“Two dark-skinned, black-haired, possibly Chechen males in a white, nine-passenger Mercedes van with tinted windows,” Colonel Pierson said, sighing. “Same from both witnesses. And not much to go on.”
“Why a passenger van?” Mike asked, puzzled. “Why not a panel van if they knew what they were buying?”
“I dunno,” Pierson said. “But we’ve got the information; it’s up to others to analyze it. Colonel,” he said, turning to Chechnik, “we need to get the FSB involved as soon as possible. And I’d like to turn all this over to our intel people, start seeing if the weapon is going out of Russia.”
“I am thinking it is headed for Chechnya,” the colonel said. “Or for a Russian city.”
“That’s an internal Russian matter,” Pierson said. “Although, if we develop any leads, we’ll turn them over to you of course. But we need to get moving on the basis that it’s going to go in play outside of Russia.”
“Da,” the Russian said, nodding. “The helicopter will take you to Perm and there is a jet waiting to take you to Moscow.”
“Colonel,” Mike said, standing up, “no unmarked graves.”
“Not for these,” the colonel said, waving at the still nervous private. “But if I find this Oleg fellow…”
“I’ll hand you the shovel,” Mike replied.
Chapter Two
“Chatham Aviation, Gloria speaking, how may I help you?”
“Hi, the name’s Mike Jenkins,” Mike shouted over the racket from the Russian Hip helicopter. He knew diddly about Chatham Aviation, but they came up high on Google for “charter aircraft business jet” and their website promised on-call service. “I need a jet in Moscow. I don’t know where I’m going to be going from there, but I need it there as soon as it can get there. I’ll pay lay-about fees or whatever. Something small and fast.”
“Layover,” the receptionist corrected. “I don’t seem to find an account for you, Mr… Jenkins.”
“I’ve never used you,” Mike said. “I got your name from the Internet. I figured an English company would have English-speaking pilots and I don’t have time to wait on one from the States. I really need a jet, quick.”
“Mike,” Pierson said, “we can get you transport.”
“Hold one,” Mike said into the phone, hitting the mute. “I don’t want to be begging for transport, Bob,” he said, shrugging at the colonel. “And I figure I can afford a charter.” He unmuted to the sound of the receptionist talking to someone in the background. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem, Mr. Jenkins,” Gloria said. “Chartering a jet is…”
“Expensive, I know,” Mike said sharply. “I take it you take American Express?”
“We do,” the receptionist said cautiously. “However…”
“It’s got a hundred-thousand-dollar line,” Mike said. “And it’s paid up. Or I can hand your pilots a sack of cash. I need a jet and I need one now. Or do I call the next charter company on the list?”
“Not a problem, Mr. Jenkins,” Gloria said. “Hold on while I take your information…”
“Everybody’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off, Colonel.”
Tech Sergeant Walter Johnson was career Air Force. He’d started off in satellite imagery and had slowly migrated to general intel and analysis. He was the only analyst currently assigned to the American embassy in Moscow and, as such, he was very busy. But he’d seen the directive for Colonel Pierson and the civilian he’d mentally pegged as CIA spec ops, Mike Jenkins. So when Pierson had come in with his latest intel dump, he’d dropped everything else on his desk. They were meeting in a secure room and Johnson had brought in a disc with his current analysis to use on the room’s computer.
“Normal in the early stages of the game,” Pierson said, sighing, “all the intel groups will be going ape-shit and the spec-ops boys will be running scenarios. What’s the current playboard look like?”
“Well, you didn’t give us much to go on,” Johnson admitted. “Right now, the current thinking is that it’s a Chechen operation. The Chechens, though, don’t have anyone we know of who can do work with a nuke. So they’ll probably sell it to someone or do a combined op. Whatever they do, whoever uses it, they’ll have to call in an expert.”
Johnson brought up an image on the screen of a “Middle Eastern Male.”
“Assadolah Shaath,” Johnson said. “The most likely ‘expert.’ Thirty-seven. Born in Islamabad, Pakistan. Dad is a minor official in the government. Educated at boarding schools in Pakistan and England, took a BS in Physics at Reading University and was working on his masters at Princeton when he was recruited by the Popular Front for the Islamic Jihad. Also picked up a BA in English literature, of all things, while at Princeton, centering on nineteenth- and twentieth-century American poets. Wrote a very nice paper on Longfellow, according to his analyst, and was a big fan of Poe. Went to Poe’s grave and such like. Sexual tastes run to long, slim blondes. Reported to be rather heavy handed with them. Also likes rock and roll, heavy metal and Goth music.”
“Great,” Mike grumped. “A mujahideen poet-engineer with my same sexual and musical interests. Just what we need.”
“Trained in Afghanistan in mujahideen techniques,” Johnson continued, frowning slightly at the input. “Appears on several captured Al Qaeda lists as an ‘engineer,’ what we would call a demolitions expert. Appeared to be working on nuclear assembly with the Al Qaeda, unsuccessfully. Possibly worked with the Pakistani nuclear program for up to a year. Possibly connected to the Shoe Bomber, Richard Reid. Tagged as one of the mujahideen involved in the Andros Incident, but that might be false info since there’s a high probability he was spotted by a Mossad informant in Lebanon three months ago.”
“One of them got away,” Mike pointed out. “The one that armed the nuke.”
“Really?” Johnson said, looking at his notes. “I don’t have that.”
“Trust me,” Mike said. “Your intel is wrong. The one that got away probably set the timer.”
“You’re sure?” Johnson asked, quizzically.
“He’s sure,” Pierson said dryly. “Go on.”
“Ooo-kay,” Johnson said, reevaluating the civilian. “He’s the top guy for potential weapons refiguring that we know of. There are two others that have almost his training and background. We’ve got a call in to Mossad to see if they can track him down.”
“Preferably followed by a nine millimeter to the medulla,” Mike said. “What about the van?”
“Lots of Mercedes vans running around,” Johnson said. “The FSB has an all points out for it, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s probably in Chechnya or Georgia already.”
“I’m bugged by one thing,” Mike said. “It was a passenger van. Why a passenger van?”