“Makes sense,” Spitz said.
“Go on.”
“We put our heads together and decided to use the Jade operation in Canada again. We’ve used it before. At the same time we also decided that Banks wasn’t the man for the job. That’s how Bogner got involved. We doctored the necessary documents, fortified T. C. with an arms inventory that would have enticed Abbasin himself, and sent him to Istanbul.
“Bogner met Banks and Ozal in Istanbul, they made arrangements to fly to Diyarbakir, and then drive to Simak, where Ozal claimed he had made arrangements with some local chopper jockey to fly them to Ammash.
“Banks contacted us after their meeting with Ozal in Istanbul. He indicated all systems were go and gave us their itinerary.”
“And that’s the last time you heard from either of them?” Spitz asked.
Packer nodded.
“That was four days ago. Nothing since.”
“And that’s where N1 comes into the picture,” Langley said.
“A routine review of satellite photos at Rockwell noted an anomaly in sector 77-T.”
“And 77-T is?” Spitz asked.
“The same region where we discovered further evidence of NIMF testing a little over two weeks ago. Rockwell has been routinely monitoring that whole area ever since.”
“Back to the anomaly,” Spitz said.
Langley opened his brief case, took out a large envelope, and placed three eight-by-tens on the table in front of Spitz.
“What you’re looking at, Lattimere, are three different satellite photos of a region known as Koboli Pass, no more than thirty miles inside the Iraq border. These images are from the 21 OOGMT passes of one of our satellites on the twenty-third and the twenty-fourth. The third image is simply an enhanced version of what we discovered on the twenty-fourth.”
“What exactly am. I supposed to be looking at?”
Spitz asked.
“We are ninety-nineandfortyfouronehundredths-percent certain that what you’re looking at, Lattimere, is the wreck of a helicopter. How certain are we? Certain enough to tell you we have identified it as a French-built Aerospatiale SA 341 Gazelle. How do we know? We did some further digging. We’ve been able to verify a helicopter of that nomenclature was flown out of a small airport in Simak late in the afternoon on the twenty-fourth. According to one man we questioned at the airport, there were four men on board when it took off.”
“And you think Bogner was one of them?” Spitz said.
“We believe that to be the case but we can’t verify it. The wreckage is inside Iraqi territory. If we ask them to investigate, and they find the wrong things, we could have another U2 incident on our hands.”
Spitz put his pen down and rubbed his eyes.
“Let me ask the question another way, Peter. Do you think that it’s probable this is the same chopper that left Simak?”
“Before I answer, Lattimere, there’s one more piece of information. I showed a map of the area to some of my pilot friends over at N1. I asked them to study the region and tell me what they thought would be the best way to fly, undetected, from Simak to Ammash. Three of the four said that, given the right weather conditions, they would probably take it across at Koboli Pass.
Why? Because Baddour’s radar would be hampered by the mountain terrain.”
“And you double-checked the weather?”
Langley nodded.
“It was good enough to tackle the pass.”
Spitz resumed taking notes. When he finished, he laid his pen down again and leaned back in his chair.
“Admittedly this is way to hell out of my bailiwick — but it sounds pretty damn conclusive to me. The question, however, is, if we think this is Bogner, what the hell do we do about it? Hell, we don’t even know if he’s dead or alive. Just how much are we willing to stick our necks out? How much do we let the Iraqis know we know? They know we are monitoring them, but we don’t think they know to what extent.”
Langley looked across the table at the ISA chief.
“I know this is a tough one for you personally, Pack. But we’re up against it on this one.”
Packer fumbled through his coat pockets until he found his pipe and tobacco pouch.
“How much do we really know about this area?” he finally asked.
“How hard would it be to go in there and check things out?”
“Without help, damn near impossible,” Langley assessed.
“The Turks have some seven thousand men stationed at various points along the border, primarily to keep the Kurds from crossing the border.
Baddour’s men patrol the other side. The only difference is, he does it with a fleet of helicopters.
Even if we got past one group, we would have a tough time getting past both of them unnoticed.”
“Can we get any help from the Turks?”
“I don’t think so, but I can make some inquiries.”
Spitz leaned forward.
“All right, let’s try to forget for the moment that we’re talking about someone we know. Keep in mind the bigger picture. In my opinion, the Turks won’t be willing to risk it-at least not officially. If Baddour caught either us or the Turks poking around inside his territory, he might just feel justified in ordering his NIMF pilots to unleash some of those damned cyanide weapons he’s been testing. Not only that, if he knew we were involved, it could deflect some of the heat we’ve been giving him through the U.N. for testing the so-called Gehenna gas. And I can flat guarantee you one thing, gentlemen. The President would not be willing to risk that.”
Packer was scowling.
“Wait just a damn minute, Spitz. Are you telling me we aren’t willing to make an attempt to find out what happened to Bogner because of a few supposed risks?”
“They aren’t supposed risks, Clancy. They are very, very real. I don’t like it any better than you do, but the risks are a helluva lot greater than you realize.”
“Risks? You talk about risks? Hell, Bogner is the one that’s been taking the risks. We owe him something.”
Spitz, famous for his volatile temper, was remaining surprisingly calm.
“I don’t think I need to remind you, Pack, Captain Bogner knew the risks when he signed on with the ISA—” Langley slammed his fist down on the table.
“Hold on, Lattimere, Clancy’s right. There’s got to be a way to find out if T. C. is still alive — and if he is, then we’ve got to figure out a way to get him out of there.”
Spitz closed his eyes and braced his hands against the edge of the table.
“Let me repeat what I just said. Under the circumstances, we cannot afford to and will not do anything to jeopardize our—” Langley’s face was flushed.
“We’ll do something, all right, Lattimere, you can bet your last goddamn dollar on it… and it won’t be anything that compromises our—” Spitz’s shoulder sagged, but there was a barely perceptible smile at the corners of his mouth.
“And just exactly what do you propose I tell the President?”
“You tell President Colchin you assigned Pack and me to figure out what the hell our alternatives are. And when we’ve got something, we’ll get back to you.”
Lattimere Spitz slid the three satellite photographs back across the table at Langley and kept his voice low.
“Listen to me and listen to me good both of you. You’ve had your warning. The President doesn’t want or need anything right now that’s likely to turn into another pissing contest with the Iraqis. Got that?”
Clancy Packer settled back in his chair, relit his pipe, and looked across the table at Peter Langley.
“Got it.”
Sharif Khaldun estimated that his forced march back to the Kurd settlement had taken the better part of six hours. The Kurd leader had stopped only once during that time, and then, within sight of the village, he’d ordered Khaldun’s blindfold removed and instructed one of his men to assist the NIMF captain into a cave. One man kept him covered with a rifle while another untied his hands and forced him to climb down a narrow, makeshift ladder into a darkened pit at the back of the cave.