Power Play (2 page)

It was stray mortar that did it, screaming onto the upper escarpment and blasting seventeen Israeli girl soldiers to death. Farther up, Rani’s father, Moyshe, fought with the legendary Sayeret Golan Brigade, Israel’s elite Special Force commandos.

They made the summit of Mount Hernon by midnight and, after a ferocious battle, raised the flag of Israel on the heights shortly after dawn. More than fifty of their number died up there, including their forward commander, Captain Vinnick, who was mortally wounded in the opening engagement but continued to direct his commandos until they carried his body down the mountain on a stretcher.

With the Syrians flung back, and Israeli tanks charging toward Damascus, they promoted the valorous Lieutenant Moyshe Adan in the field. It was two days more before he discovered his beloved wife, Rebecca, was no more. All this was mere folklore to the young Rani, as was the breathtaking raid on July 4, 1976, when his father’s Sayeret landed and stormed Entebbe Airport in Uganda and rescued almost a hundred mostly Jewish hostages.

The operation commander, Lieutenant Colonel Jonathon Netanyahu, the bravest of the brave, last man out of the building, was the only Israeli to die, shot in the back, in the dark, by a Ugandan sniper on the roof. Jonny passed away in the C-130 Hercules on the way home, in the arms of a heartbroken Major Adan. This was folklore written in blood and glory. Rani Ben Adan, to no one’s surprise, joined his father’s old Sayeret Golan Brigade as soon as he was big enough to lift a machine gun.

He was the youngest Israeli trooper ever to complete the make-or-break fifty-mile initiation march under full packs and rifles. They selected only twelve new Golan commandos from that initial intake of four hundred. When the Israeli Special Forces use the word
elite,
they do not joke.

Rani rose to command rank very swiftly. By the age of twenty-one, he was in an Israeli commando battalion that fought with the Americans in Operation Desert Storm. In the second Gulf War, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Rani commanded one of the most secretive battalions ever formed—Israeli frogmen, fighting alongside the Americans, capturing one
of Saddam Hussein’s most prized possessions, the huge seventy-foot oil rig that towered above the waters of the Persian Gulf.

This was probably Iraq’s darkest night of the war. But the ten US and Israeli troops on top of the rig had to jump for their lives, right on time, to escape the forthcoming naval bombardment. It was a long way down, and two of them just froze. Rani seized a US combat officer and hurled him off the rig, holding his arm as they plummeted ever downward, crashing with shuddering force into the waves.

Rani was knocked senseless. And, in the end, they saved each other, the Israeli kept afloat by one of the finest underwater swimmers in the US Navy, before the young American Zodiac crewmen hauled them both to safety.

Like all military friendships forged on the anvil of imminent death, Rani and his American buddy stayed in touch through the years, joined forever by that unspoken bond of utter trust. You have to be a combat warrior to understand the aching, unforgettable grandeur of such camaraderie.

Rani Ben Adan, now in the frozen heart of the Russian Republic, knew why Lieutenant Commander Nikolai Chirkov wished to talk. If the matter had been nonurgent, or involved a wide-ranging international subject, they would have met in Moscow. Only when the matter involved the United States would they both travel to a secret destination to discuss their business. The Russian Secret Police, masters of the black arts, were twenty times more alert for practitioners of espionage if America was in any way involved.

Rani walked into the kitchen and fired up the kettle, reached for the jar of instant coffee, and took a brand-new carton of milk from the refrigerator. There were no servants, orderlies, batmen, or butlers in this game. The watchword was a relentless
FYEO
(for your eyes only), and that included ears, brains, and, if necessary, hearts. He made the coffee very black and tipped a shot of vodka into both mugs, mostly because he suspected a few exposed nerves might need steadying after Nikolai had spoken.

When he returned to the living room, he finally shed his topcoat and sat down on the deep and luxurious sofa. “Okay, old comrade, lay it on me,” he said in almost flawless Russian. “To what do I owe this long and arduous journey across the barren wastes of your homeland?”

Nikolai took a sip of his vodka/coffee. “Rani,” he said, “you are going to be very cross with me. But not as cross as you would be if I had not
contacted you. You see, I do not know what is going on. But I do know something very important is taking place right here in Karelia. And it involves action against the United States of America—in my view, very serious action. I stumbled upon it by mistake, and the security is beyond fireproof.”

