stiffly.
“True,” Ayish agreed. “Which is why I’m confident you’ll be given the green light before too long.” He shrugged. “Remember, there are few enough of us in Four as it is. Sometimes that makes it difficult for those of us held out of the field by age or injury to easily sign off on sending younger men and women into such grave danger. But the worriers will get there in the end. Just give them a little more time to wrestle their consciences into submission. Eventually, necessity will triumph over caution.”
Flynn sighed. “And in the meantime, I just sit here and twiddle my thumbs?”
“Not quite,” Fox assured him. “Thanks to new intelligence supplied by Gideon here, we might have a good chance to learn more about the Russians who seem to be working so closely with Tehran on this mysterious tanker project.”
“Really?”
“Really, Mr. Flynn,” Ayish said. Calmly, he outlined what he’d been told about the sophisticated surveillance operation now being run against Israel’s embassy in Vienna.
Flynn looked back at Fox. “And you think these mysterious watchers are some of the same guys I ran into?”
“The ones who killed Arif Khavari and almost blew your head off?” Fox nodded. “Yes, I do. The timing’s too coincidental for me to think anything else. These people must believe Khavari was working for the Israelis. Why else would anyone mount such an elaborate surveillance effort against their embassy within twenty-four hours of his death?”
Flynn nodded. “Yeah, I see how that fits.” His eyes narrowed. “So, what’s your plan?”
“Well, as a first step, we would need you to return to Austria,” Ayish said. “Once you’re on the ground there, the operation I have in mind becomes feasible.”
Flynn stared at him. “And exactly what kind of operation are we talking about here?” he demanded.
“A fishing expedition of sorts,” the professor replied evenly.
“With me as the bait,” Flynn realized.
“Yes,” Ayish admitted.
Flynn shot him a lopsided grin. “Oh, swell.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Just so you know, I did a lot of fishing with my grandfather when I was a kid. And I don’t remember ever seeing a worm that was worth spit when we were done.”
Eight
Near the Israeli Embassy, Vienna
Two Days Later
The district around Israel’s embassy was a mix of mostly nineteenth- and twentieth-century structures. Some were elegant homes in brick or stucco or stone, now usually broken up into separate flats and business offices. Others were plainer, slab-sided concrete apartment blocks, though even these were often lined by open-air balconies whose window boxes, in the summer months, would be awash in bright flowers. Most of these buildings backed onto yards full of trees and gardens—currently bare-limbed and dormant under gray winter skies.
Several streets over from the embassy, a four-story-high Art Nouveau building was under extensive renovation. Scaffolding and debris netting obscured its ornate exterior. The original owners had run out of money halfway through the project, leaving the partially gutted structure to fester for several months as an eyesore in the neighborhood. Spray-painted graffiti—a mix of art and obscenity—covered a wood fence erected around its ground floor. Then, about a week ago, new owners had bought the building, apparently with the intention of finishing the long-delayed renovation effort. So far, however, the only sign of any new work was a dusty blue electrician’s van parked along the curb just outside the construction fence.
Inside the back of the windowless van, Viktor Skoblin rubbed at his bleary eyes. Then he took another long drag of his cigarette. Irritably, he stubbed it out on a workbench that ran the length of the compartment, adding another scorch mark to the dozens already scattered across its rough surface. Maintaining around-the-clock surveillance on the Israelis with his team’s limited manpower meant twelve-hour shifts for everyone.
He scowled. At least the men he’d assigned as outside watchers were able to move around. In fact, it was vital. Periodic changes of clothing, position, and even vehicles were necessary to make it harder for those in the embassy to figure out they were being spied on. Unfortunately, the same relative freedom didn’t apply to him. As the Raven Syndicate’s senior operative in Vienna, it was his task to coordinate the whole operation. And only the radios and computer gear crammed into the back of the van made that possible.
With a grunt, Skoblin squirmed around in his chair, making yet another futile effort to make himself more comfortable in the cheap folding seat. For a man of his large build and overall size, being forced to spend hours locked inside this cramped vehicle felt like some new form of torture.
Abruptly, the voice of one of his watchers crackled through his headset. “Roter Kurier zum Versand. Red Courier to Dispatch.”
