Fox stared down at the photo. “Giving the Iranians a nuke? What would Voronin hope to gain from going that far?”
“Money,” Flynn suggested. “And lots of it.” He shrugged. “Remember, this guy and his old boss Grishin were willing to sell his own country’s stealth bomber to the highest bidder.” He paused for a moment. “So what’s the going price for a fusion bomb these days?”
“A very large sum, indeed,” Ayish said quietly. He frowned. “But I do not believe that even someone like Voronin could gain access to a nuclear weapon. Not without explicit authorization from the very highest levels of the Russian government. Moscow’s security protocols for its nuclear arsenal are much too strict to be easily circumvented.”
“They are,” Fox agreed slowly. Behind his thick glasses, his eyes darkened. “Unfortunately, Gideon, it’s only too clear that President Zhdanov himself is Voronin’s patron and protector.”
Ayish shook his head stubbornly. “You think Zhdanov would approve providing Tehran with such a weapon? The means, I grant you. But the motive? What can Russia hope to gain from so dangerous a move?”
“Plausible deniability,” Flynn told him. “If anything goes wrong, the shit hits Iran — and not Russia. By using the Iranians as his front group, Zhdanov can smack one of Moscow’s enemies hard and escape retaliation.”
“A daring and vicious concept,” Ayish agreed carefully. “But while I agree that Piotr Zhdanov is certainly an ambitious and evil man, he is also not a fool. I don’t see how Moscow could hope to retain control over a nuclear weapon once it was in Iranian hands. Iran may be an ally of Russia, but it is not a vassal or a puppet state. If the radicals in Tehran change their minds and decide to use their new bomb as they see fit, even against Russia’s interests, what are Zhdanov’s safeguards?”
“The Raven Syndicate,” Flynn said, working it out. “My bet is that’s why we keep finding Voronin’s men so deeply embedded in this operation. His people are along to make sure that warhead is used for its intended purpose… and not for something else — like being taken apart and reverse-engineered to advance Tehran’s own nuclear weapons research.”
Ayish sighed. “I will not take that bet.” He nodded reluctantly. “Very well, Nick, I accept your premise, deeply unsettling though it is. We have to assume that the missile concealed aboard the Gulf Venture is now armed with at least one live nuclear warhead.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, this knowledge doesn’t bring us any closer to understanding where and how our enemies plan to use this weapon.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Flynn agreed. “But one thing’s sure: once that tanker sails, it can go anywhere in the world. We can’t rule out any target. Not D.C. Not Los Angeles. Not London or Paris.”
“Or Tel Aviv or Jerusalem,” Ayish added somberly.
Fox nodded. “Indeed.” He got up from the table and went to the windows to look out across Dubai’s glowing skyline for a long moment. Beyond the brightly lit islands along the coast, a vast band of darkness showed where the Persian Gulf spread across the horizon. Dozens of smaller lights blinked out at sea, signaling the presence of ships ferrying oil, passengers, and other goods down the Gulf. These were some of the busiest waters in the world. With a bleak expression on his face, he turned back to the table. “Okay, if our fears are accurate, we now face a nightmare scenario — a nuclear weapon in the hands of fanatics ready, eager, and willing to use it. Fanatics aided and abetted by one of the world’s great powers. The question then is, what we can do to stop these people before it’s too late?”
“I don’t see that we have much choice,” Flynn said forcefully. “Somehow we have to organize a strike force and take that damned ship the moment it crosses into international waters.”
The older American shook his head with a slight smile. “I can always count on you for the direct approach, Nick. But in this case, I don’t believe Four can put together a team with the sorts of skills and special equipment needed. At least not in the brief time remaining before the Gulf Venture is likely to sail.” Wearily, Fox pulled off his glasses. With his eyes closed, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, obviously considering the situation. Then he put his glasses back on and turned to Ayish. “Which leaves your people, I think, Gideon,” he said slowly.
The Israeli made a face. “Many of the same problems apply,” he said cautiously. “True, in the past, my country has dealt some shrewd blows to Iran’s shipping, but staging our forces into this region is always difficult and time-consuming. Unless we already have an operation in progress or planned for the near future, Israel may also lack the ability to act with sufficient speed and power,” he warned.
“But you’ll still make the case?” Fox pressed.
Ayish nodded gravely. “I will.” His gaze fell on Flynn. “But I’ll need Nick here at my side when I meet with those who command my nation’s special forces. They are likely to ask some very difficult questions that he is best prepared to answer.”
One side of Flynn’s mouth quirked upward in a quick, sidelong grin. “You sure about that, Professor?” he asked dryly. “I’m not much of a diplomat. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Your reputation for speaking hard truths to those who really don’t want to hear them precedes you,” Ayish admitted with a hint of amusement. “But in this case, with time so short, I believe straight talk may prove far more useful to us than tact.”
Twenty-Three
Situated near the ruins of a Crusader castle originally built for the Knights Templar, Atlit was the headquarters for the Israel’s elite naval special forces unit, Shayatet 13, the 13th Flotilla. Widely considered to be at least the equal of the U.S. Navy’s SEALs, Shayatet 13’s force of highly trained frogmen and commandos carried out missions that might range from hostage rescues to the assassination of terrorist leaders to the capture of enemy ships in port or out on the high seas. First organized in 1949, at the very beginning of the modern State of Israel, even the fact of its existence was kept secret for nearly ten years. To this day, most of the details of its daring exploits were still shrouded in mystery and rumor.
Given that history, Flynn had been stunned when he realized where he and Gideon Ayish were being driven after arriving at Ben Gurion Airport aboard a night flight from Dubai. He’d expected Ayish to arrange a discreet briefing for a select few inside Israel’s military establishment — perhaps at the offices of his counterterrorism think tank, another Quartet Directorate front, in Jerusalem. Instead, they were met at the airline gate by a uniformed officer of Israel’s naval forces and taken straight to this closely guarded base on the coast just south of the port city of Haifa.
They’d been waved through the main gate and into the center of the compound. Steps next to a camouflaged bunker led down into a brightly lit underground command center. Wall screens showed detailed maps of the entire Middle East region, with icons showing the positions of major air, naval, and ground units belonging to different countries. Communications and computer consoles on an upper tier surrounded a central U-shaped conference table in the middle of the room, with seats for unit commanders and their top staff officers.
Several officers from Israel’s navy and air force were already seated, waiting for Ayish and Flynn. A middle-aged civilian with short-cropped, ash-gray hair and wire-rim glasses sat at the head of the table. According to the card at his place, his name was Avi Elazar. Although his precise title was never mentioned, it quickly became clear that he was a man to whom everyone else in the command center — including Ayish — very obviously deferred. Flynn bet that indicated this guy Elazar was either someone high up in the Mossad, or, more likely, a high-ranking member of the Israeli prime minister’s inner circle.