By the time IRGC contacts in London learned that Ysabel Kashani was not there, Sassani had already determined that she worked for the UNODC in Afghanistan. A search of flight manifests departing Tehran revealed Erik Dovzhenko had fled shortly after the raid on Maryam Farhad’s apartment. Sassani chuckled softly. The traitor had been at the airport during their phone conversation. IRGC contacts in Dubai and Kabul helped trace the Russian to Herat.
A quick flight over via IRGC aircraft and a few questions around the UNODC office led Sassani to Fatima Husseini, a frequent volunteer and staunch defender of Kashani and her program. According to neighbors in Jebrael, the Husseini woman had walked several kilometers just to warn her friend of possible trouble with smugglers. Two of those smugglers were later found in Kashani’s office, one dead, the other brain-addled. It was an event big enough to cause a stir even in a war-torn part of the world like Afghanistan.
Fatima Husseini had been no help at all, gnashing her teeth and refusing to betray her friend until Sassani had been forced to threaten the lives of her children. Only then did she tell him of the smugglers, and the man who she was sure employed them — an opium smuggler named Omar Khan. Fatima had no idea where Khan lived, but his brain-addled man was still in the hospital, he would know.
They were close now. Fatima had told him as much before she died. Sassani tossed the bloody rag onto the floor and motioned for his lieutenant to come with him. If anyone knew the whereabouts of Ysabel Kashani, it would be Omar Khan.
50
Clark stood across the room, breaking the news about Jack to Gerry Hendley when Ding’s cell phone began to buzz. The voice on the other end made Chavez feel like all his blood drained into his legs.
“We thought you were dead,” he said, and then snapped his fingers to get Clark’s attention.
Clark held up a hand to tell him to wait.
“It’s Jack,” Ding said, getting an immediate response.
“I’m going to call you right back,” Clark said into his phone. “Sounds like we have a call from Junior… Yeah. I’ll get you a sitrep as soon as I find out what’s going on.”
Chavez put Ryan on speaker and the two men went into a back bedroom, out of da Rocha’s earshot.
“Speak to me, kid,” Clark said. “You all right?”
“We’re all alive and free,” Ryan said, his voice disembodied, slightly garbled. “But it was touch and go for a while there.” He paused, sounding like he was getting choked up. “Listen… I have bad news.”
“Dom’s fine,” Clark said. It was one thing to joke, but never about the life of a teammate and friend. “He called us about a half-hour ago from an Afghan Army hospital near Herat. He’s got some serious burns but he assures us nothing life threatening. Adara talked to him and threatened to kick his ass if he died. I’d imagine he’ll be on his way to Ramstein any minute now.”
The relief in Ryan’s voice was audible.
“Listen,” Clark said. “We’ve had a couple of significant developments in this end. What kind of a line are you on?”
“VoIP,” Ryan said. “I’m anonymized, and I think encrypted, but we’re on a satellite link so I have to hurry.”
“You think?” Chavez said.
“I can’t read Farsi,” Ryan said. “But I’m pretty sure.”
“That’ll have to do,” Clark said. “NSA’s probably the only ones listening in anyway and they’ll know all this soon enough…”
Clark gave Ryan the full rundown on the Gorgon missiles, and their last known location in Iran.
“The Russians… or at least some Russians, are complicit in this caper,” Chavez said. “See if your guy knows anything about where these Gorgons are supposed to go.”
“He’s right here,” Ryan said. “And he looks as stupefied as I am.”
“I thought as much,” Clark said. “Our guy says they were delivered to an airfield in northeast Iran, near the city of Mashhad. Makes sense. IRGC rocket forces have a missile base there.”
“Mashhad…” Ryan paused for moment, then said, “That’s only a hundred and fifty miles from where we are. We’ll check it out.”
“Go to Iran?” Chavez said with an emphatic shake of his head. “Not a chance.”
“John,” Ryan said. “I’m here and ready to go. If the Iranians have nukes then we have to find out where they—”
Ryan stopped abruptly while someone, likely the Russian, talked to him in the background. It was difficult to tell with the latent lag of the VoIP/satellite connection. He came back on a few seconds later.
“My friend on this end says he has a list of Iranian scientists with the potential to use as assets. A couple of them are in Mashhad.”
Ding said, “Russian assets won’t do us any good.”
“He says these guys are vulnerable,” Jack said. “It doesn’t sound like they have any love for the Russians — just a price. Won’t matter to them which way they turn.” Ryan paused, listening again. “One of them has a sick kid in desperate need of Western medicine.”
“That is promising,” Clark said, conceding that much. Leveraging a child’s illness was nasty business, but intelligence coups often hinged on just that sort of leverage.
“Then give me permission to go talk to him,” Ryan said. “We can be in Mashhad by sunrise.”
“I’m sure Iran has methods in place to deter the free flow of people across their border.”
“No doubt,” Ryan said. “But opium smuggling is big business here. According to Ysabel a large portion of the heroin going into Europe passes through Iran.”
Chavez was unconvinced. “That just means the Iranian dope cops will be putting more pressure on the border. Last I read they’ve increased patrols and are even using drones.”
“Shaheds,” Jack said. “Ysabel just told me. They’re basically knockoffs of our Predator. Her work for the UNODC gave her substantial insight into drug interdiction methods. So she knows the weaknesses.”
“And what would that be?” Chavez asked.
“The wind,” Ryan said. “And not just any wind. This is nasty, dusty stuff, but it’ll give us good cover. It blows here all summer, making border surveillance with UAVs problematic. It’s called ‘the wind of one hundred twenty days.’”
“Let’s get off this line,” Clark said. “Use your best judgment, but do me a favor and check in with me before you do anything rash. I don’t need to tell you what kind of a shit storm you will stir up if you’re caught in Iran without an entry stamp in your passport.”
“Roger that,” Ryan said. “Listen. I’m going to e-mail you a photo. It’s from our Russian friend.”
“All right,” Clark said. “I have something else, but it’s for your eyes only. Check your messages when you send the pic.”
“Roger that,” Ryan said. “Outa here.”
Ryan logged on to his encrypted e-mail when he ended the call, adding another layer of security to the anonymized virtual private network. He included the link to the photograph of General Alov and the protesters Dovzhenko had put on eBay. A new message arrived from Clark as he was typing. Ryan read it twice, then put it in a virtual burn bag. Information was never really gone, but it could be overwritten so many times as to render it useless — until someone came up with a new program, or the person who invented the original revealed a back door at some hacker conference.
Ryan disconnected the sat phone and looked at the clock on the computer. “Six minutes,” he said. “We should get on the road.”
“Let me guess,” Dovzhenko said. “Your people think I am a dangle and want to put me on the FLUTTER?”
Jack gave an amused nod. FLUTTER was the CIA code name for a polygraph. A dangle was an enemy intelligence officer who volunteered to work as an agent, but was, in reality, a double. All sides used them, so everyone was wary — which made for a tedious process when trying to discern if someone was truly going to switch sides or was merely being dangled by his own government to gauge intelligence capabilities and methods.