“I gather you don’t think my conclusions are sound.”
“No, no,” Brandt assured her. “They are. I think that Mr. Garin is being set up by the Iranians to cover, or distract from, their intended use of WMD. Also, I do think that we may be looking at an attempt to obliterate Israel during the conflict. I doubt, however, that the Iranians have the assets or capability to pull off the elimination of Garin’s entire unit on American soil. Too sophisticated. The Russians might be a different story. Given their cooperation with the Iranians on the UN resolution, we have to assume the Russians are, indeed, involved. But to what end? What do they hope to gain from the Iranians’ strike against Israel? What’s their next move? And how do we stop it?”
“In the long term, perhaps very long term, Russia would benefit from chaos in the Middle East. Oil and gas prices rise, benefiting the Russian treasury and consolidating its power over not just the former Soviet republics, but Eastern Europe and anyone else dependent on Russia for energy,” Olivia said. As soon as she did, she noticed the buzzing was back. Warehouses, fuel depots, oil tankers.
“That’s correct,” Brandt said as if he were responding to a student in class. Olivia sensed that Brandt’s mind was on something more. Two chess moves ahead.
“Professor, we need to talk to Garin.”
“Obviously, yes. The president needs to be advised on the next move once the UN resolution passes. And it most certainly will. We’re making critical policy in a dangerous informational vacuum. The secretary of state says one thing, Defense tells him another. And I prefer that his options aren’t reduced to only military ones. But for that we need information. Something we can confront the Russians with and deter them. Mr. Garin may be able to supply that intel, whether he knows it or not. I’m afraid, however, that things are moving rather quickly, Olivia. So please impress upon Mr. Dwyer the urgency of our request. We don’t have much time. The Congress and leadership are saying ten things at once. We must give the president clear, concrete counsel. We have little, if any, room for error.”
In her mind, Olivia kept turning over images of Soviet-era industrial equipment sitting unused in various locations throughout Russia. Unused and, by all indications, not even being moved to market. At a time when the Russian economy needed a large infusion of revenue.
This, Olivia thought, was economic idiocy reminiscent of the old five-year plans. Worse, given today’s just-in-time market dynamics.
Olivia rose from behind the desk in her tiny office in the Old Executive Office Building and went for a contemplative stroll, the staccato click of her heels echoing through the long corridors of the massive edifice. She worked out problems better while walking.
Russian president Mikhailov and the oligarchs were getting quite good at capitalism — especially the more rapacious strain. They were too shrewd to devote precious resources and industrial capacity during an economic downturn to producing commodities no one bought. Olivia shared her boss’s suspicion of all things Kremlin. When in doubt, presume they’re up to no good.
She stopped in midstride. She should’ve been working on matters related to the UN resolution, but it struck her that the idle Russian equipment might have some indefinable bearing on what was going on in the Middle East. And in order to make that determination, she needed more information. She knew just where to get it.
Olivia returned to her office and called her friend Laura Casini, a former Stanford classmate, now an analyst at the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. Laura picked up on the first ring.
“Casini.”
“Need another favor, Laura.”
“I am not double-dating with you again just so you’ll have another first-date buffer.”
Olivia laughed. “C’mon, you had fun and you know it. Did what’s-his-name call you back?”
“I’m pretty sure mastering the complexities of telephone technology presents an insuperable challenge to what’s-his-name.”
“Laura, you and I both know you’re way past the point where brains are a prerequisite. Just about any testosterone-based life-form should do.”
“You should talk. The only time you ever see men without their pants on is at the gym. And I bet your legs have better muscle tone than theirs. Anyway, what do you need?” Casini asked.
“Satellite images for the last six months of the industrial sectors of Murmansk, Vladivostok, Arkhangelsk, and the Volga from the Caspian to thirty miles upriver, to start.”
“To start? That’s an indigestible amount of data, Olivia. Not to mention a very big ask.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t a matter of national security.”
“Yeah, well, you need a new line. You’ve only been in office a few months and it’s already old.”
“Can you send it to me at OEOB?”
“Nope. You’re going to have to come here. Besides, if you want the kind of resolution needed to make sense of the images, you really need our equipment.”
“I’m e-mailing the coordinates as we speak. I don’t need all six months. Just pull, say, January 14, April 14, and July 14.”
“Okay,” Casini replied.
“When can I see them?”
“When can you get here?”
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
Olivia stood behind Laura Casini as she typed on a keyboard. A grainy image of what appeared to be some kind of industrial plant situated on a riverbank materialized on the seventy-two-inch monitor before them.
“I have no idea what that’s supposed to be,” Olivia said.
“Neither do I,” Casini agreed. “But watch this.”
Casini played with several more keys and manipulated the mouse, and the screen projected a vivid image of an industrial park on the northeast outskirts of Murmansk, Russia.
“Holy cow,” Olivia said.
“Only nerdy Midwestern girls say ‘holy cow,’” Casini said as she resumed typing.
“Guilty.”
“If you think that’s impressive, watch this.”
Casini moved the mouse and clicked an icon in the upper left quadrant of the screen. The resolution became even clearer, as if Olivia were standing on the roof of one of the warehouses in the photo. She could see the watermarks on the tar paper covering the roof of the warehouses to the left and the blades of the exhaust fans on the roof of the factory to the right. But Casini wasn’t finished.
“You didn’t hear it from me, but these images are courtesy of the next-generation KeyHole spy satellites that the administration says we never built. The KH-13. As you can see, unparalleled resolution. Now watch this.”
Casini clicked another icon, magnifying the shot so that Olivia could see startlingly clear images of the cigarette butts strewn about the warehouse roof.
“New magnification software,” Casini informed her, smiling. “Radical stuff.”
“What do you make of those?” Olivia asked, pointing to rows of objects in the yard next to the warehouse.
“Standby or backup generators. Commercial grade. Three-phase, probably thirty kilowatts.”
“I count rows of ten by twenty on the ground pallets and an equal number on the flatbed truck pallets. Four hundred generators. Is this the January 14 shot?”
“It is,” Casini replied.
“Go to April 14, please, Laura.”
Another photo of the warehouse appeared.
“Okay. There are a lot more flatbeds than before and…” Olivia paused to count. “Rows of twenty by twenty. I’d say there are twice as many generators than in January. Can we go forward to a couple days ago?”
A few seconds later, an image showed rows of generators filling the entire yard, with a caravan of flatbeds streaming down the adjacent road.