Vasiliev and the other doctors filed quietly from the room, leaving Plecas alone with his wife. She looked up at him and asked the inevitable question. “How did you arrange this?”
“I have a friend, someone I served with on my first submarine, who is now an executive in the oil and gas industry. It was a long shot, but I tracked him down and explained the situation. He’s well-off and agreed to help.”
It was a lie, of course. Plecas couldn’t admit who had agreed to fund Natasha’s treatment, nor what was required in return.
Before Tatiana could ask additional questions about his friend, he added, “I must return to Gadzhiyevo tonight. We deploy in two days and we are scheduled for weapon onload tomorrow.”
He reached into his overcoat and retrieved an envelope with Tatiana’s name on it. Inside was a heartfelt letter to his wife, along with an explanation of what he had agreed to do in exchange for the money for Natasha’s drugs. At the bottom of the letter, he instructed Tatiana to take it to Northern Fleet Command as evidence that he, and not the Russian government, was to blame for the attack, an admission that would hopefully deter the United States from retribution.
“Open this a week before our wedding anniversary.”
The timing was odd, but the letter needed to be opened around the time his attack would occur. A week later would likely be too late.
When Tatiana gave him a curious look, Plecas explained, “There are arrangements you need to make, so that everything is perfect on our anniversary.”
Tatiana smiled, and after placing the envelope in her purse, she cradled his face in her hands. “You are a good man,” she said, and he could tell she regretted her harsh words a few days earlier. “You are a good father and a good husband.”
Plecas kissed Tatiana and pulled her close. He held her in his arms, contemplating what he was about to do. If he was fortunate enough to survive and see his wife and daughter again, it would be from behind prison bars.
15
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
The conference room was in stark contrast to the public perception of war-torn Syria. Lonnie Mixell sat in a leather chair at a polished ebony table, facing floor-to-ceiling windows spanning an entire side of the room overlooking the Barada River. Rather than wearing the traditional white dishdasha, the Arab seated across from him, along with his executive assistant beside him, wore slacks and an open-collar dress shirt.
Since the civil war began, travel to the Syrian capital had become difficult. Few airlines offered flights into the country — with most opting instead for nearby Lebanon and Jordan, letting local carriers complete the transit. Fortunately, relations between Russia and Syria remained strong and direct flights from Russia were still offered, and Mixell had landed at Damascus International Airport a few hours ago. It was Russia’s support of the Syrian government, and even more important, its supply of military personnel and equipment, that had led Mixell to Damascus.
Sitting across the table from Mixell was Issad Futtaim, the man who could furnish the desired item, and now that Zawahiri’s money had been deposited into Mixell’s account, the cost would not be an issue.
Mixell pulled a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and slid it across the table. “This is what I require.”
Futtaim reviewed the request for a moment, evidently determining the effort and cost required to obtain the item. Although there was no doubt that Futtaim wondered what it would be used for, he was in a business where those types of questions weren’t asked.
He looked up from the paper. “It won’t be easy to obtain this. You cannot just lose one of these from inventory. Many people will have to be persuaded to alter the books and assist in delivery. The cost will be very high. Twelve million, U.S.”
“That’s retail cost,” Mixell replied. “You’re not buying it. You’re bribing whoever you need to. Above that, everything is pure profit.”
“The cost of the bribes is usually commensurate with the cost of the item. Twelve million,” Futtaim insisted, adding a tight smile.
Mixell considered the offer. He had budgeted fifteen million, after factoring in the cost of shipping. “That’ll be fine. I need the equipment prepared for transport as soon as possible. How long will that take?”
“A few days. Where do you need it delivered?”
“United States. Anywhere along the East Coast is fine.”
“Concealed shipping to the United States is difficult to guarantee. Additional bribes will be required to ensure the container is not opened for inspection. Two million, U.S.”
Mixell nodded his concurrence. “I’ll also need instructions.”
“Of course. Instructions will be provided and should be easy to follow,” Futtaim said, “as long as you can read Russian or Arabic.” He broke into a wide grin.
“That’ll be fine,” Mixell replied.
The smile faded from Futtaim’s face.
16
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Inside the darkened facility, Jake Harrison looked up from his computer display, taking a break to examine the large flat-panel displays lining the front wall. Inside the crowded space, several rows of analysts reviewed data on their monitors, the glow from their displays playing off their faces and faintly illuminating Styrofoam cups of cold coffee. They spoke quietly among themselves, occasionally looking up from their computers to examine the large screens.
He’d been at it since yesterday, reviewing Lonnie Mixell’s file and the details of his assassination of the United Nations ambassador. After Harrison was issued weapons and a locker to store them, Pat Kendall had parked Harrison at a workstation in the analysis center. More specifically, Harrison was inside a transnational cell — the Office of Terrorism Analysis — which supported the National Counterterrorism Center in McLean, Virginia.
The CIA’s file on Mixell was extensive and, Harrison had to admit, quite thorough. It was obvious that the CIA had access to Mixell’s military record, along with his security clearance investigations and findings. Nothing out of the ordinary had been noted until Mixell, while still a Navy SEAL, had been accused of killing an unarmed prisoner in Afghanistan. The details were concise and accurate; Harrison had witnessed it firsthand, and after much deliberation, had reported the incident to their commanding officer.
Two items were missing from Mixell’s record: one significant and one minor. The significant item was that the prisoner Mixell killed in Afghanistan hadn’t been the first. It was the third that Harrison was aware of. The first time, Harrison had pulled his friend aside, asking him what the hell he’d been thinking. Mixell explained he’d been caught up in the heat of the moment — another SEAL had been killed in the engagement. What had been missing from the conversation, Harrison realized later, was that Mixell neither admitted that what he’d done was wrong nor pledged it would never happen again.
Three weeks later, Mixell killed a second prisoner. The man had seen it coming; Mixell reaching for his pistol as he approached, his eyes boring into him. The prisoner placed his hands in front of his face as if they could somehow ward off the impending bullet. Mixell shot through the man’s palm, putting a bullet in his head. Afterward, Harrison pulled his best friend into an adjacent room and slammed him against the wall, hoping to knock some sense into him.
Harrison had been prepared for a fight — Mixell was the same size and just as strong, and had a reputation for being a hothead. But as Harrison pressed his friend’s back against the wall, Mixell offered no resistance. During the one-way conversation, Mixell displayed no emotion; neither anger nor remorse. His eyes seemed vacant as he listened to Harrison’s heated words.