Skoblin keyed his mike. “Dispatch here. Go ahead, Red Courier.” Although their transmissions were automatically encrypted and sent over little-used frequencies, they stuck to German. There was no point in risking anyone overhearing a barrage of Russian-language radio calls over the airwaves of Austria’s capital city.
“I’ve got a new delivery just arriving,” the watcher reported. “It could be a hot item. Do you want the specifications?”
The big man tapped a key on his laptop, bringing up a street map on the screen. Icons showed the assigned positions of every Raven Syndicate agent currently on surveillance duty around the Israeli embassy. And right now, the former GRU captain tagged as Red Courier for this shift should have an excellent view along the street out in front of the embassy building. “Copy that, Red Courier,” he radioed.
“On the way,” the other man replied tersely.
A new window opened on Skoblin’s laptop. Immediately, the zoomed-in cellphone video uploaded by his underling started playing. Though slightly jerky, it was still clear enough to make out details. He watched closely as a sky-blue sedan, a Skoda Octavia, drove up and parked directly across from the embassy’s front door. That was a spot reserved for important and expected visitors.
He tugged at his chin. By itself, the car make meant nothing. The Czech-manufactured Octavia was one of the bestselling automobiles in Austria, with thousands on Vienna’s crowded streets at any one time. On the other hand, he thought, it was just the sort of unobtrusive vehicle he’d have chosen himself if he wanted to avoid drawing unwelcome attention. In contrast, the genuine diplomats assigned to the embassy seemed to favor more expensive, more conspicuous BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes.
On the screen, a fit-looking man emerged from the car and walked across the street to the embassy. He flashed an ID to the guard on duty there and went straight in.
Skoblin froze the thirty-second video, ran it backward, and then watched it intently a second time. Somehow, this new visitor didn’t strike him as being just an ordinary diplomat or a businessman, and he was definitely not a tourist. His movements were too careful, too precise . . . too controlled—as though he were completely aware of his surroundings at all times. In the Russian’s experience that was the mark of a soldier, especially one with experience operating deep in hostile territory.
No, he thought darkly, something about this man rang a very loud bell in his subconscious. An alarm bell.
Quickly, Skoblin copied individual frames from the cellphone video into a separate folder—selecting only images that clearly showed the newcomer’s face. Once that was done, he fed them into a special facial recognition program supplied by the Raven Syndicate’s computer specialists. Several seconds passed while this program compared his chosen images pixel by pixel with the photographs he’d snapped just before shooting Arif Khavari.
They matched.
A cruel, satisfied smile settled on the ex–Spetsnaz officer’s wide face. “Finally,” he growled. His thick fingers pounded across the laptop’s keyboard as he rapidly composed a short, coded alert message to Moscow: PRIMARY TARGET SPOTTED. WILL ENGAGE AND DESTROY AT FIRST AVAILABLE OPPORTUNITY.
Military Attaché’s Office, Israeli Embassy
That Same Time
Nick Flynn sat down across from Lieutenant Colonel Dov Tamir. Although he wore civilian clothes at the moment, the blunt-featured IDF officer’s past service in Israel’s elite parachute unit was readily apparent. The walls of his small, but well furnished office were covered with photographs showing Tamir and others in the maroon berets, red-brown boots, and winged snake shoulder flashes of the Paratroopers Brigade.
The Israeli looked up from the passport and other documents Flynn had offered to confirm his identity. They named him as Jonathan Schmidt, an international business consultant. That was the same legend, or cover, he’d used during the aborted rendezvous with Khavari.
“These are nice work, Mr. . . . Schmidt,” Tamir said dryly, sliding the papers back across his desk. “Very convincing. Your document specialists in Washington are quite skilled.”
“Thanks,” Flynn acknowledged with a wry smile of his own. He slid the false passport and other materials back into his jacket. He knew that Gideon Ayish had told his old friend that he was actually an operative for an unnamed “friendly outfit.” Plainly, Tamir assumed that meant he was working either for the CIA or one of the Pentagon’s own intelligence organizations, like the Defense Intelligence Agency. But he also knew the Israeli lieutenant colonel wouldn’t push any harder on the subject, since Ayish’s message introducing Flynn had emphasized the need for absolute discretion.