Rani stayed very cool. He crossed his legs, rebalancing his drink. “Aha,” he said. “I know you would not be here if there was nothing.”

“Indeed not,” replied the Russian officer. “It’s more trouble for me to get here from Severodvinsk than it is for you.”

“But less dangerous,” replied Rani.

“Perhaps so, but what I am about to reveal could get me shot.”

“They’d shoot me for breathing if they knew who I was,” said Rani.

Both men smiled. And then Lieutenant Commander Chirkov stated, “Rani, I think the Russian government is planning a controlled strike against the USA. Not Armageddon, but a fast missile attack, small and aimed at some kind of critical building in the US defense system.”

“You mean like the goddamned Pentagon? . . .”

“Hell, no. You couldn’t fire an air rifle at that without being gunned down . . . I mean something far less significant. But extremely important.”

“Okay, Nikolai let’s go through our usual procedures. Walk me through the phases of your gathered intelligence—like always.”

“No problem. And while I speak, remember these truths—the collapse of the old Soviet Union had nothing to do with Russian disarmament. That never happened. They still have thousands of land-based ICBMs, sea launched, air launched, and God knows what else, all armed and targeted at the USA—as if anyone’s ever heard of anything that stupid . . . ”

“Is security still bad?”

“Christ, yes. Hopeless. A determined terrorist could get hold of a nuclear missile from Russia in about ten minutes, if he had the cash. The Moscow politicians turn a blind eye to the most rampant proliferation of missile technology this world has ever seen. From any angle, Russia’s ballistic arsenal is the single biggest strategic threat to the United States of America.”

“Washington knows that.”

“Well, why aren’t they kicking up a fuss about the new Topol-M SS-27? There’s almost fifty of them already onstream, and the sonofabitch has a seven-thousand-mile range with a reported 550-kilo ton-yield nuclear
warhead. They’ve got the sea-based version nearly ready—it’s supposed to be near impossible to detect, capable of evasive maneuvers at hypersonic speed, with carbon shielding to combat US space-based lasers.

“The whole idea is to penetrate the US missile defenses. And they probably could do it. At least that’s what I hear. In the old days, any Russian missile could be crippled by a US nuclear warhead within seven miles of its trajectory. Not anymore. Not with this little bastard. Darn thing’s electromagnetic fireproof.”

“Okay, let’s get right to the point. What are you telling me?”

“Rani, I intercepted an Internet communication confirming the imminent arrival of two missile scientists from North Korea—specialists in medium-range rockets. Russia has given help in developing North Korea’s newest missile, modeled on standard Russian SS-N-6 submarine-launched technology.

“I don’t know when these characters are coming, or where they’re going. But I do know the navy has requested assistance from the state rocket center. That’s the V. P. Makeyev Design Bureau—they’re the main manufacturers of both land-based and sub-launched ballistics . . . ”

“Is that Viktor’s crowd?”

“Absolutely. Viktor Petrovitch Makeyev, father of Russia’s modern guided-missile industry. They named the fucking factory after him . . . ”

“Yeah,” interjected Rani. “Probably for inventing SCUD-B—the one Saddam slammed into Tel Aviv over and over in 1991, murdering my people . . . blasting women and children to hell . . . for no reason. One of my closest friends lost his mother and sister . . . Don’t mention that bastard’s name to me, unless you must.”

“I must,” replied Nikolai, “because that manufacturing plant is heavily involved in whatever’s going on. They’re located in the southern Urals, town called Miass, about six hundred miles east of Moscow. And everything fits—the postal code, 456300; the telephone dial code, +7-3513. For all I know, the Koreans are going straight to the factory. But I got something else—maybe in error. It sounded like they were all going to a monastery.”

“A monastery. The Russian word’s
monastyr.
It could have been a misprint, I guess.”

“You got a copy of the download?”

“Are you crazy? Someone traces that to my computer, I’m a dead man.”

“I like you better alive, Nikki. No downloads.”

