Zhdanov watched him leave with a calm expression. When the admiral and his officers were out of earshot, he turned back to Voronin. The last of the younger man’s Raven Syndicate heavily armed specialists was just disappearing through the Podmoskovye’s stern deck hatch. He shook his head dubiously, suddenly feeling less confident about entrusting so much responsibility and power to men working for pay rather than patriotism. “Perhaps it isn’t wise to use your mercenaries this way, Pavel,” he suggested slowly. “After all, our naval Spetsnaz forces could have been ordered to carry out the same tasks. And with considerably less risk of disrupting the regular chain of command aboard the submarine.”
Voronin raised an eyebrow. “It’s a little late for second thoughts, Mr. President,” he pointed out carefully. He shrugged. “Besides, some elements of our plan require a certain moral and mental… flexibility, shall we say. That’s not a common attribute among soldiers who are more used to obeying precise orders and acting under rigid hierarchical command.” He smiled. “On the other hand, the men I’ve put aboard the Podmoskovye are all hardened combat veterans — and they’ve each demonstrated the sort of dedication and ruthlessness we will need during the final stages of MIDNIGHT.”
He paused delicately before going on. “Sadly, the same thing cannot always be said of our Motherland’s more conventional military men, even those in our vaunted special forces.” His smile grew distinctly colder. “As we all saw last year in Alaska.”
Zhdanov frowned. Though perhaps overly blunt for his taste, Voronin’s reminder of Russia’s most recent military setback was fair. A daring Spetsnaz operation to recapture their country’s stolen PAK-DA stealth bomber had ended in ignominious failure — forcing him to go crawling to Washington to secure the return of several prisoners. The stakes involved in MIDNIGHT were far too high to take even the slightest chance of something similar happening again. If this operation failed, the consequences could be catastrophic — both for his own continued hold on power and for Russia as a whole.
He saw the Podmoskovye’s stern hatch swing shut and lock. Officers leaned over the coaming of its high sail and shouted orders to the sailors standing ready fore and aft. They sprang into action, detaching the mooring lines holding the converted SSBN to the quay. She was heading out to sea. His shoulders stiffened. Voronin was right, he decided. For better or worse, they were committed now.
Eighteen
Flynn wheeled his motorbike into a narrow alley that ran behind Navid Daneshvar’s house and the others along his street. Piles of garbage sacks, worn-out tires, and broken pieces of furniture showed that it was used more as a dumping ground than anything else. Flies and other winged insects buzzed lazily in the still, fetid air.
Counting off houses under his breath, he stopped in the rear of the one belonging to Daneshvar. Two small windows showed high up on a mudbrick wall. Both were barred. And just like all of the other buildings backing onto this alley, the small house lacked a rear entrance. In this part of Bandar Abbas, security against potential thieves apparently mattered more than convenience or fire safety.
Nose wrinkling against the horrible smell, Flynn squeezed his bike in between two nearly head-high mounds of trash. It wasn’t exactly hidden, but it still couldn’t be seen by anyone more than a few feet away. With a bit of luck the parked motorbike should pass unnoticed, especially once it got dark. As a further deterrent against possible theft, he’d thought seriously about removing its spark plugs. In the end, though, he’d decided against doing anything so drastic. After all, if he needed the bike, he was probably going to need it in a tearing hurry — without any time to blow replacing parts.
Flynn left the alley without looking backward. The fastest way to draw unwanted attention was to act nervous. As he’d planned, the street out front was deserted. At this time of day, the local men were away at work or somewhere else hanging out with their friends. The older children were in school. The younger ones were napping. And all of the neighborhood women were either busy indoors with chores or off doing the day’s shopping.
Acting as though he had every right to be there, he strode right up to Daneshvar’s front door. He’d noticed the previous day that the house didn’t have an electronic security system. Now he could see the keyhole of what appeared to be a simple pin tumbler lock set above the knob. That wasn’t surprising, since pin tumbler types were some of the most common keyed locks in the world. But it was still a lucky break, because they were also among the easiest locks to pick.
Working quickly, Flynn slid one thin, L-shaped metal tool, the kind locksmiths called a tension wrench, into the base of the keyhole. He put a little pressure on it, not much, just a pound or two, to start turning the lock clockwise. Then he worked a rake pick in at the top of the keyhole, going all the way to the back. He exhaled slightly, carefully tapping at the tumblers inside with the pick until he felt them move up one by one. Just… about… there, he thought, concentrating entirely on the tiny vibrations relayed through his two small tools. Still completely centered on the feelings from his fingers, he slightly increased his pressure on the tension wrench. He was so focused that when the lock suddenly spun smoothly all the way around and clicked open, it took him by surprise.
A lopsided grin creased his face. Nick Flynn, Junior Burglar, had a nice ring to it, he decided. Maybe if Four ever let him go, he could explore other career options — like busting into kids’ piggy banks. More complicated locks would probably defeat his limited skills and land him in the slammer.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside Daneshvar’s darkened house, quietly closing the door behind him. He found himself in a front room with a sofa, a couple of armchairs, a low coffee table, and several bookcases. Patterned Persian rugs covered a tiled floor. The blinds were tightly drawn against the sun. An arch at one end of the room opened into what looked like a tiny kitchen. Another at the opposite end led into a narrow hallway that ran the length of the house, presumably leading to bedrooms and a bathroom.
Carefully, Flynn slid the lockpicks back into his pocket and drew his pistol. He stood poised for several moments — listening intently for any sounds that might signal the presence of someone else in this small home. Apart from the faint, metronome-like ticking of an old-fashioned clock mounted on the far wall, there was only silence.
Keeping his pistol out for now, he moved deeper into the house. Over the next hour, he systematically searched every single room — first to look for any concealed listening devices or cameras, and second, to get a better sense of Daneshvar as a person. Apart from his name, occupation, and apparent age, he knew almost nothing about the Iranian. By any sensible standard, this near-total ignorance about a potential source was a violation of all the hard-learned rules of the intelligence game, Flynn knew. In the espionage business, ideally you wanted to know as much as possible about a contact’s background, motivations, and real intentions before you went anywhere near them. But here he was, nevertheless, reduced to poking through the other man’s clothing, personal possessions, and photos in an effort to scope out even the simplest and most basic facts. If nothing else, he thought wryly, while rummaging through a set of drawers, this situation was a pointed reminder that the real world of spying wasn’t much like that depicted in the movies — where the fictional hero could always count on receiving an incredibly detailed background briefing before jetting off into danger.