“Sadly for you,” Clark said, “I am not. We have the same interests, to be sure, but I’m not bound by Agency rules.”
Da Rocha sniffed, then turned to wipe his nose against his shoulder, like a bird preening its wing. He looked up suddenly. “And what if I tell you everything I know?”
Clark shrugged. “I honestly can’t say what’s going to happen after this.”
“I assure you, I have information you will want.”
“We have your computer,” Clark said. “Maybe that is enough.”
“But that is only part of it,” da Rocha said. “By the time you figure it out, it will be too late.”
Clark kept his face passive. This guy was trying to bait him.
“I need certain assurances,” da Rocha said.
“Specifically?”
“My freedom.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”
“My money?”
“Your accounts don’t reflect any money.”
“You could help me get it back from the Russians.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Clark said. “How about you tell me what you know and you might not end up in a very small cell under the Colorado desert for the rest of your life.”
“So you are with the U.S. government,” da Rocha said smugly.
“Nope,” Clark said. “I just believe in doing my civic duty. How about you think about what’s really important to you.” He stood, then threw the guy a bone. “You seem like a pretty smart man.”
“Missiles,” da Rocha said.
“I know that already,” Clark said. “You’re an arms dealer. That’s what you deal in.”
“Not the kind of missiles you think,” da Rocha said.
Clark sat down but said nothing. More often than not, silence was the best tool for extracting answers.
“I have no proof,” da Rocha said. He sighed, relieved to be telling his story. “But I believe as you do that those men were officers with the GRU. I had heard, through the grapevine, so to speak, that they needed someone for a very large deal. I… I suppose you could say I courted them — as any businessman would.”
“Taking out the competition,” Clark said.
“In a word. If they were GRU, then the Russian government used me as a go-between to do business with Iran.”
In the corner of the room, Ding Chavez sat up a little straighter.
“Russia makes no secret of the fact it supplies weapons to Iran,” Clark said.
“Nuclear weapons?” Da Rocha leaned back, sinking into the soft cushions. “The Russians I dealt with obviously want the world to think the weapons came from a third party. I would imagine they have already concocted a story about them being stolen. They promised future business, but I see now that was a lie to keep me compliant until they killed me.”
“You’re certain the missiles are nuclear?”
“Certain enough,” da Rocha said. “Two 51T6 ABMs — you call them Gorgons — and their launch controllers. My people took possession of them in Oman and transported them to Iran.”
“Where?”
“These missiles are very portable,” da Rocha said. “They have nowhere near the range to reach the United States. But it is not too much of a leap to guess Iran might use them against any number of American bases. They could strike Israel from western Iran.”
“Where are they?” Clark asked again.
Da Rocha swallowed. “I must have assurances.”
Clark gave a slow nod. “Okay,” he said. “I assure you that if you don’t tell me where you dropped these weapons in the next fifteen seconds I will cut off your feet. After fifteen seconds, even if you start to talk, you will lose at least one.”
“Sir, I…”
“Eight seconds.”
“All right, all right.”
“That’s not an answer,” Clark said. “Four seconds.”
Da Rocha spilled the information. “But they are not there,” he said, starting to sob again. “I am sure they have been moved.”
Clark snapped his fingers. “The names and contacts of your people. The ones who delivered the missiles to Iran.”
Da Rocha wiped his nose on his shoulder again, becoming more animated. He swallowed hard. “I will give them to you, but considering what the Russian bastards had in store for me, I feel certain my men are already dea—”
Ding’s phone rang. He stood when he answered it, listened for a moment, and began to pace. Clark could hear only half the conversation, but it was clear from Ding’s tone that it was bad.
Ding motioned for Clark to come to him out of earshot. Midas and Adara moved closer, guarding da Rocha.
“What’s up?” Clark asked.
“It’s Dom,” Ding said. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”
Clark felt as if he’d just taken a sledgehammer to the gut. “Jack?”
Ding shook his head. “Missing. Dom counted five guys, probably Taliban, but possibly ISIS. They hit the van with a sticky from the back of a motorcycle. Our guys were on the way to a safe house. Dom says Ryan was ambulatory when he was taken.”
Clark looked across the room at Adara. She couldn’t hear the content of the whispered conversation, but the frown on her face said she knew it was about her boyfriend. To her credit, she stood her post beside da Rocha.
“And Dom’s injuries?” Clark said.
“Sounds bad,” Chavez said. “Third-degree burns, broken ribs, ruptured eardrum. An Afghan pistachio farmer found him wandering on the side of the road a couple of hours ago and took him to the NATO base outside Herat. It only has a small hospital, so they’re arranging transport to Ramstein.”
Clark closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. “Get all the information you can. It’s a shitty deal, but I need to let someone know about the possibility of nuclear missiles in Iran. When I’m done with that, I have to get word to the President that his son has been kidnapped.”
49
Jack caught Dovzhenko’s eye, glancing quickly at the two Afghans who stood over him. The Russian gave a slight, he hoped imperceptible, nod. Both men had been around the block enough to know they’d need to make a move soon or not at all. In his bravado, Omar had released them from their bonds so they could eat. Jack’s bloody face and the entire group’s generally hammered look certainly made it seem like five guys with rifles were plenty to tamp back any aggressive action. They would be tied again when the meal was over. Jack was certain of that.
There was a chance there were more guards in the house, but no one had been summoned during the meal or the procedure to reattach Ryan’s ear. Men like Omar were big summoners, calling servants for this or that to help them feel important. He clearly got few visitors, and this was the rare opportunity for him to put on a show for the foreign devils. Jack felt reasonably sure they were looking at the whole cadre.
The five visible guards were posted around the low table, surely hungry themselves and grumbling inside about why the prisoners got to eat at all, let alone first. Jack could see the two nearest Dovzhenko as well as one on the far side of Omar and Ysabel. The Russian had eyes on the two behind Jack.
Jack gave Ysabel another nod. She blinked and then extended three fingers. She folded one, then the second — a count down. As she folded the third finger, she began to gag. She fell to the side, clutching her throat with one hand while she pulled the hem of her skirt up with the other, exposing her calf and then her thigh.
Every man there looked down, entrapped for an instant by their accidental exposure to Ysabel’s smooth olive flesh. Ryan spun, throwing his shoulder into the knee of the guard nearest him. Ligaments tore and the leg gave way, bringing the man and his Kalashnikov down. Ryan snatched the rifle, still attached to the wounded man by a sling around his neck, and flicked the lever down one notch south of safe to full auto, firing as he rolled. Three rounds slammed into the remaining guard who towered above him, dropping the man before he could bring up his own rifle. The first man attempted to pull away now. Ryan adjusted fire, turning the muzzle of the gun inward, shattering the man’s shinbone with two rounds. The guard yowled in pain, grabbing at what was left of his leg. Ryan swatted the arm out of the way and pulled the sling over the screaming man’s head. More shots popped over his shoulder. He hoped they were being fired by Dovzhenko. Ryan turned in time to see a third guard bringing a rifle up to aim at his chest. Dovzhenko put a single round in the side of the man’s head.