“Anyway, then I intercept a new communiqué, usual way, through the ship’s link to the Russian Navy’s most classified network. It’s secure and mostly protected, but if someone gets in, they cannot trace. They can find out and change the codes, but they are not able to locate the hackers. Anyway, I’m cleared for access, because of my work in upgraded sonars.”

“Okay. What did you find out?”

“I discovered the Iranians are right in the middle of the plot.”

“Surprise, surprise. What happens now? We got the Muslim ayatollahs in the monastery with the Christians, right? All praying for the same atom bomb.”

“You joke, Rani, but I’m telling you this is very serious. There are three Iranian scientists coming into Russia this week—the guys who built and refined those Shahab-3 and Shahab-4 medium-range ballistic missiles. They used a lot of Russian technology and systems. But they became experts in their own right.”

“I remember, Nikki, the Shahab missile uproar, right after the second Gulf War. Didn’t the United States sanction those guys—Russian, Belarusian, and Ukrainian companies—for exporting nuclear stuff to Iran?”

“Correct. The Russians also helped other rogue states, Iraq and Syria, with nuclear programs.”

“Well, what’s this new Russian-Korean-Iranian
parlez
all about?”

“I picked up a shred of conversation between the naval high command and the Kremlin. Took me hours to get in using a cell phone I had to destroy. But one phrase was clear in my mind:
We’ll show these Yankee bastards who’s really in charge—kick their nuclear football right out of the stadium, huh?”

“Pretty fucking droll, for a Russian,” muttered Rani. “The Slavic literal mind gone into overdrive.”

“I’m sure there’s a lot more happening than I know so far. The strange thing is, I have a distinct suspicion that whatever’s happening is centered up here in the North. My own ship, the
Admiral Chabanenko,
seems to be involved, moored there on the White Sea.”

“I thought you said the action was in the Makeyev factory in the Urals.”

“No monastery there, right?”

“I should forget that bit, Nikki. It’s obviously a mistake. I just can’t see a medium-range missile in the cloisters.”

Lieutenant Commander Chirkov permitted himself a deep chuckle. Both men took a couple more swigs of the vodka/coffee.

“Do you have any semblance of a plan?” asked the man from the Mossad.

“Only that I think there is a lot going on, and I seem to have a way to tap into it. I’m returning to my ship tomorrow, and I suggest you stay right here. There’s no point going back to Moscow when we may already be in a major Russian black-ops area.”

“Okay. I’ll park myself here till the end of the week. I have my laptop and two cell phones. Will I see you again this trip?”

“I aim to be back on Friday.”

“We got anything to eat?”

“Yup. I bought a few cartons of Tex-Mex at the Sanches Saloon. I’ve had it before, tacos and stuff. It’s good. We can zap it in the microwave. I’ve got a guy coming in tomorrow to clean up. So you’d better be gone by 0900 and check into the Severnaya, soon as I’ve shipped out. You’re fine there as long as you’re not with me.”

 

Rani Ben Adan had been waiting for almost four hours since the appointed time of 1600. It was now almost eight o’clock, and the bar was beginning to thin out as people headed to the dining room. The Mossad agent was worried. Nikolai had never been late. And when people fail to turn up in the espionage trade, it often means something very sinister, like exposure, capture, or death—even all three.

Rani debated making a break for it, checking out of the hotel, and catching the midnight express back to Moscow. Every time someone entered the room, he half-expected FSB (old KGB) officers direct from the Lubyanka to come striding up to him and demand to see his passport and travel documents.

He did not look suspicious. Rani knew that. His dark complexion and
trimmed black hair gave him the look of a Georgian or even someone from southern Ukraine. His clothes were purchased in the West, and his English passport was immaculate. He carried business cards and other literature pertaining to the paint industry in a slim black briefcase. The “factory” that “employed” him as head salesman had an excellent website, which included phone numbers. A check call by the Russian police seeking John Carter’s credentials would be routed directly to special operators in the basement of the Israeli Embassy in London.

While Rani sat sipping coffee, Nikolai Chirkov was on one of those interminable Russian train journeys, almost 450 miles from the station at Archangel, all along the southern coast of the White Sea, and then north for the train change at Belomorsk. That’s only about halfway, and he still had another 200 miles to go.